The Zen Burglar

There was once a man who supported his family as a burglar, and by so doing he kept them out of poverty. His son loved his father and noticed he was getting old and gray, and not as quick thinking. The father was often forgetful, and his stories were aimless, trailing off unfinished. The son began to fret about the welfare of his sister and mother should his father not return some morning, but he didn’t have any trade skills or education and knew he couldn’t support the family off any unskilled labor he might find. He knew that his father must soon retire or risk the likely punishment he had so long avoided.

One morning the son woke to find his father laying out on the couch in the living room, badly bruised and cut up. “Dad!” the son cried. “What happened to you?” His voice weighted with concern.

The father explained that he had forgotten the way out of a mansion uptown after looting a study and wandered into a servant’s quarters where the man awoke and grabbed him, tying him to a chair before leaving to call the police. He was able to break his bonds, but only just before the servant returned. His only hope for escape was the window, and he didn’t even have time to open. Footsteps approached the door. Throwing his body into and through the window, he crashed down into a hedge as glass rained down with him. He was able to run off and hide before his adrenaline wore off, and hid in a bush for half the night, slowly regaining enough strength to make it home as the first rays of day broke the black night into the calm highlights of gray shapes. But for all the effort he came home empty-handed. “It’ll be potatoes all week for dinner,” concluded the father with a reassuring smile.

The son worried even more than before, and as his father healed and planned his next job, the son resolved to learn his father’s work. “Father, it is time for me to take over for you,” said the son. “Will you take me with you on your next job and teach me?”

The father frowned, but acquiesced.

Two days later, father and son woke at midnight and set off uptown to where the mansions of business men lined the streets in gated rows. Stopping across the street from a stunning Victorian mansion behind a stone wall, the father pointed with his thumb. They approached together cautiously.

The father sent the son up the wall first, finding leverage to propel himself upward by spidering in a wedge created between the smooth wall and a decorative protuberance. Perching himself at the top, he felt the muscles in his arms and legs shiver from the exertion. He reached into his knapsack for a rope and threw it down to his father. The father was up quick and then traded the rope to the other side for both to descend into the courtyard.

They crept with baited breath to a side-door of the mansion. The father took out a screwdriver and cutting pliers from a small pouch at his waist. Working quickly, he removed the cover to the security box. As he performed the delicate maneuvers he whispered instructions to his son about deciphering the maze of wires, what to cut first and why, trusting the route of wires and not their colors. Finishing this, he traded those tools with a set of lock picks in his kit. Whispering again, he described the tumbler mechanism of the lock to his son as he handed over the picks.
The son struggled to understand the feeling his father described, frustration beading on his upper lip. Minutes passed before he began to feel the tools etch a map in his brain of the mechanism. Biting his lip as he turned with the lock and click, it unlocked. He turned the handle.

They were inside. Father led son slowly, pausing to listen every few steps, until they reached an interior door, signaled by the father. The son gently twisted the knob, but the door was locked. Gently brushing his son aside, the father stepped forward with his picks and had the door unlocked in seconds, leaving his picks in the lock as they stepped into the room.

The father produced a very dim flashlight and scanned it around for a quick image of the room. It was a walk-in closet as big as their living room back home. On the left was the man’s side with suits lined up on hangers in every shade of blue, grey, and brown with five or six black suits at the end of the row. There were shelves of shirts, shelves of pants, and rows of shoes neatly lined up beneath the suits, shiny with polish except for the suede. Dividing one long row of luxury from another was a zebrawood chest of drawers, on top of which sat a gilt mirror that reflected the dim flashlight back to a row of fine watches before it.

The right side was laid out the same, but bore the striking rainbow of women’s garments and were ordered by both color and length so that the effect was like iridescent chimes being played in waves. Instead of a chest of drawers, the woman’s side of this immense closet was split by a velvet cushioned chair tucked into a vanity table where she could dress at her leisure and match jewelry and makeup with her fine fabrics until she was an inspiration to be painted. Against the far wall was another door, likely leading to the master bedroom.

