Steal this Blog
Last night I performed at the story telling show, Brutal Honesty. This month’s topic was shoplifting and stealing. I admit, despite my father’s repeated advice to “never ever ever ever admit to anything; immediately ask for a lawyer; make them prove it; and, never ever ever write anything down,” that I have in the past stolen. However, I have ethics. Even in my youth at the pinnacle of my shoplifting career I only stole from big corporate stores, never from ‘mom and pop’ shops and never from individuals. Unless you count my roommate’s Oreo cookies I’ve been eating all week. But he doesn’t clean anything, so it’s not so much theft as it is non-taxable payment I re-appropriate from the fridge. Yeah, he puts his cookies in the fridge. I guess that’s better than in the bathroom so I shouldn’t complain.
The following is a story about me stealing subway rides.
I went to college in Boston. Boston has a subway system much like New York City except that New York uses subway cars sometimes referred to as trains and Boston uses two car trolleys from the 1920s that travel underground. In other words you could crawl on your ass backwards and get there faster. In the 1990s, when I attended Emerson, the T cost 85 cents a ride. I refused to pay this. Why? Because I pay friggin’ taxes and the taxes go to the transportation department for roads and public transit—not to mention that ridiculous “Big Dig” project- (as of this blog post is still not complete.) So if I’m already paying why must I pay again? And, I’m a cheap, soulless creature who enjoys a little thrill now and again.
I studied acting in College and learned my useful and economically viable skills, Skills I put to use to defraud the Massachusetts Transit Authority. Every time I road the T I’d put on a little show. I’d go into my pocket pretend to pull out a token and then slip the imaginary token into the slot while my other hand pulled back the turnstile. This action would create a gap that my heftier college frame could squeeze through. Later in life I’d learn this technique is called the “flip back.”**
So I spent 3 and half years not paying for the T and life was grand. The summer before my senior year I met a boy who lived in NJ—Bill. I dated this Bill. We have since broken up and people tell me to move on. But I’m not ready to move-on. We only broke up seven years ago. I need to time to mourn. You tell me where I’m going to find another 39 year old, balding, unemployed dude who lives with his grandmother? Where? He’s male perfection, except for his hands. His hands were disproportionately small. He had these awful tiny hands on a normal size body. But not like stumps with fingers, normal looking hands just really really small. To watch him eat a sandwich or drive a car was nauseating. The sandwich looked humongus in those tiny hands of his. When he’d get down to the crust his small hands up near his face made his head look big. It was like he was 5ft 9inch dwarf. Freak. How could a doctor let his parents take him home with those hands, put him back in he’s not done developing. And I loved him. Then he left me for a girl with yellow teeth.
My parents thought he was a drug dealer cause he never worked but had money. I was like please he could never be in sales. You know you’re socially awkward when you can’t sell a product that sells itself.
Anyway Bill came up to visit me one weekend while I was in School. He was 31 at the time and had to stay over in my dorm. That embarrassing debacle is yet another story. Just a word to the wise, if you’re anywhere near your thirties don’t date a person living in a dormitory.
I decided to take my tiny-handed, gentleman caller out on the Boston town. We headed down into the subway station. I begin my show of paying for the transit workers. Bill does not go and buy a token he follows me to the turnstile. The man was 31 years old, I figured he’d know how to buy a token to ride a subway at this point in his life. Next thing I know he’s awkwardly, stepping over the turnstile. Tripping and falling, making a complete spectacle. The token seller guy comes out of the booth and points at us, “Hey you.” We look at each other then we look at the guy then back at each other. I’m like, “Let’s go” we bolt down the steps to the trolley that just arrived. Next thing you know the token guy is chasing the trolley--through the tunnel! He starts banging on the door. “Hey you! You must pay the fare!” The dude runs through the tunnel to the next stop where he boards the train and demands his 85 cents for the ride. Trust fund Bill gives him $1 and says keep the change.
