Roger the Thief

The trip to Brooklyn was pretty smooth. As expected, Nino and I played games, went out eating (Cheesecake Factory was absolutely terrible, both service and food), and I was even able to swing by Brooklyn Mike’s house and hang with him for a while, getting hooked on Kitchen Nightmares. All in all, it was a good trip. All except for a phone call from my mom Rita.

I had sent Rita a check for $195, her August profits from property Chi minus the cost of the $205 water bill. She wanted to know why it was only $195 (even though I wrote the reason on the memo of the check). I had to explain water bills and how they must be paid every three months. Then she asked why she hadn’t received a check all year, but it was the way she said it that caught my attention. Whenever Rita wants to accuse me of something, she makes it sound so subtle that the average person wouldn’t notice the insult. For example, she would say something like, “I haven’t seen any money from the place in a while, but it’s okay. I’m okay. Don’t worry about it.” What she’s really saying is this: “You thieving bastard. I ask you to take care of my property and you end up stealing from me? Shame on you!” Once I realized what she was really saying, I was furious. Stealing? Me? From family?! The last time I ever stole from family was the Big Man on Campus incident over two decades ago.

I was in the 5th grade and, like most kids, obsessed over Nintendo’s Game Boy. I knew I could never afford it and I could never warrant the grades for my parents to buy me one, so I decided to steal the money. I woke up very early one morning, went into my mom’s purse, and took a large portion of what I later found out was the rent money: $436. That was enough for a Gameboy and a few games. The game store was closed before school, so I had to wait until after school to buy it. At school I was spending money like crazy. I bought girls’ lunch, paid $40 for someone’s Shinobi Tiger Electronics game, bought a ton of snacks for myself and a friend of mine. I really felt like the King of the PS 152 Annex. Then, during class, our principal Mrs. Bryant announces on the loud speaker:

Mrs. Bryant: Mr. Roger Dodger. Please report to the principal’s office. Mr. Dodger to the principal’s office. Your mother is here to see you.

Class: OOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

That walk to the principal’s office was torture and a million thoughts raced through my head. My legs felt numb as I mentally stored as many lies as I could for what I figured would be an inquisition. When I got to her office, my mom was sitting across from Mrs. Bryant with a cold look on her face.

Me (like an idiot): Hi Mommy. How’s everything?

Rita: …

Mrs. Bryant: Have a seat. Roger, your mother says she’s missing some money from her purse. Do you know anything about it?

Me (like an even bigger idiot): Um… no not really. Are you sure you checked everywhere Mom?

Rita: …

Mrs. Bryant: I’ve been hearing about you spreading money all around school today. Like you the "Big Man on Campus"? Where are you getting all this money from?

Me: Um… I dunno.

Rita: You don’t know? Okay, no problem. (to Mrs. Bryant) I need to take my son out of school for the rest of the day. He has to help me look for the money.

Mrs. Bryant: I understand.

Mrs. Bryant gave me a look and shook her head, as if she was never gonna see me again. We got as far as the staircase when she finally slapped the living shit out of me until I confessed that I stole the money. For some stupid reason, I thought that leaving a bunch of $1 bills rolled up in a $20 bill in her purse would defer suspicion, as if she wouldn’t notice over $400 missing.

Now, that was 23 years ago. Over two decades and she thinks I’m the same guy? Women and their damned memories. It made me so mad that I went on a massive 3-minute rant. I broke down how each month’s profits were spent, from the furnace bills of last winter to the money used during her trip to Nigeria to the quarterly water bills to the sewer pipe that needed replacing at property Chi. I even told her about the money I had to take out of my own pocket to pay for repairs that the profits couldn’t cover. By the end of the rant she was apologizing profusely, saying that she’s just “an old woman”. Yeah, you’re not that old. Nevertheless, I let it go and we ended things on a good note and a few jokes. She now knows never to question me about this again, although I'm almost positive this will be a short-lived lesson.

You know, I now realize why Rex said “Good luck” when I first told him I was managing my mom’s property in Smalltown. I never want to do business with family again. Rita has a property here that takes care of itself and makes money (not much money, but at least it doesn’t lose money). She gets a check whenever there’s profit and doesn’t have to lift a finger, yet she still complains. Ugh, never again. Accusing me of stealing really offended my ego. Me? Steal? From you? Do you  really think I need to steal anything from anyone? Am I so petty? Ugh. Stealing rent money when I’m nine years old is one thing. Stealing even a dollar when I’m 32 is much different, and her accusations were just another example of how money changes perceptions and relationships—family members especially. I thought that maybe, someday, I would tell someone in my family besides Rex about what I’m really doing here. Screw that.