The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls

by John Lekich

  This sounded strange because my uncle never demanded anything of me. But all I asked was, “What does this place sound like to you?”

  “Like prison with neckties,” said Uncle Andy. “But that’s not the point. This is an opportunity for you to rub shoulders with a class of people I’d be lucky to rob.”

  “Did you tell them my mother played the piano?” I asked. “No way I’m disadvantaged.”

  “I agree, Henry. It’s not you personally that’s disadvantaged,” said Uncle Andy. “That’s the beauty of the way these people think.”

  When I said that I didn’t understand, my uncle explained that the academy considered him a highly negative influence. “I’ve already done all the heavy lifting for you just by being me,” he said. And then, sounding almost as if he were proud of it, he added, “Don’t you see, Henry? I’m your disadvantage.”

  I was beginning to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “How often would I get to see you?” I asked.

  “Once a year at Christmas,” he said, explaining it was part of the deal for my full scholarship. “That’s if I can stay out of trouble, which both of us know is highly unlikely.”

  “I’m not going,” I said. “I don’t trust any place that makes you get in a rowboat when you’re not even trapped on a sinking ocean liner.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Uncle Andy, shooting me his most serious look ever. “I’m not giving you a choice.”

  “So you want me to become some slave in gray flannel pants?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Uncle Andy, not batting an eye.

  That’s how I ended up enrolled at the Monroe Academy for the beginning of grade eight. Right away, I did everything I could to get expelled. I got on the rowing team and rowed in the wrong direction. I cut all the roses off my personally assigned rose bush until there was nothing left but a sick-looking stump. But it was no use. The warden—who called himself the headmaster—told me I could not do anything he hadn’t seen before.

  So naturally, I started escaping. After the first couple of attempts, they locked me up in a private room with another student who was supposed to stand guard. Luckily, my personal guard was practicing very hard to make the track team. So he kept falling asleep. Much to my good fortune, I had managed to steal a tiny crochet hook from tapestry weaving class. After a little bit of experimenting, I found I could pick a lock with the hook a lot easier than I could weave a tapestry.

  I escaped five times in the first month and a half—twice going so far as to hide in a van full of empty water bottles that took me all the way back to Vancouver. Unless you count tearing the crest on my blazer while running through the rose bushes, the only bad thing that happened to me was that I kept getting caught and sent back.

  After my fifth escape attempt, the headmaster brought in Uncle Andy for a chat. It wasn’t long before my uncle started to criticize the academy’s lax security. “How do you expect the kid to stay put when your locks are a hundred years old?” he asked the headmaster. Then, almost as if he were bragging, he added, “My nephew could crack this old tin can of a place blindfolded.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked the headmaster, whose tone was very sarcastic. “Barbed wire? A straightjacket during study period, perhaps?”

  Uncle Andy smiled politely. “The kid’s always been handy with wire cutters,” he said. “The straightjacket’s not a bad idea. But I think Henry would find a way to wiggle out eventually. He’s always been on the nimble side.”

  The headmaster offered my uncle a reluctant smile. “I have no doubt that Henry would agree to be shot out of a cannon if it was pointed in your direction,” he said.

  Uncle Andy asked him to leave us alone so that we could work things out. The first thing I asked was, “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Uncle Andy, who sounded totally amazed.

  “I know I get in the way sometimes,” I said. “It’s not like you asked to be stuck with some kid.”

  My uncle looked at me for a few seconds. “You can think anything else you want about me,” he said, his voice getting very quiet, “but don’t you ever think that I want to get rid of you. You understand?”

  The thing is, I did understand. My uncle is not someone who says “I love you” all the time. He doesn’t even say it once in a while. You might think that he didn’t care whether he loved anybody or anybody loved him back. But at that moment, I looked into his eyes and saw everything we’d always meant to each other. I knew he was going to take me out of the Monroe Academy and bring me home. For better or worse, we were family.

