Breaking Into Cars Is Just Part of Growing Up

I don’t like to think of myself as a criminal. I don’t like think to of myself as a bad person. But I did break into a car once.

I was seven years old. My fellow neighborhood urchins were either not home or grounded. So I found myself wandering around the neighborhood bored and alone. To entertain myself I began peeping in the windows of all the cars parked in the parking lot of the apartment complex that was two over from mine.

I really wasn’t looking for anything in particular. It was just fascinating to catch a glimpse of the compact, personal lives contained within each individual vehicle. Some cars were littered with papers and fast food wrappers. Some had old coffee cups with traces of the stale beverage still in them. Various seat coverings added splashes of color and individuality to the over all viewing experience as did bumper stickers and trinkets hanging from the rear view mirror.

As I went car to car, not once did I think there was anything wrong with what I was doing. Although it felt voyeuristic, I knew it wasn’t something I could get into trouble for. I mean, I was JUST LOOKING for Christ’s sakes. So there I was in my cut off shorts and purple butterfly t-shirt. My long, straight, tangled mane pulled ever so tightly to the back of my head. Dirty little hands shielded my eyes from the reflection on the glass so I could get a better look. I pressed my face hard onto the cool glass leaving forehead, nose and chin prints on every window. If my breath created steam on the window, I was overcome with inspiration and felt compelled to draw a happy face or write ‘fuck’, before giggling and moving on to the next car. So far all this sounds like average good, clean, seven year old fun. Right?

‘Fuck’ was losing its edge so I began to write ‘asshole’ on this particular car window when I noticed the glove box was open. I could see a box of Band Aids jutting out between a bunch of crinkled up papers that spilled out onto the floorboard. Now before I go any further, in my defense Band Aids were magical to me. My mom would never buy them because they were too expensive and she said I used them up too fast when I wasn’t really hurt. Today, one would wonder how did we get along without them? Mostly, I used wet washcloths to apply pressure to wounds that were too bloody to suck on and wipe off with my hands. If I really needed a bandage, good ol' Mom got out the white gauze and hospital tape. Where was the fun in that? Band Aids. I HAD to have them!

The car was locked. But, the window was down a little. So, I reached my hand through the opening, unlocked the door and slipped inside. I shut the door and was overcome by the feeling of what it was like to be someone else. I was greeted by the same smoke and warm polyester smell that welcomed the owner of this car. I sat on the polyester seat coverings that this person usually sat on. I looked out of the window and saw what he or she usually saw. I climbed in the back seat. I looked out the back window. I tried on the seatbelt. I looked in the console and found a pack of cigarettes. I took only one and put it in the waistband of my shorts. Finally, I got the box of Band Aids and got out.

I stood beside the car and opened Band Aid after Band Aid. Tell tale wrappers swirled in the wind and were carried away across the black topped parking lot. First, I stuck one on my chin. Then I put no less than five on my knees and at least three on each elbow. Being new to crime, it had not occurred to me to look around to see if anyone was coming. That’s why the “HEY KID” caught me off guard and made me jump. A man had been watching me from the apartment building and was now looking at my tan adhesive bandage covered face quite disapprovingly. “What did you take from this car?” he asked. I was standing there covered in Band Aids, wrappers were blowing all over the parking lot, and the empty box was laying on the ground next to me. I thought there was still a chance he wouldn't notice. So, I answered a definitive, “Nothing.”

The man said, “Kid, I saw you from my apartment window. I saw you get into this car and take something. Put it back whatever it was." I bent down and picked up the empty Band Aid box and tossed it back into the car through the still open window all the while avoiding eye contact with the stranger. “You really shouldn’t steal,” the man said, “It’s bad. Now go home and don’t ever do anything like this again.” I ran home as fast as I could which felt like running in water. I couldn't get past a slow jog on account of the stiff Band Aids made it difficult for my knees to bend.

Crossing one apartment complex and then another, I made it all the way home without breaking the cigarette that was still in my waistband. My friend Wendy was waiting for me on the front porch of our four unit, brick apartment building. Wendy was ten and always carried a lighter. So, the only thing left to do next was to ask her for a light and go into the woods next to my apartment building and take turns smoking the cigarette. That is exactly what we did. Ah, cherish the moment. There is nothing like smoking with your third best friend in the woods with not a grown up in sight.

Looking back now, I find the whole incident a little odd and I’d like to think that it was out of character for me. But it wasn’t. The truth is that I was never as good as I pretended to be in front of grown ups. But I was still a good kid wasn’t I? I mean, I did share my cigarette.