1.
“Now is the winter of our discontent.” (Richard III Act 1, Scene 1)
Bounding over a chain-link fence meant to keep the honest on the proverbial up and up was a simple task for even a hungry man who hadn’t teased his craving taste buds, save for a cheeseburger gleaned from a dumpster behind a MacDonald’s, in nearly a fortnight.
Sinewed forearms propelled Fritjov Nilsson up and over the fence and onto the lush grass of the country club, the hangout for the elite of society who feasted while his stomach churned. He knelt in the darkness, flashlight in his trembling hands. Leaves crackled and swirled from a cold, brisk wind out of the north.
As he turned his ear to the gusts, he recalled the time he was busted in the supermarket in Cincinnati by a butcher for stealing a pocketful of goodies: Tootsie Rolls, Necco Wafers, M&M’s and a lemon pie, his favorite. Sweets. Sugar. Energy. Perhaps on this frosty evening after Thanksgiving, there would be a few extra leftovers inside the ritzy compound. All he wanted was food, but that cost money he didn’t have.
His buds called him Fritz, his antagonists, Schizoid. He dreamed of being rich and famous, perhaps a rock’ n roll star, the CEO of a multinational corporation, or maybe an entrepreneurial innovator who brought the joy he lacked to the world. Fact was, he was a hustler out of necessity, that is, ever since he had chased his father from the family home with a shotgun after knocking his mother out cold in one of the latter’s many drunken and violent frenzies.
His newspaper route didn’t pay squat, but the side benefits of unlocked cars with unknown treasures, and items left for the pickings on porches and unguarded sheds, were entirely beyond his wherewithal to avoid. Besides, the power tools, fishing poles and tackle, boots, wallets, knives and guns, were all easily and quickly sold at the flea market on weekends. They fed the hungry mouths at home that belonged to his two siblings and his cancer ridden mother. The world was truly unfair.
A twig snapped like unexpected thunder under his Convers tennis shoes, previously purloined from the Moody’s pickup truck after their late night of grunion hunting at Pacific Beach, before the family relocated to the frozen tundra of the north, a move he despised his father for. He stopped and listened. Crickets. Nothing more. He followed the tree line to within a long football throw of the edifice that was the club, now dim except for a menacing yellow light bulb illuminating several wooden steps. Rich folks didn’t have creaky wooden steps, so he didn’t sweat it, but let it. That was his modus operandi.
From the back of his waistband he withdrew a wrist rocket slingshot, also stolen from a grungy backpack left by some kid who had left it outside the front door of his dorm. Digging into the right pocket of his tattered jeans, he retrieved a marble-sized stone, pulled back on the rubber, and let the missile speed to its intended target. The snap and the wizzzzz cut through the threatening night.
Miss!
Cursing under his breath, and exhaling misty evidence of his presence, he reloaded the slingshot and let a new stone fly.
Hit!
“Lights out, you elite scum,” he thought to himself, although with some semblance of remorse. In the pitch blackness, he considered turning back, but the needle on the gas gauge of his 1963 Plymouth Valiant was a tad under E. He’d be lucky to make it home, if indeed his mission for the needy from the greedy was indeed successful.
A shivering Fritz placed two winter mittens that belonged to an older sister on his numb hands, pulled down a Bengals NFL beanie, and then made a mad dash for the stairs.
Arriving in a huff, as snow flurries fell from an unseen clouded sky, he crouched and then slowly stood and peered into a nearby frosted window. The place appeared empty. His MO for burglaries was to throw a brick or a rock through a window and then enter. Only God and creatures heard the shattering of glass. Fritz lifted himself up and into the club, quickly turning on his flashlight in search of the alarm box he had triggered. Would eight seconds alert the authorities? Not taking a chance, he quickly looked for an escape route, located it, and then made his way to the expansive kitchen.
The flashlight began to dim. Previously placing the batteries in a freezer had only provided him with a three minute recharge. A worthless hack. He lit a burner on a stove for light, lowered the flame, and opened the industrial refrigerator. A veritable bonanza widened his pale blue eyes.
Assorted covered plates of turkey, ham and what appeared to be duck, made his stomach rumble. A ravenous Fritz chomped into the cold, dark meat from a turkey leg. He held the leg in his teeth as he surveyed the fully stocked fortune inside for the taking.
Mournful howling snapped him from his beastly reverie. Dog? Wolf? Wolfman? His imagination ran wild, but there wasn’t enough time to worry when he had mouths to feed. Snagging a potato sack from a storage closet, he stuffed every tidbit he determined to be worthy into the cavernous bag. He raided the pantry, and, for good measure, lifted a bottle of Johnny Walker Red some drunk had stashed on the cool, taking satisfaction in being the local Robin Hoodlum.
The animal wailed anew. Fritz didn’t need the attention. He peered through the once unblemished pane and dispatched the mutt with a harmless shot to the rear with his slingshot. Snow was now covering the grass and he knew he’d have to cover his tracks lest a police dog follow his scent.
“Ten percent chance of snow, my eye,” he hissed. He strode towards the bar, dimly lit by an aging neon Little Kings beer sign. A fine selection of name brand whiskeys, rums, vodkas and assorted liquors adorned the shelves. Behind the bar, he opened a door leading to a storage room. It was full of cases of beer, wine and booze. Against his better judgment, he hefted a couple of cases and set them down next to his gunny sack of food. He then took the LED TV above the bar over the liquors just for giggles and grins.
His older sister, Amy, was always hogging the idiot box and watching lame movies on the Lifetime Channel. He thought about disconnecting the cable he’d illegally hooked up before making the first trek across the snow covered grass to the Plymouth.
Within 20 minutes the car was fit to burst.
Several trips back and forth to the club compelled him to disregard any notion of covering his footprints. He cranked up the begrudging six-cylinder slant engine and made his escape into the blustery night sans headlights. Near a main road, he hit the high beams and headed to Owen Judge’s house which he shared with his alcoholic father.
