is a full-time preschool teacher and a part-time spinning instructor, seems genuinely to care about me and stays over three or four nights a week, if I don’t have to work too late. She doesn’t know about my side business, and I haven’t ever had the urge to tell her. She still thinks one of my screenplays will sell and be produced and I’ll win an Oscar or at least a Golden Globe and then I will finally be able to take her to Spain and France, the two countries she has most wanted to visit since high school. I don’t see us going there any time soon, even if I have a second bank account into which I’ve now deposited a couple of thousand dollars, most of it money from the things I’ve taken from Renn Ivins and a few of the other actors I’ve worked with. My plan has been to use it to get Binocular Spectacular started so I can film one of my screenplays if no one else will. Sometimes, to get ahead, to step out of the rapids that are rushing you toward nowhere but death, you have to do a thing or two that wouldn’t make your parents or the president or your therapist proud.
I learned in high school that character is fate, but I can’t remember who said it. At the time, I thought, Sure, whatever. Now, no surprise, it’s a little more complicated. You’re the person you are. I don’t like it at all that Renn said this. It might be the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. Especially because he must think he’s right.
A few months ago, probably to guilt her into visiting, Larissa’s mother sent her a copy of the newspaper from the small Wisconsin town where her family still lives. Larissa spent half an hour reading it, and before she tossed it in the recycling bin, she pointed out something on the last page. It was the town’s police blotter, laughably benign with its reports of bounced checks and littering citations and high-schoolers blowing off stop signs. There was also a small section that should have said “Stolen Goods,” but someone hadn’t proofread very carefully and the heading was printed as “Stolen Gods.”
“I wonder what gods were stolen last week?” Larissa said, chuckling. “What will their owners do without them? Will their goldfish start barking? Will their rosebushes grow legs and run off?”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “You’re strange.”
“I hope whoever stole those gods knows what he’s gotten himself into,” she said. “Their phone bill alone will probably be enough to put him in the poorhouse. How much does it cost to call Mount Olympus or wherever it is they live?”
“And the grocery bill. Nectar’s expensive.”
“If you ever want to steal a god,” she said, looking at me intently, “make sure you consider the possible consequences. At least when you buy something, you get a receipt and can return it.”
She saved that section and taped it onto my refrigerator, a small gray square from Beaver Creek’s weekly newspaper that’s supposed to remind me to laugh, not to take myself too seriously. I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t know about the goods I’ve stolen because I’ve been careful about where I hide everything. I might only be a second or two away from getting caught every time that I take a hat or a shoehorn or a pair of cuff links from the set, but at home, it’s not hard to keep this business to myself. If I didn’t take these props, I wouldn’t be able to pay all of my bills each month—rent and student loans the worst of it. Hardly anyone tells you in film school that you’re not likely to make any money after you graduate, not for a long fucking time, if ever. Or if people do tell you this, you ignore them. It’s like getting married—you’ve heard how many couples end up filing for divorce, but you go ahead and get married anyway, thinking your marriage will be different. Maybe it will. But more likely it won’t.
In any case, there are worse things than stealing a couple of hats and cuff links to get by. And it’s not like I’m some slob who goes home and stares at the TV every night until it’s time to go to bed. When I’m not too tired and Larissa and I aren’t going out, I sit down at my desk and write for