On the weekends, when Mom got drunk and kicked us out, my brother and I would steal. We shoplifted for the thrill, to see if we could do it, because we didn’t want to pay for soda or chips. Because we didn’t have the money for magazines. Because there was nothing else to do. Because it made us feel good.
I enjoyed licorice and comic books. My brother, Hunter, swiped sunflower seeds and bottles of Mad Dog, all colored red or neon blue. He was fifteen and I was eleven. We stuck to convenience stores. The mall was too far away and we didn’t want to rip off the local shops, just 7-Elevens and the big gas stations that dotted the streets near the freeway. Then, with loot under our shirts or tucked in our pants, we’d hike through the needle grass and weeds of the California hills and find shade beneath a pepper tree, where we’d feast on the day’s bounty.
Hunter and I stayed there until it grew dark. At night we heard coyotes scampering in the distance. It was better than sitting at home. Mom worked cruel hours at the DMV, and wanted peace and quiet on her days off. Hunter and I were always wrestling or had the TV too loud. When we trekked home and snuck in like cat burglars through the sliding back door, Mom would be passed out on cheap vodka, sprawled atop the covers of her bed. Hunter and I would undress her. Her slacks peeled inside out as we pulled them off. We’d roll the sheets over her legs and waist, and then we’d listen to the radio in our room and sip what she’d left. We passed the bottle back and forth and discussed plans over the songs of Ratt, Dio, and Dokken.
We enjoyed being thieves. I pictured us as criminals — pirates, and tough guys. After climbing the hill, Hunter smoked, and it was there he gave me my first cigarette after snatching a carton of Kools. I loved my brother. I want to say that now. That is something I want to make clear.
The first time I shoplifted was on a hot day in mid-July. I remember this because Hunter and I were on the sidewalk, sweaty and bored, and we went inside a Circle K to cool. The air conditioning blew icy and rough. The clerk behind the counter was balding and had hairy arms that looked tan and bloated. He talked on the phone. He didn’t pay attention to us. I walked along an aisle looking for Big Chew. Hunter approached from the other end and met me halfway. He gazed over my skull toward the counter. Hunter’s hair hadn’t been cut since President’s Day and now grew clumpy and shaggy. Zits pocked his chin and near his lower lip.
“Here,” he said, stuffing three sticks of beef jerky into my pants. “Five finger discount today, little man.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Be cool, Quint. Nobody is going to mess with us.”
Hunter tugged my T-shirt over my belt and zipper, covering the Jack Links and Slim Jims. He walked away and outside as if he didn’t know me. It was my turn. I knew I had to leave. Hunter would call me a baby and a mama’s boy if I didn’t. I went to the glass doors. I was certain the clerk was watching me, ready to call me out, to alert the police. I was going to jail. I imagined handcuffs and sirens. No more fun with Hunter, no more Mom. No more television or candy. I forced myself to keep moving. I pushed open the door. Everything turned bright and quiet in the slow-motion way of memory. I left without incident.
Hunter stood on the corner. When he saw me, he smiled. He smoked a cigarette, something I’d never seen him do. I watched him exhale a gray cloud and knock off a bit of ash with a shake of his arm.
“Not too shabby,” he said. “How does it feel to pop your cherry?” He tossed the butt to the ground and didn’t bother to stomp it out. “Let’s beat it,” he said.
He led me through the alley and onto the streets and up the slopes, dry and dusty and without shade. Hunter explained how easy it was to snatch and lift, and how we owed ourselves a free treat now and again.
We made it to the pepper tree and squatted. The interstate shooting east looked like a giant concrete scar. I watched the cars, small and metallic, driving on the roads. Their fenders and windows shimmered. We could see where the town faded into the ranching district and the land sprawled flat, wide, and beige. The grass along the hill had grown tall and turned into the dull color of wheat, and I watched it twirl in the short gusts of wind that came through the valley. We sat in the shade while our lungs heaved from the climb.
I felt proud that day. Hunter had pocketed trail mix and Twinkies. We shared our swag and looked across the community. Hunter told me how if you had enough balls and brains, nothing could stop you from anything, and I believed him.
