I wrote a paper once for a philosophy class that pretty much outlined all the reasons I could come up with, why most laws are fairly stupid. The entire concept of the law is stupid, in fact. Overall, I proved my point pretty well, although I was pretty sure I was bullshitting throughout most of it. I think most of my point was this: for every law, there are a billion exceptions. If you sit there and write them all down, and then try to enforce them, you end up with an infinite number of laws for an infinite number of people and situations, and it's a big old dysfunctional hassle.
There was a lot more to it than that, but that was a big part of it. I'm still pretty sure I had no idea what I was talking about. But nobody bothered refuting me.
Last night, Neil and I took D. out on a crime spree.
This is hilarious for a number of reasons, most of which center around D.'s usual character.
Now, Neil isn't exactly what I'd call a hardened criminal. Neil claims that he's not a criminal at all, because "criminals" get caught; "law-breakers" don't. But even that doesn't sound right to me. Neil's a mischief-maker. The kind of individual about whom my great-grandmother would have announced, "you are for SOMETHING!" But he's not an asshole about it. Like me, Neil appreciates good old-fashioned entertainment. If such entertainment is against the law, well, then, the law is stupid and ought to be broken, assuming nobody important is harmed. I suppose there's more to it than that, but that's an okay explanation for purposes of this entry.
D., on the other hand, has, at least for awhile, entertained notions of becoming a member of law enforcement. He is, as Neil puts it, a "goody-goody boy scout." D. isn't appalled or scandalized by, for example, his peers who happen to smoke marijuana, but he frequently refers to the substance as "drugs," and gets sort of wide-eyed and defensive whenever the subject arises. D. is one of those wonderfully naive individuals who does not differentiate between, say, marijuana and, like, acid. They're drugs, and that's all there is to it. D. also believes that the entire state of New York is a haven for hooligans and wickedness. That Neil and I are a couple of rough-and-tough badass kids who must have reformed a little bit once we'd moved to the Great Northwest and seen our first examples of trees.
Um... yeah.
So, the two of them are really quite a pair.
Me, I'm somewhere in the middle. I've enjoyed a bit of vandalism in my life -- mostly unsuccessful vandalism. Aaron and I especially used to engage in numerous mischief-making exploits. Once, we plastered a local nightclub with stickers promoting some band with a name like "Satan-a-delic" or something like that. We just liked the stickers, and didn't much like the nightclub or its owner. Another time, we scratched graffiti into a newly-laid sidewalk. And once, we threw a Snapple bottle off the top of a parking garage. Alas, the Satan-a-delic stickers were removed within a week or two, the sidewalk was slightly too dry to really be etched, and the Snapple bottle didn't even fucken break. Four stories, and it didn't break. It landed in a six-square-inch patch of grass, surrounded on all sides by concrete. Dammit. I suppose I've technically broken a couple of laws, and I generally commend people who break really stupid ones and get away with it. But I'm often too neurotic to do anything serious. I'm the sort of girl who would love to find a way to snag a couple grand out of a cash register of some wicked corporation, but who gets jumpy just sneaking into a fast-food place for a "free refill" of soda.
So, with Neil playing the expert, me playing the chickenshit sidekick, and D. the enthusiastic boy scout who was about to learn to do something bad, the three of us set out to terrorize the neighborhood dumpsters.
"I used to steal road signs!" said D. proudly.
Neil gave D. a look that was somewhat withering. Once, Neil showed me how to effectively rob a house in under ten minutes, using a friend's bedroom as a model (all appropriate permission granted by the friend, who --badly -- supervised). And then we went skinny-dipping on government property afterwards. This was an event I witnessed; I've heard much more colorful tales of Neil's various mischief-making exploits. In any case, road-sign-stealing, while interesting, isn't the sort of thing that delights Neil with that "wow-what-a-badass-you-are" tingle.
As we walked, I thought about all of the times I've actually broken laws. Mostly, the ones I've broken have been little piddly ones. I've set bonfires during burn bans. I've ripped off fast food places for more "free refills" than I can count. I've called a Rome apple a Red Delicious apple in order to get a cheaper price. I've trespassed a hundred million different times, for any number of reasons. Once I helped a girl run away, and if I'd been eighteen it would have qualified as kidnapping, but I was a few months shy of my eighteenth birthday. Once, I hit somebody on the head hard enough to leave a large bump, and I'm pretty sure I informed him I'd kill him if he tried to hurt my baby -- which, according to Washington State law, is a felony. I've smoked weed a few times -- seven, I'm pretty sure, not counting the time I ate the bad cookie... Oh, and there were a few instances of public nudity in the form of skinny-dipping...
Yeah, I know, call the freaking police now... Helena Thomas is a bad old girl.
But hell, at least I've done a few things slightly more interesting -- slightly -- than stealing road signs.
Still, I empathized with D. Tales of dorky crimes are more interesting than tales of goody-two-shoes-ism.
So, as I said, the three of us terrorized the neighborhood dumpsters. D. ended up upside down in one of them, struggling to catch his balance before falling face first into a pile of black plastic garbage bags and old hangers. But he found some interesting things and was thrilled to be included in the badass capers of the badass New Yorkers. This morning, he woke me up to show me how well his "new" belt fits.
I was pleased to return home with a measuring cup, a really cool ice cream scoop, two wooden spoons, and a batch of spiedie irons. [Neil: "They're called skewers, darling." Me: "Yes, but you knew what I was talking about..."] I was more pleased to see how D.'s face lit up at his participation in the event. D. is a lot like a little brother to me, and he adores being a part of the weird crap Neil and I get into. D. especially likes Neil. Whether or not anybody would admit it, I'm pretty sure D. secretly thinks Neil can do no wrong. Or very little wrong, in any case. The dynamic between the two of them amuses the hell out of me.
D. bought us coffee at the convenience store on the way back. I got a soda. And promptly stuffed a massive quantity of creamers into the pockets of my coat. Shit, we're poor, but even poor people ought to have creamer for their morning coffee. Right? Neil rolled his eyes at me a little bit. "Your pockets are bulky," he whispered to me.
"I know," I said. "Stand real close to me."
Yeah, as if the fucking gas station really gives a shit about some girl coming in and ripping off a couple dozen creamers. Heh!
I'm going to go run my new toys through the dishwasher.
~Helena*