  I still think it was the right decision not to attend the academy. Believe it or not, there are many things my current lifestyle can teach a person about the human condition. They are the sorts of things you don’t learn studying Latin or Greek in a room full of dusty books.

  Don’t get me wrong. Before my current predicament forced me back into my old habits, I felt pretty good about leaving theft behind. On the other hand, I can’t deny that burglary has certain educational benefits extending well beyond my program of cultural enrichment. You may find this hard to believe. But aside for the ability to purchase things like concert tickets, I didn’t care much about the money.

  In fact, sometimes I ended up taking nothing at all. I didn’t really see myself as your typical neighborhood burglar. I even made up my own totally unique job title: domestic anthropologist. Someone who liked to explore the undiscovered places in every strange house. Places with secrets that could leave me happy or sad. Or feeling so bad about somebody’s tucked-away troubles that I just had to take out the garbage or sweep the floor.

  I remember this one patron named Shirley. She kept this diary all about how she could never find the right person to be with. Back then, I would often take a few minutes just to snoop if there was time, and I ended up reading Shirley’s entire diary. It was full of questions like Is it me? Am I that hard to love? I felt so bad for her that I practically cleaned her whole house.

  After that, I vowed never to read anything private or personal again when I was an uninvited (or even an invited) guest in someone’s house. Shirley’s diary made me think of something Uncle Andy said when he was warning me about the dangers of looking into other people’s desks and medicine cabinets. “I’ve never robbed anybody who doesn’t have one or two secrets tucked away in a private place,” he said. “And sometimes that secret’s a lot more complicated than where a person hides the key to their front door.”

  I try to keep this advice in mind. I do allow myself to take a good look at anything that’s out in the open. Grocery lists, messages on kitchen chalkboards. That kind of thing. I call this “my postcard rule.” Just about everybody will read a stranger’s postcard, because the writing is there for everyone to see. Even the postcard writer knows this.

  Of course, even when you’re trying not to, sometimes you can’t help discovering private things about a certain benefactor. When this happens, I always try to look on the bright side. Sometimes the secrets I discover about my benefactors help me to be extra considerate.

  Take Chester Hickley, a patron of mine with very special needs. Chester suffers from all sorts of pesky skin irritations. He even keeps a note on his fridge that reminds him to do things like avoid direct exposure to the sun. Last time I was at his place, I noticed he’d dropped the appointment card for his allergist on the kitchen floor. I didn’t hesitate to pin it back on the fridge using a magnet that said Do not forget to…

  To be honest, the professional side of me was making a mental note to stop by again while Chester was out explaining his latest rash to the doctor. But just because you are stealing from a person doesn’t mean you can’t also be concerned about their health.

  It is important for the conscientious house burglar to remember that all benefactors are individuals, with their own peculiar tastes, desires and lifestyles. I always take the time to look at bulletin boards, wall calendars or messages tacked on
the fridge. This allows me to keep a mental file on the schedules of all the generous contributors to the Henry Holloway Emergency Fund. Like the day of the week they go grocery shopping or when they have their regular appointment with the hairstylist.

  Of course, I try not to get too carried away.

  Every steady relationship has to be based on a certain amount of trust. While it may sound funny, this is especially true of a burglar and his most cherished targets. If you want to drop by on someone more than once, you have to have enough faith in the future of that relationship not to steal too much at one time. It’s always been my feeling that what you lose in cash and merchandise, you make up for with the comfort and security of familiar surroundings.

  For me, this means stealing just enough to make the effort worthwhile but not so much that my patron becomes highly security-conscious all of a sudden. After all, what is the good of having a favorite benefactor if they suddenly decide to turn their home into a bank vault with furniture?

  You want to know something else? One of the fringe benefits of inviting myself into a strange home is that, when I least expect it, it leaves me feeling grateful to be exactly who I am. For instance, I will be in the middle of a burglary, glance at a piece of paper tacked to the fridge and suddenly appreciate that I don’t need a prescription for high blood pressure or a recurring rash. Another funny thing. It’s gotten so that I can immediately tell when I am breaking into an unhappy home. Even before I open so much as a drawer.

