Evasion by Crimethinc

Author:Crimethinc [CrimethInc]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780970910110
Amazon: 0970910118
Publisher: CrimethInc.
Published: 2002-01-01T23:00:00+00:00

In celebration of my profound “Box Theory” I looked the very box-like units up and down, unwrenched the lock, filled whole bags with Christmas lights, and ran! Simply months of return money! So much trouble to get into… “Only 24 hours in a day”: God’s cute little joke to the unemployed.

Three miles left to Molly’s. I wished it was a hundred.

On my last night, I laid out my paper and pens, and sat to write Molly a “Ten Days in Review” Perhaps there wasn’t enough paper in the world. Then I picked up a pen. No, perhaps one sheet was too much. The experiences didn’t translate. Any attempt was almost an insult to the profoundness of it all.

I gave each day one line and turned the page.

If it was thrown away or left unchained during those ten days, it was probably stashed under Molly’s bed. If it was unlocked, I probably opened it, crept inside, and rummaged through the boxes. If it was black, I probably painted it white, then danced on it. If it cost money, I probably evaded that part and took it anyway. Probably I did it all that stay. Everything but find a house…

OK, I found one. Huge, nice neighborhood, and permanently unoccupied. Claiming owners who scarcely acknowledged the structure as their own, and never went inside. Also perilously close to the home of its wealthy neighbors, twenty feet from the daughter’s window. All sounds would be heard, all movements seen. I was desperate. My extreme condition demanded an extreme response. So I shrugged, packed my bag, walked twenty feet, and moved in.

More of a barn than a house — that was my thought stepping inside. And my thought upstairs — “More fun than both!” One floor — all hay! A house of four-figure amusements twenty feet from mountains of hay. . . I just didn’t get it. More hay for me! And it really was like being a child again — stacking bales in the corner for my own hay fort. A few stuffed animal bombs for intruders with cooties and I’d call it home…

Possibility was the sentiment of the time. Crime the means, suburbia the stage, hay the safehouse, and “practicality” the unmentionable. Molly left for school, her parents left to earn my rent, and my day began — wholly unaccounted for by any state or federal agency, traceable only by noseprints on the windows of a few tattered homes. My other trail — of left-hand meal receipts reading “Bagel -$0.59”— had gone cold. I began saving them for humor value. 59c meals — that joke would never grow stale. At day’s end, when I was certain life could never be more absurd, I crept into my barn for a sneaky midnight date. Molly wasn’t always punctual, but she always brought food.

It was punk rock love — cheeseless pizza and big plans. Molly’s tender hopes for a life together in the abandoned shack she’d found had crumbled — I saw hints of activity — but tell us ours was a doomed plan and we’d gasp.

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