**a couple of years after graduation I went up to Boston to visit cronies. I still refused to pay for the T. Having been away from the city for awhile I was off my game because I got caught not paying by a lady working the token booth. She came out of her booth and yelled, “You didn’t pay.” “Yes, I did.” (Never admit to anything.) “No you didn’t you did a ‘flip back.’” There’s a name for my maneuver. No way. Wow. “No, I paid the fare,” I protested. A line of customers began to form at her booth. She didn’t know what to do—deal with me or do her job. She groaned, sighed, and let me go in order to sell tokens.
The following is a story about me stealing subway rides.
I went to college in Boston. Boston has a subway system much like New York City except that New York uses subway cars sometimes referred to as trains and Boston uses two car trolleys from the 1920s that travel underground. In other words you could crawl on your ass backwards and get there faster. In the 1990s, when I attended Emerson, the T cost 85 cents a ride. I refused to pay this. Why? Because I pay friggin’ taxes and the taxes go to the transportation department for roads and public transit—not to mention that ridiculous “Big Dig” project- (as of this blog post is still not complete.) So if I’m already paying why must I pay again? And, I’m a cheap, soulless creature who enjoys a little thrill now and again.
I studied acting in College and learned my useful and economically viable skills, Skills I put to use to defraud the Massachusetts Transit Authority. Every time I road the T I’d put on a little show. I’d go into my pocket pretend to pull out a token and then slip the imaginary token into the slot while my other hand pulled back the turnstile. This action would create a gap that my heftier college frame could squeeze through. Later in life I’d learn this technique is called the “flip back.”**
So I spent 3 and half years not paying for the T and life was grand. The summer before my senior year I met a boy who lived in NJ—Bill. I dated this Bill. We have since broken up and people tell me to move on. But I’m not ready to move-on. We only broke up seven years ago. I need to time to mourn. You tell me where I’m going to find another 39 year old, balding, unemployed dude who lives with his grandmother? Where? He’s male perfection, except for his hands. His hands were disproportionately small. He had these awful tiny hands on a normal size body. But not like stumps with fingers, normal looking hands just really really small. To watch him eat a sandwich or drive a car was nauseating. The sandwich looked humongus in those tiny hands of his. When he’d get down to the crust his small hands up near his face made his head look big. It was like he was 5ft 9inch dwarf. Freak. How could a doctor let his parents take him home with those hands, put him back in he’s not done developing. And I loved him. Then he left me for a girl with yellow teeth.
My parents thought he was a drug dealer cause he never worked but had money. I was like please he could never be in sales. You know you’re socially awkward when you can’t sell a product that sells itself.
Anyway Bill came up to visit me one weekend while I was in School. He was 31 at the time and had to stay over in my dorm. That embarrassing debacle is yet another story. Just a word to the wise, if you’re anywhere near your thirties don’t date a person living in a dormitory.
I decided to take my tiny-handed, gentleman caller out on the Boston town. We headed down into the subway station. I begin my show of paying for the transit workers. Bill does not go and buy a token he follows me to the turnstile. The man was 31 years old, I figured he’d know how to buy a token to ride a subway at this point in his life. Next thing I know he’s awkwardly, stepping over the turnstile. Tripping and falling, making a complete spectacle. The token seller guy comes out of the booth and points at us, “Hey you.” We look at each other then we look at the guy then back at each other. I’m like, “Let’s go” we bolt down the steps to the trolley that just arrived. Next thing you know the token guy is chasing the trolley--through the tunnel! He starts banging on the door. “Hey you! You must pay the fare!” The dude runs through the tunnel to the next stop where he boards the train and demands his 85 cents for the ride. Trust fund Bill gives him $1 and says keep the change.
**a couple of years after graduation I went up to Boston to visit cronies. I still refused to pay for the T. Having been away from the city for awhile I was off my game because I got caught not paying by a lady working the token booth. She came out of her booth and yelled, “You didn’t pay.” “Yes, I did.” (Never admit to anything.) “No you didn’t you did a ‘flip back.’” There’s a name for my maneuver. No way. Wow. “No, I paid the fare,” I protested. A line of customers began to form at her booth. She didn’t know what to do—deal with me or do her job. She groaned, sighed, and let me go in order to sell tokens.
Comments