The son was agog at the sight, not having before glimpsed a decadent socialite’s sanctum. It was a brilliant show of wealth, even in the dim light, but it only lasted a few seconds. After scanning the room a second time with the flashlight to get a snapshot, the father clicked it off and moved to the chest of drawers on the left. The son followed his father’s lead, moving slowly by touch and by memory to the vanity on the right, removing a silk bag from his waistband as he did so. Quietly he began filling his bag with jewelry and makeup, careful to place each softly inside.

The son heard his father’s soft footsteps walk out the door and began to do the same when he heard the latch click and his father’s picks deftly turn the lock till it clicked into the frame. He couldn’t believe it! He rose his hand to knock, his voice filled his mouth, but he caught himself and extinguished the noise inside him with an anxious exhale. He was trapped in the closet.

*  *  *

Though the son didn’t know it, the father leisurely made his way to the front door and out, tripping the alarm as he did so. The father flew through the yard as lights leapt on throughout the mansion. He climbed the wall with the rope they had left and took it with him as he descended into the night on his way home.

*  *  *

The son could hear quick footsteps above him and he froze in place. He could make out a man’s voice from the door opposite talking to someone, calming them. His attention focused on the voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. There was the whispering shuffle of blankets and the sound of a drawer sliding, followed by a dull and heavy thump of picking up something solid and of weight. He heard the unmistakable sound of a metal spring locking into place.

As quietly as he could manage, the son faded into the hanging suits in the closet, nearly tripping on a pair of shoes as he do so. The shoes! He took off his own pair and slipped into the dress shoes beneath him. He leaned diagonally against the back wall so that his whole body vanished behind the suits, his feet organized into one pair of the neat line of footwear.

The door to the closet opened and the light flicked on like a shout. The son glimpsed a man enter. The man was holding a pistol.

The son held his breath but his heart was beating so hard and hot in his temples that it was as loud to him as a drum. He could feel every muscle shine at him, heat up and demand movement, betray him like a lover, but he kept stock-still. His will to survive soothed his body’s demands.

Another man burst into the room from the same door father and son had entered. The two men surprised each other. The one that had just entered held a bat ready to swing and, in return, was pointed at with the muzzle of a gun. Before the recognition, there was fear and anger in both sets of eyes that cast shadows over pinched brows.

The sliver of this scene built into the son’s thoughts as he fought back the panic in his breath. He tried not to look, afraid his eyes might be felt.

“Is anything missing sir?”

“I only just got here. You notice anything?”

“Front door was open. I doubt he’s still here. He must have fled when the alarm sounded.”

“Or he’s still here.”

There was a brief pause. “God dammit!”

“What is it, sir?”

“My watches! All my watches are gone! And Rebecca’s side,” the voice fell from anger to exasperation in waves, “Look! Her pearls are missing and I don’t even know what else. God dammit, those were my mother’s pearls. We’ll have to do an inventory for the insurance company. Did you call the police?”

“Yes sir, that is, I will sir. Just a second sir.”

“Good good. Go check every room, in every closet, under every bed. If that thief is here, you find him.” They swept the garments with their hands as their eyes searched over and under the closet they were in. “Looks clear in here. Now go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here, take this and feel free to use it against this rat.”

The son hard swallowed stony thought cramps and shifted his weighty length to avoid the cramping that climbed his legs. The gentle wall-brush was as loud to him as an ice grinder and he froze as his anxiety flooded his brain and made him dizzy spinsters. He took a breath as cacophonous as a wind howl, but neither was noticed by the gentlemen. They were moving about like people in a bathroom. They finally left the room.

“Rebecca! You wait there until we know the house is clear. I’m locking you in. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Ok, Henry,” the woman called back through the door, “but please hurry.”

The lights snapped off again and the son could hear the door click behind the men and then lock in place like a slap. He felt free to suck breath again but dared not move more than necessary. “Still,” the son thought, “being in the room alone again, swimming in these clothes is an enormous relief, even if I am just a fish hungry for hooks.” He itched his butt and pulled on his chin. He had to come up with a plan. The door was locked, he knew that by the sound, but he might be able to pick it, but dang, he didn’t have any picks. He shifted his weight again and his eyes fell to the bag in his hand.