“We stick together and we‘ll be the two true rocking broncos. I look after you, you look after me. That’s a team. Hell, that’s family.”
“What about Mom?”
“I love Mom. But she’s got to take care of herself. She’s got her own bag.”
The plastic wrappers drifted away and tangled in the leaves and limbs of the weeds. Hunter took out a pack of Dorals and some matches. He lit a cigarette and carefully put out the match and buried it. Hunter went on talking about being partners and what else we could rob.
“I’ll be sixteen next year,” he said. “I’ll get my license, a car, then we’ll be in business. Prime time, my man. Big like Dallas.”
From then on, whenever Mom started her second glass of Smirnoff, Hunter and I knew what we would do. At first I stuck to imitating Hunter. I took what he took. Then I learned how to grab the sweets I wanted when no one was looking. We hit the dollar shops and the drug stores. We chugged cough syrup and practiced sneering. When I stole my first 40-ounce bottle of Tecate, Hunter nicknamed me Vaquero.
It didn’t take long for us to progress to bigger, more daring crimes. I wanted to do more. I wanted to steal everything. At night we stalked driveways, looking for unlocked cars. It was shocking what people left in the backseats overnight. We discovered boogie boards, basketballs, and hidden birthday presents in the trunks of suburban sedans. Some stuff we kept. Some we threw away. But we sold the good items, mostly to kids that Hunter knew from school. They were all boys with shaggy hair like my brother. They listened to Judas Priest and Iron Maiden. They smoked their dads’ Marlboro reds and bought cassette tapes and skateboards we’d lifted from their neighbors’ Fords and Chevrolets. We thought they were all suckers.
But then there was Teddy Hacker. Teddy was different. He was twenty-one and worked at Suncoast in the mall. Teddy had blond wavy hair and a tight smile that women loved. He lived down the street with his parents in an attic-converted apartment. Hunter and I had seen him work on his Firebird and lift weights in his garage. Posters of Chuck Norris had been plastered along the walls for inspiration when he exercised his shoulders, chest, and arms. He always sounded like he was on the verge of laughter when he spoke, and he liked to tell us stories of getting laid, driving girls up to Mt. Helix where he slipped his fingers down their panties. We listened to him as if he were whispering next week’s winning lottery numbers. Sometimes he’d show us his ninja stars and glossy pictures of naked women in Hustler. I thought of Teddy as a prince with a sports car.
It wasn’t long after summer died, and Hunter went to high school, and I started the sixth grade, when Teddy approached us with a proposition. Hunter and I had just sold a leather jacket to a skinny dweeb in glasses, and we were sitting in our driveway as Teddy strolled toward us.
“I know what you two dudes are up to,” he said. “There are better ways to earn a buck. Trust me.”
“You my guidance counselor?” said Hunter.
Teddy smirked. He wore jeans and a red muscle shirt. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. I glanced around to make sure no one was spying on us. I sat on a skateboard and I rolled back and forth. Hunter smoked a cigarette and looked tougher than he really was.
“I’m more like a business man. Are you a business man? Or are you a business boy?”
“Okay,” said Hunter. “We’re listening.”
Teddy smiled.
“You keep ripping off your neighbors and they’ll get pissed. Especially when you’re selling it back to them. And you two wouldn’t like jail. You know what happens in the showers.”
“What happens in the showers?” I said.
Hunter shook his head and smoked. Teddy smiled and ran a hand through his locks, brushing his hair behind his ears.
“What you two need is a middle man.”
“And I bet you have somebody in mind,” said Hunter.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Teddy explained he would give us ten dollars for every bicycle we brought him. For us it was a no-brainer. Stealing bikes would be more consistent and more lucrative. It was also safer. Now we didn’t have to worry about some kid buying a backpack from us one day and ratting us out the next. Every swiped bicycle earned us a fresh green picture of Alexander Hamilton. Hunter bought a bolt cutter, and we went to work the next night.
We were surprised how easy it was. People left their bicycles everywhere. All we had to do was find them, break the lock, and ride away. We stole Schwinns, Huffys, Magnas. I liked stealing bikes. There was the fear of getting caught while snapping the chains, that tight feeling in your gut as you worked and prayed, and then the crisp joy of peddling away. When I steered down the streets, into fog and darkness, I felt like a lost boy, invincible and young.