  I might notice that there are no family pictures on the side table. But usually I’ll just get this strange feeling all of a sudden. It’s almost as if sadness or loneliness can seep its way into the walls. Like cigarette smoke or the smell of last night’s microwave dinner. It’s the kind of thing that really makes you appreciate your own home. Even if that home no longer exists.

  The thing is, once you open a drawer, you never know what you’re going to find. I have always tried to restrain myself from checking out private belongings that have no monetary or nutritional value. That means I make it a strict rule to stay away from such temptations as personal letters or the insides of medicine cabinets. Probably the worst thing I can imagine is reading someone’s private correspondence and having them catch me at it.

  I would say that ninety-nine percent of the time I’m very respectful of a patron’s privacy. My one big remaining weakness is family photo albums. If an album is open on the coffee table, I’ll take a minute to look at the pictures when I really should be looking for cash. Before you know it, I can get sentimentally attached to the people I’m robbing. There are certain patrons that I try to steal the minimum from because I’d be genuinely sad if they decided to change their personal security habits.

  Once I was making an unsupervised visit to the home of Mr. Ambrose Worton. Ambrose is one of my favorite benefactors. I’ve visited his place a grand total of three times. Like Mrs. Pastorelli, he’s one of those absentminded individuals who likes to leave a spare key close by. You know, under the doormat. Or, if he’s feeling especially creative, buried in the seeds of a birdfeeder.

  There are some houses you’d never want to visit more than once. But right away I found Ambrose’s place very welcoming. His place is very homey. It makes me want to leave everything as undisturbed as possible. Plus, a quick look at the prescription on Ambrose Worton’s kitchen bulletin board showed that he suffers from high blood pressure and should not be unnecessarily upset by things like open drawers and scattered papers.

  You can tell a lot about a person by what’s in their fridge. And Ambrose’s fridge always featured an unusually thoughtful selection of cold cuts. I felt so comfortable at his house that, on my second visit, I stopped by for a sandwich and didn’t even bother to steal anything.

  After a couple of visits, I got to know Ambrose’s personal history quite well. According to a card he left right on his desk, he was a member of a single dad’s support group. I could tell he was very attached to his only daughter, Melinda, a pleasant-looking teenager who appeared to be around my age. There were pictures of the two of them all over the house. Ambrose and Melinda on hiking trips. Ambrose helping Melinda with her exploding volcano science project. Personally, I found it very heartwarming.

  I discovered that Ambrose was the sort of guy who attached little yellow sticky notes to everything as reminders to himself. For example, there were a couple of sticky notes attached to the envelope full of money I found buried under a stack of shirts in his dresser. One of the notes made it clear that the money was intended for Melinda’s high school graduation present. The other note had all these calculations on it, showing how far Ambrose had to go before he could afford the bracelet Melinda wanted.

  I guess I should have taken the money. When you think about it, is pretty much my professional obligation. I considered this option for so long that I had to make myself a second sandwich. On the other hand, it was clear that Ambrose still had quite a way to go before achieving his financial goal. So I decided that I would take a few dollars out of my own wallet and add it to the envelope. You may think this is weird for a burglar, but it made me feel good.

  You’d be surprised how good I can feel when hunger or the fear of getting caught by Social Services isn’t getting the better of me. I get plenty of fresh air and exercise. Best of all, nobody tells me what to do.

  As a bonus, Evelyn’s tree house gives me a bird’s-eye view of the entire neighborhood. This is a very convenient method of keeping tabs on the habits of any possible patrons. The view of my potential benefactors has been greatly enhanced ever since I managed to steal the previously mentioned expensive pair of binoculars. Lately I’ve been keeping tabs on a man I like to call “The Colonel.”