“Was it worth it? Even if I don’t get caught, was it worth it?” he thought as he peered inside the bag. The partially used make-up probably wasn’t worth anything, but there was nice jewelry in there. Even in the dark, the jewelry seemed to twinkle expense and he was filled with the sense of being a star god. He put his hand in the bag and felt the objects slide between his fingers as he poked at thought bubbles. This little bag meant good food. “Either way, I’m stuck in this closet,” he thought. Something sharp poked at him inside of the bag and he pulled it out.

Though his eyes had begun to adjust to the low light, he couldn’t quite make out what he was holding. He brought it all the way to his nose before he identified it as a jeweled broach with a long set-pin. He thought of the lockpicks, traced a brain photo of his father’s picks over the set-pin – if he bent it a little this way and little that… but he’d need another. He dug around in the bag again, feeling each thing before sliding it over to one side of the bag. No luck. But maybe he could find a couple of hairpins in the woman’s vanity. That would work.

The son leaned out from his hiding place. He knew that no one was there, but when would they return? He felt tethered to the security of the closet. He leaned a little further. He inched out like a frightened mouse under an owl’s moon. He exhaled the breath that made him dizzy and crept like a child’s monster over to the vanity. Within seconds he had found what he was looking for.

“Darling!” a man’s voice yelled through the house.

The son froze where he was, one foot raised off the ground to step to his previous hiding spot.

“Yes love! Come heeerrre Henry, come here!” The footsteps raced down the hall.

The son let his foot down and moved as fast to the far door as quiet footsteps would allow, slower than furrowed forehead sweat to concerned chin drip.

“What is it my love?!” The man was already in the bedroom with his wife.

“I heard someone in the closet! I think he’s still in there.”

“He can’t be honey. Calm down.”

The son had his makeshift tools out, bending the broach pin to fit the lock.

“Just look, just look!”

“Ok Rebecca, I will.”

The son had the picks in the lock, thoughts fled him like rabbits.

“Wait Henry!”

“What dear?”

The tumbler anchor slid with the pick’s pressure.

“Take this with you.” Footsteps retreated back into the room.

“Thank you.”

The son turned the knob with the picks, moving his whole body down and to the right with the twisting knob. It opened.

The son stepped through the cracked door and eased it back as the opposite door opened and the man stepped inside. The light flipped back on. The son could see it under the closed door behind him.

“I don’t see anyone Rebecca!” the man shouted over his shoulder.

The son inhaled.

“Be thorough!” screamed the woman.

The man began shuffling through the clothes.

The son ran to the front door, opened it, stepped out, and with the effort of an invalid, quietly closed the door behind him. He turned around and faced the stretch of lawn before the gate. He ran like he was being stung. There was an iron door at the gate, he could see it. “I can almost taste it,” he thought.

The second he arrived, lights erupted on him. He tried the door. It was locked. Blue and red flashing lights caused him to shield his eyes with his burglar bag.

“Open the gate,” a projected voice commanded.

“Right away sir.” The son’s shoulders slumped and he groped along the wall, looking for the switch for the electronic gate.

“Open the gate,” the projected voice commanded again.

“One second sir!” the son yelled back. He found a switch and flipped it. The gate slid on gears open.

The son approached the police car as it entered the mansion grounds.

“Are you the master of this house?” the officer asked.

“No, sir. He’s inside.”

“Alright, go back to your quarters. I’ll take this from here.”

The son looked at the bag in his hand. The officer followed his gaze and looked at it too.

“Yes sir, I’ll do that.”

The police officer nodded and drove up to the house.

The son walked out of the open gate and went home as quickly and carefully as he could.

*  *  *

“Why did you do that to me dad!?” The father was sitting on the steps up to the front door as the son came home.

“Shhhhhh. You’ll wake your mother. So, you were successful?” The father nodded at the bag.

The son was stunned. “Yuh yeah,” he stammered with total irritation.

“Tell me,” the father paused, “how did you manage it?”

The son began to recount the adventure with staccato syllables, but as the story ran through, and as his father’s face expressed in terror, then in wonder, incredulity and so on; and as the father goaded him with questions and comments, the son began to tell excitedly and even with bravado about the daring escape – till the son softened once again to his old man.

“There,” the father said, “now you know the art.”

“Also… nice shoes.”