Chapter 14 ~ A New Addiction

I stole over twenty cars in the three years after the dead man in Washington Square. Since I had first felt the adrenalin rush of playing cat and mouse with the police.

Since the birth of my new addiction.

I kept count on my bed frame, where the headboard was attached to its post. The marks were small but enough for me to know that they were there. Sometimes, I ran my fingers over them when I couldn’t sleep; autohypnosis, my own version of counting sheep.

*     *     *

The first time I jacked a car, it was on the spur of the moment. I’d long since stopped stealing for my habit; long since waved goodbye to anything that I couldn’t buy from the money they left for me every month.

But the rush of the stealing, that stayed with me. The street-sleeper’s clothes, the murder in Washington Square, the socialite choosing to slum it, all the others who have come and gone along that dangerous path; pure adrenalin and the fear of getting caught.

Impossible to give away for good.

So when I was walking down forty-second towards the UN building, towering over the East River, and I came across a beat up old Chevy parked outside a hotel, engine running, no sign of its owner, I was in the driver’s seat before I could think about it. Gunning the engine, heading off up the street, cresting a rise towards First, spotting the running driver as a speck in my rear-view before asphalt cut him off behind me. From the UN, I dropped onto the FDR around the south of the island, crossing from lane to lane but not really pushing the speed limit, still wondering what the hell I was doing, expecting the police to appear in my rear-view at any moment, waving at me to pull over, sirens blaring, lights strobing, blinding me until I had no choice but to concede the chase. I got as far as the Hudson parkway at Seventy-ninth, where I pulled over by the basketball courts, leaving the keys in the car and walking away; letting someone else steal it from there, letting them get caught.

I was shaking with the thrill of it, the purity of the rush.

And all the time, careening through my head: what the fuck are you doing?

Since then, it had been a near-regular occurrence. Almost but not quite enough to establish a pattern by which anyone could track me.

Paranoia is a great thing when it comes to protecting yourself.

Manhattan was not a good place to steal cars. Too many stop lights, too many people, too much traffic. After the fifth car, anxiety began to kick in. Manhattan may have been a waste of time but New Jersey? That was a different thing all together.

New Jersey.

So close over the river, so ripe for the picking.

No-one in their right mind left Manhattan to steal a car in New Jersey. All attention was on crime travelling in the opposite direction.

Which is why I started crossing the Hudson out to New Jersey.

It was more difficult to spot idling cars outside of the city, of course. Much more difficult. The average Jersey Joe didn’t pull up and leave the engine running while he picked up some smokes or a bottle of booze.

Didn’t stop me trying, though.

Once I got to my tenth car, a PT Cruiser, I’d worked out a pretty healthy rhythm.

Gas stations. Near freeways.

I started using traffic.com to check river crossings after sitting for forty minutes at the George Washington Bridge, watching traffic queued with no movement, weighing up whether it was worth making a dash through the E-ZPass lane, knowing that the cars were just as blocked on the far side, knowing that no matter what I did, I was in a stolen car. Better to get out and run. Which is what I did. Hoping no-one would remember enough about me to relay to the police. I couldn’t even cross the bridge on foot; too easy for them to get me at either end. Like I say, paranoia is a great defence mechanism. I walked for miles before heading back to Manhattan; chalking it up to experience.

Once I got into my flow, though, I found it took less than an hour to spot the idiot who left their keys in the car while they went into the gas station, most of which were pre-pay by this time. There was always one who went back in to buy a little something extra or use the bathroom.

Then I’d swoop; in the car, out of the lot before anyone had chance to notice.

It all came down to the experience, the planning.

Never pick a car that’s expensive enough to have satellite tracking.

Realised that after the fourth one.

Counted my luck once more.

I started to think about gas station close-circuit monitors after the seventh.

And about police reports after the ninth; fantasies of televised chases filmed by the cameras concealed under the hoods of pursuit cars.

Police are seeking a Caucasian male, mid-twenties, who waits until drivers enter the gas station before stealing the unlocked car, keys in the ignition…

It all began to play through my mind.

I scattered my net wide, kept a list of where I’d been, hidden under my mattress; incriminating evidence should I ever be caught.

Eventually I decided to adopt a disguise of sort; cloaking myself in this country’s barely concealed prejudice.

I had Ivvy to thank for the idea; though she had no idea about my new addiction.

One night at her apartment, she’d been drunk and posturing about society and all its ills, quoting from Bowling For Columbine that the media fed America images of black men as criminals and set a stereotype that rap reinforced to the point of self-fulfilling prophecy. So that when people saw black they thought criminal.

So the next time I went to Jersey, I dressed in hip-hop gear, black hat, jacket and trousers, basketball vest underneath, adopting a walk that no white boy has ever learnt to perfect. I chose sunglasses at night. Dim lots; shadows doing my work.

Enough of a stereotype for the camera; grainy evidence of surveillance television.

If the police were looking for anyone, it was a black guy who stole cars from isolated Jersey gas stations while the driver went back in after filling up.

Like they’d pay any attention to that.

My new addiction.

And, boy, was I addicted.

Chapter 15 ~ Family Rules – Part IV

Chapter 13 ~ Memories Fade

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