Teddy kept his word. He bought every bike we brought him. Soon we had green in our pockets, and at dusk we sat under the pepper tree and counted the money like the gangsters we’d watched on TV. Hunter taught me to cup a cig without the cherry burning me. We preferred menthols. I envied how Hunter could blow smoke rings. When the first rains came, the hill turned green and dark. Everything went slick with dew and the pepper tree grew lush and wild.
Usually, Hunter did the chopping and I played lookout. If I saw anyone, I made owl sounds. Hunter, in his youth, could work professionally and efficiently when he wanted to. It never took him too long to crack a padlock or a cable chain. But one night I felt bold. We had walked to the Thrifty drugstore near the little league fields. The parking lot was empty and quiet as outer space. Hunter pulled the bolt cutters out of his backpack. I told him to wait.
“I want to try,” I said.
Hunter glanced at me like he was trying to guess my weight. I waited, figuring he would say no, and laugh at me. He said nothing and handed the bolt cutter to me like one passes the silverware. He stood back and I went to the row of ten-speeds left overnight. This was to be my time. The bolt cutters were heavy and felt ancient, like some crude tool of the Vikings or the Goths. Hunter watched. I could barely lift the thing, and my arms trembled as I tried to push the handles together. Part of me was so embarrassed that I thought I was going to cry. A painful throb ran across my chest. My hands grew weak and sweaty. Then Hunter screeched like an owl. I looked but didn’t see anyone. Hunter called again. I couldn’t hold my grip anymore and I clenched my jaw as I tried to hack through. Hunter wailed one last hoot but I didn’t hear it.
“Hey! Get away from there. I’m calling the cops,” a man shouted. I didn’t know where the man’s voice was coming from. I never saw him. He must have been across the street, or in the shadows.
Hunter gently pushed me away and took the bolt cutter from me. I stepped back into the dark and watched my big brother go to work. I held my breath as I hid. I studied how Hunter moved, how he stood. My brother looked like a divine avenger, and I saw him use the bolt cutter as if it was a part of him. Hunter severed the chain in a swift click. He pulled the bicycle away from the rack. The man kept yelling at us. It was just noise and panic.
“I see you, you punk!”
“Quick,” said Hunter. He motioned for me to take the bike. “Time for a tour de France.”
I jumped on the seat and took off. One more snip of the bolt cutters, and Hunter was right behind me. We vanished out of the parking lot and toward home. I had so much adrenaline burning inside me that everything seemed warm and mute, and I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. I apologized to Hunter before we went to sleep.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get it next time.”
If Hunter said it, then it was true. The next day we sold the bikes to Teddy like we always did, and later Hunter coached me in using the bolt cutter in the privacy of our garage.
When we brought over the bicycles, Teddy usually invited us to watch television and to drink warm cans of Tab. Teddy slouched in a pea-soup colored chair while Hunter and I sat on his bed, the sheets crumpled and dirty. There was one window in Teddy’s attic room that he covered with a black curtain. His room smelled salty and slightly burnt. One afternoon he showed us a video of a man and woman having sex. The man started slapping and hitting the woman. They were both overweight and had dark hair. The footage was grainy. There wasn’t any sound. I started to feel gross watching it, like I had just eaten a pound of undercooked hamburger. I asked if we could stop watching the tape and if Teddy would take us for a ride in his Firebird. At first Teddy didn’t want to, but he agreed after a few whines. Teddy drove us to the Sweetwater Reservoir and back. The ride made me feel better. The car had black vinyl seats and power windows. Teddy had recently installed a cassette deck and we listened to AC/DC and Mötley Crüe. I didn’t know anyone who had a tape player in their car. Teddy showed us how he could rewind and fast forward. I liked the sound the machine made when he hit the eject button.
It was almost a perfect day. The three of us driving under the shade of eucalyptus with the windows down. September air roared in and out of the cab. Teddy’s hair fluttered around his face. My brother sat up front and Teddy told dirty jokes, his voice a near yell over the wind, always slapping Hunter’s knee on the punch-lines. That was the last good day.