  The Colonel is a retired army guy who has the kind of bristly crew cut that makes his head look like the business end of a brand-new toilet brush. He lives with a small army of cats he has named after famous military leaders. For example, one cat is named Custer and another is named Napoleon. There are even two cats named Omar and Bradley, in honor of the famous World War Two general. Even though the Colonel has over a dozen cats, I suspected he might make an excellent contributor to my emergency fund.

  I always like to get a closer look at a benefactor’s premises before doing any actual burglarizing. Sometimes I pretend I’m selling magazine subscriptions. This usually gets me a quick peek at the layout of the living room. When I first visited him, the very talkative Colonel told me that he already had more than enough magazine subscriptions to periodicals like Soldier of Fortune, Guns&Ammo and Cat Fancier Monthly. After he informed me of his part-time job as “a mall enforcement official,” he introduced me to a few of his cats, including General Patton, who the Colonel said was specially trained to be “an attack cat.” As if to illustrate the point, General Patton made an impressive attempt to shred the bottom of my jeans with his razor-sharp claws.

  The Colonel explained that General Patton got very upset when any stranger attempted to “breach the interior perimeter,” which was marked by a series of used tin cans filled with thumb tacks that the Colonel sharpened using a special nail file. The Colonel told me the cans were tied together with twine and strung across both the back and front doorways at ankle level to form homemade tripwires.

  The Colonel also bragged that there was a bucket suspended over a doorway by the stairwell. The bucket was filled with the water he soaked his dirty sweat socks in, and it was specially triggered to dump its contents on an unsuspecting intruder as they made their way up the stairs leading to his bedroom.

  The Colonel delivered a very passionate speech about how burglars were “a festering boil on the kneecap of the entire human race.”

  Having watched the Colonel through my liberated binoculars, I have discovered that, while he has no less than three ancient locks on his back door, I could probably pick all three of them while blindfolded. I have also observed that his house is full of very interesting and collectable items. Antique swords, vintage canteens, old-fa
shioned pocket watches. It’s the type of merchandise that I could sell to my shady friend, Lenny. Lenny is a business acquaintance of my Uncle Andy’s. He runs a pawnshop that accepts stolen goods, no questions asked. In the distant past, Lenny helped my quest for cultural enrichment by purchasing some of my liberated items for far less than they are actually worth.

  Of course, since I’m lying especially low at the moment, I have no immediate interest in the Colonel’s antique collectables. Right now I’m much more interested in his impressive stock of canned provisions. While we were talking, the Colonel mentioned that he liked to keep a lot of canned goods on hand in case of an earthquake or a foreign invasion. “Of course, something along the lines of a nuclear attack is unlikely,” he pointed out, “but that is no reason to be unprepared.”

  I thought the old guy must be lonely, because when I expressed interest in seeing his collection of canned goods, he was more than happy to give me a guided tour of his supersized pantry. It was a very impressive sight, especially for someone in my particular situation. I mean, once you got past all the cat food, he had all sorts of gourmet-type things in little cans that you didn’t even need a can opener to open. You just pulled on these little tabs. And voila! All of a sudden you had a feast. Oysters, salmon, gourmet soups. Plus some other kinds of exotic delicacies that sounded very French.

  As if this wasn’t tantalizing enough, the Colonel showed me a lot of emergency equipment that would be just about perfect for my tree house, including a little generator and a battery-powered hot plate with all sorts of handy domestic features. All, according to the Colonel, one-hundred-percent approved by the military for domestic life in the jungle or other unfamiliar terrain. It was almost enough to make me drool.

  On the surface, it was very tempting to think of the Colonel as the ideal patron for all my provisionary needs. The problem? To be honest, I found the Colonel more than a little scary. He was always doing calisthenic-type exercises with unopened gourmet soup cans taped to his ankles. This even freaked out the cats, especially Omar and Bradley, who were always ducking under the couch.