Stolen
Money, the root of all evil as some people call it, is hard to come by these days. We live in a pass or fail world where people are categorized and stereotyped on how much they make. There are those who are well-off in this world with great jobs that carry them through life, and those who have jobs that pay the bills, and not much is left over. Then there are people like I used to be. Cheaters, con artists, people who would do just about anything to get their hands on some cash. I used to travel down that road, before I realized what harm could cause me and everyone else.
Today was a good day, or so I thought. The sun was shining down on the streets of my city, no clouds in sight; people were hustling around doing their business. I sat at a lunch table on the outer deck of a fine restaurant that served “the best sandwiches in Orange County” and I could strongly agree. There was no breeze and it was hot, my delicious five-and-a-half dollar iced tea helped with that. I had a lot of money in my pocket. I smile was fixed on my face as I looked at the world around me. I was good at what I did and it couldn’t physically hurt me so why would I care to bother? At first it was intriguing, after a while it became an addiction.
When I was finished with my meal, I called the waitress over for my tab. Twenty-five dollars for a sandwich, iced tea, and a paper. To me it was pocket change. I didn’t care about the price; it would be the last thing to bother me. I gave my thanks to the waitress who smiled back at me and left the restaurant. Nothing was on my agenda that day, so why not do what I do best? I had to spot the right one; it couldn’t just be anybody off the street. It had to be someone that had the appearance that they had a lot of money. Down the boulevard I went, spotting out for my first encounter. There he was, standing on the street corner near the crosswalk, a cell phone permanently stuck to the side of his face and a long brown coat which I thought to be completely absurd considering the weather we were having. His bald head glistened in the sun. As I approached the man he hung up his phone and was standing, waiting for the little green man to say he was allowed to cross the street. I came within reach of the man; I made sure to get his attention.
“Excuse me sir,” I said, “do you have the time?” The man looked at me with a puzzled stare. He looked down at his silver watch on his hand which reflected a bright light in my eyes which made me squint.
“It’s twelve thirty.” The man said and I nodded and pretended to be relieved with his answer.
“Thank you.” I said as I walked past the man. A large smile crawled up on my face as I felt the leather of his wallet in my hand. I was good at what I was doing and I never made a mistake. I could keep doing this all day with the same exact result. I peeked inside, once I was clear of his vision. Three, one hundred dollar bills lay in side and an American Express credit card. I never used the credit cards because of identity theft, and I could be caught as easily as a common cold. I put the wallet in my back pocket and I kept walking and looked for my next victim. I had no remorse, no guilt. I was content and could not see the error of my ways. I kept the lookout for a new candidate.
They came like angels, a man holding his small daughter's hand walking toward me. She was small and innocent, but I did not care. They approached me and I made myself vulnerable like I always do.
“Excuse me sir,” I said, “do you have the time?” The little girl smiled at me and I didn’t give anything back. Nowadays, most kids don’t have watches to look at the time. Instead, they have cell phones with a digital clock on it so you don’t have to learn how to tell time. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone.
“Twelve forty-five,” said the man and tugged his daughter along. I had no intention of saying thank you this time. I was too caught up in my own greed. I walked on with his wallet in my hand. I turned down the next street which conveniently housed my apartment. I opened up the wallet and found only thirty dollars in it. I was very disappointed, but I didn’t let it get to me. My brown apartment complex lay in sight and I could not wait to get home. What would I do with my uprising fortune?
I opened the door to my apartment and went inside. The fan was on and I was hit by a cool breeze and it felt good. I threw the wallets on the chair by the door and plopped down on my bed. Suddenly, I felt very drowsy and felt more tired than usual. I fell asleep and I would never forget the dream that followed.
It was very hazy and I don’t quite remember all of it but I remember the message. I saw in my dream the little girl and her father walking down the street. Three masked men were waiting for him down the road. The men suddenly attacked the man and asked for all of his money. I had stolen his wallet so he had no money. They beat the man senseless while his daughter watched on the side, screaming and crying. His face ran red with blood. The men finally stopped and walked away leaving the man for dead in his child’s arms, and it was my entire fault.
I awoke in a pool of my own sweat and I was breathing heavily. The sky was dark and I looked at the clock by my bed and it read ten o’clock in big red fluorescent numbers. I did not know what to do with myself. I felt so ashamed and words could not describe the amount of guilt I had. What could I do? I don’t know anything about these people or if my dream had ever come true. I flipped open the man’s wallet and looked at his driver’s license. James Clarke was the man’s name and he lived near my apartment; just down the street in fact. I paced back and forth in my bedroom. What should I do? That dream never happened, it was only in my head! Wasn't it? Without even thinking, I picked up the man’s wallet and ran out of my apartment, I didn’t even bother to shut the door. I got in my car, conveniently parked right outside my house. I put the keys in the ignition and started her engine. Down the street I raced, so many thoughts went through my head at one time.
I came to the address on his license. He lived in a small white house, with a white picket fence bordering the front yard. I got out of my car, without turning it off and walked through the gateway that led up to his door. I ran up the porch steps and I knocked on the door. I stood, out of breath waiting for a response with a brown wallet in my hand.
The little daughter answered the door and I asked if his father was in. She ran away to go find him and moments later he came to the door. I don’t think he remembered who I was.
“Sir, I’ve brought back your wallet,” I extended my hand and gave it to him, tears came to my eyes, “I am so sorry.”
James Clarke looked at me and must have seen the sadness in my eyes. He looked at his daughter who was by his side and smiling up at him, “I forgive you.”
His words pierced my heart like bullets; I simply broke down and cried. I couldn’t live with myself and I thought about how many people I probably have hurt. How could someone have the heart to forgive someone like me? What did I do to deserve kindness? I have manipulated people my whole life and not felt any remorse until now. Now I know what the material things in life will do to a man, take him from thinking he has everything, to knowing in reality he has nothing. I stood up and thanked the man. He had a smile on his face as I turned away and walked back to my car, still running. I drove away from his house and back to mine. Since that day, I stopped my stealing and my dishonesty. I was done, I couldn't stand hurting people anymore. I had to find something else to live for.
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