Then, in late October, a few days before Halloween, Hunter said we should steal Teddy’s car stereo. Hunter and I sat on the hill. It was brisk, windy, and damp. Hunter pulled his knees to his chest. He sucked on a cigarette like he was trying to smoke it all in one drag.
“Why do you want to do that?” I said.
“Because we can get a lot of dough for a cassette deck like that. And he’s been ripping us off. How many bicycles have we brought him? You know what he does with them? He sells them to pawn shops in El Cajon, and believe me, he makes a lot more than ten bucks a pop.”
“Oh,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. It made sense. I believed him.
“Besides, the guy is a creep.”
I asked Hunter what he meant, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. He kept smoking. He inhaled with such force, his cheeks caved. The wind whipped his hair and he looked skinny and pale. Hunter never glanced at me. We stayed there, staring down the hill and over the town as a fog approached from the sea.
We waited until night. Mom cooked a casserole, and after dinner we watched Airwolf. Mom smoked and swigged vodka and ginger-ale. She went to bed early, and when we heard her snoring, we snuck out as silently as we could. Hunter brought a screwdriver and a hammer. The streets lay deserted and black. Teddy’s Firebird waited in the driveway. Hunter and I went straight to it. We stood before the car like we had never seen anything like it. I ran my fingers across the hood, tracing the outlines of the bird’s wings. The metal felt cool. Hunter tried the doors. They were locked.
“No matter,” he said. “You keep watch for me. If you see anyone coming, yell.”
Hunter shook his head like he was confused. He let out a sigh and smashed in the driver’s side window with the hammer. The glass shattered in a hundred shards and grains. Hunter tossed the hammer to the side, reached in, and unlocked the door. He went to work. I kept watch.
I saw a light go on inside Teddy’s house. A dog began to bark. I told Hunter to hurry.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” he said.
I watched my brother. His legs dangled through the open door, his Keds scraping and kicking the cement. Just seconds before the front door flew open, just seconds before someone yelled an inaudible shout at us, just seconds before it would have been too late, Hunter leapt out of the car with the stereo in hand. We didn’t say anything. We just ran. We didn’t even run in a good direction, not towards home, just away. Our legs moved so fast, I feared I’d fall and somersault across the blacktop.
Hunter and I kept running. We sprinted up the hill to the lone California pepper tree at the peak. When he stopped, we collapsed and wheezed, our lungs like bags of lava. My throat ran hot and dry. After a while, we sat upright but didn’t say anything. Hunter smoked three cigarettes in the time he usually smoked one.
“Motherfucker,” he said.
When he finished the last cigarette, he picked up the stereo with one hand, wires dangling between his fingers and down his wrists like dead worms or cut-open veins. He held it as if it fascinated and disgusted him. I tried to look at my brother. It was too dark to really see him. The moon hid behind the tree. The wind blew over the hilltop, and it wailed in my ears. But I realized it wasn’t the wind weeping. It was my brother.
“Promise me you’ll never go over to Teddy’s,” he said.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.
“Promise me, damn it.”
“Okay, I promise. I swear.”
Hunter stood. He threw the stereo against the tree. I heard a ting of metal crack and break. Hunter stepped forward and began stomping on the tape deck. He shouted and cursed. Hunter didn’t stop until it splattered into useless electronics and smithereens. I’d never seen him like that and it scared me. I stayed seated and watched. When Hunter stopped, he kicked at what was left and came toward me. His arms rose and fell, slapping against his sides.
“Well, that’s all gone now.”
“I thought we were going to sell it.”
“I changed my mind.”
Before Hunter could sit, or take another breath, before our eyes even saw him, we knew someone was there. He marched over the crest of the hill, the top of his shoulders and his head gleaming white like bone. A silhouette of a man. His features black and blank.
We didn’t yell or rush away. I don’t remember if we said anything at all. When Teddy got to the top, instead of coming to us, he went to what was left of his car’s cassette player. He toed it a little, as if to make sure an animal was dead. He turned and stared at us. I couldn’t see his face in the dark.
