say I learned my lesson.
Because it’s really horrible inside. All the freedom that makes burglary attractive is taken away from you, and people are forever telling you what to do. The guards are unpleasant, and your fellow prisoners are no bargain, either. I mean, consider what they did to get locked up there. All in all, I have to say you meet a better class of people on the D train.
And you won’t read Proust, either, or War and Peace, or any of the worthy works you’ve promised yourself you’d get around to if you only had the time. You’ll have plenty of time, but it’s noisy inside, noisy all the time, with people yelling and banging things and doors slamming. If Oz had shown that aspect of prison life realistically, nobody could have heard the snappy dialogue. The background roar would have drowned it out.
The right or wrong of it aside, burglary just doesn’t make sense. I know I should give it up, and believe me, I’ve tried. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve sworn off. Once I actually managed to stay away from it for a couple of years, and then I knocked off an apartment, and I was hooked again. It’s an addiction, a compulsion, and so far I haven’t found a 12-Step program that addresses it. I suppose I could start up a chapter of Burglars Anonymous, and we wouldn’t even have to find a church willing to rent us a meeting place. We could just break into a loft somewhere.
Until then, the best I can do is remember the lesson I learned in prison. It wasn’t the one they hoped to teach me—Thou Shalt Not Steal—but a pragmatic variation thereof—Don’t Get Caught.
The way to avoid getting caught is to keep risk to a minimum, and the way to manage that is to size up each potential job in advance and do as much planning and preparation as possible. Consider the Mapes house, if you will. I’d been provided in advance with some useful information about Mapes—the location of his safe, the likelihood that it would contain cash, and the happy knowledge that it was cash he hadn’t reported to the government, which meant he might very well choose not to report the burglary to the authorities. I’d established who lived in the house—just Mapes and his wife, his kids were grown and had long since moved away—and learned that Mr. and Mrs. Mapes had season tickets to the Met, and that’s where they’d be come Friday night. I’d dropped by Lincoln Center—it’s just five minutes from my apartment—and determined that the opera they were seeing would keep them in their seats until close to midnight.
And then, two nights before the event, I’d gone up for a look-see. I’d assessed the locks and the alarm system, probed the defenses, and kept at it until I saw a way through them. Then I’d gone home, prepared to devote another two days to refining my plan and working out the details.
That didn’t mean nothing could go wrong. Here’s another maxim: Something can always go wrong. Either of the Mapeses could come down with a migraine and decide that it was no night for Mozart. Mapes’s daughter-in-law could have kicked her spouse out of the house—if he was a shitheel like his father, God knows she’d have ample cause—prompting the junior Mapes to come home with his tail, among other things, between his legs, ready to hole up in his old room until his wife came to her senses. I could let myself in and find him there, a former college athlete who still worked out regularly at the gym, and who’d lately added a course in martial arts, all the better to defend the family home against a hapless burglar.
I could go on, but you get the point. Something can always go wrong, but that doesn’t mean you just plunge blindly ahead, kicking in the first door you come to.
And here I was, on the prowl. Walking the darkened streets, gloves in one pocket, tools in another, risking life and liberty for no good reason. I knew what I was doing, and I damn well should have known better.
I was acting out, that’s what I was doing. I felt crummy because I didn’t have a girlfriend and I was leading a purposeless existence, and I wanted to do something to change my mood, and I didn’t have the urge to get drunk or chase women, somehow