I wish I could say a lot of things, like we dashed into wilderness and cover, or that Hunter put up a worthy fight, or even that Teddy had been fair in his beatings. I wish I could want for something grander than that. I should wish for love or justice or triumphant horns. But I’d settle for escape, or maybe a solid strike or punch, a good blow to the temple, a judo throw, or a grappling lock. Any of those would do.
Hunter couldn’t even defend himself. My brother was skinny. Teddy had height and muscle. Teddy had speed. By the time Teddy had his hands around Hunter’s neck, I’d jumped behind a tumbleweed. I lay there in mud and watched and did nothing. I didn’t want to be hurt. All I could do was watch and hold my breath.
Teddy held Hunter’s shirt with one hand and slapped my brother with the other. He shook Hunter and shoved him to the ground. Teddy kicked Hunter in the stomach. My brother tried to crawl, but Teddy kicked him again. He aimed for my brother’s gut, his ribs and chest. Hunter didn’t whimper. He didn’t make any noise.
The moon began to rise over the pepper tree and its glow, dull and milky, glazed the hill. Teddy and Hunter both had auras of frost. It wasn’t a full moon but it felt bright and strong. Teddy stood over my brother. He said something I couldn’t hear. I wanted to go and help. I wanted to run away. I stayed still. I did nothing.
Teddy said something else and laughed. Moonlight reflected off his blond hair. He got behind Hunter. He shoved my brother’s face into the dirt. And then it happened. Teddy pulled at my brother’s jeans, he grabbed the waistband and yanked his pants and shorts down to his calves, exposing Hunter’s buttocks. Teddy kept shoving my brother’s face into the soil. A cold wind roared over everything. Teddy undid his zipper. I saw him take out his penis. My brother’s arms flailed in the dust like fighting snakes. I didn’t know it could be done like that. At least not to boys. Teddy held him down the entire time.
That night I could see everything that would occur in Hunter’s life: his difficulty keeping employment, his stretches of depression, his drug abuse, his failures with women, his permanent change of attitude from confidence to fear. I saw Teddy’s future too, but it was already there. Never leaving his parents’ house, always working low-paying jobs, indulgence in alcohol and pornography. I saw it all. The past, the present, and the future, or, perhaps, the lack of it, in beams of moonlight.
When he was done, Teddy shoved himself off Hunter and stood. He zipped his Levis. Hunter didn’t really move. He lay on the ground. His jeans stayed scrunched around his knees. My brother reached out and gripped fistfuls of earth.
Teddy turned and scanned the hill. He was looking for me. I stayed low and behind the tumbleweed. For a second I thought he’d spotted me. He kept his gaze in my direction. Maybe he did see me. If he did, he didn’t say anything. The wind came strong and cold. My legs felt frozen in the mud. Teddy said one last thing to Hunter and hiked down the hill.
After a while, Hunter got up. I watched him try to clean himself, and I went to him when he finished. It was quiet. Hunter squatted on his knees. He kept his head low, almost as if in prayer. He buttoned his pants.
“Hunter,” I said.
“Go away.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he’d made me a man and that I should be grateful.” His shoulders slumped forward. “We’re not telling anyone about this.”
Hunter stood. He wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. The moon was bright, and from the top of the hill you could see most of the town, the near-empty streets under the street lamps and neon signs for gas, food, and beer.
“But Hunter —”
Hunter grabbed my arms, shook me, and put his face close to mine. I smelled his sweat and his breath and the dry soil in his hair. He didn’t seem like Hunter, not the brother I knew. Spit clung to his lips and his eyes were red and wet.
“I’m sorry, I —”
“Quint, we are never telling anyone about this,” he said. “Never. Got it? This never happened.”
“I won’t ever tell. Not ever.”
He shoved me and didn’t say anything else. I watched him walk down the hill toward home. I kept my eyes on him until he disappeared.
I looked out at my town. I saw all types of lights in the distance. Lights from traffic signals, radio towers, and from behind the windows where people worked and where people lived. There were stars too, and the stars shined above everything else. The blue, yellow, white, and green specks of fire were like a million godless eyes. They were all watching me, judging my actions and my crimes, knowing just what had been done and what had been stolen.
