The Worst Thing I Ever Did

Part III

This is a true story that happened when I was nineteen. Part three of three.

I’ve spent the last sixteen years trying to forget this time of my life. You can run from your past, but that’s not how I want to live.

“The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.”
― Aleksander Solzhenitsyn , Archipiélago Gulag I

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It’s Tuesday morning—seven o'clock.

The alarm on my Motorola Rokr sounds.

I roll out of bed, get dressed, take a piss, and brush my teeth.

I’m up early today. I usually sleep til noon.

I head to the living room. Dylan is passed out on the couch as usual. He hears me and wakes up.

“You ready?” I ask.

“Hell yeah.” He says.

Pretty soon, we head to Travis’s apartment to pick him up. He’ll be the getaway driver.

We park about a quarter mile away from the house on the other side of a park.

“Go get 'em, boys,” Travis says.

Dylan and I hop out of the car.

It’s a beautiful spring morning. The birds are chirping, and streaks of sunlight slip through the trees.

Ben lives at his parents' house and works nights. There should be lots of weed and money in the house.

We walk through the park and cut through yards until we reach the back patio. Stepping onto it, I remember the time Ben and I lit a bowl with a magnifying glass because we didn’t have a lighter in this exact spot years before.

Dylan and I look at each other and nod. We’ve got bandanas tied around our necks. We pull them up and over our faces and put on dark sunglasses. I’ve got a mini Louisville Slugger in my waistline. I pull it out. Dylan pulls out a spark plug.

We look at each other again. I nod.

He winds up and swings the spark plug against the sliding door. It cracks a little. It’s pretty damn loud. He told me that spark plugs would quietly break glass. He swings a couple more times and the door breaks. We run inside and upstairs to Ben’s room.

We burst into his room. He’s standing on his bed in his boxers and undershirt, scared shitless. Everything is going according to plan. I can literally smell the weed. But I immediately make a fatal mistake.

“Where’s the fucking weed?!” I yell.

“Sam, is that you?!” He yells back.

All I had to do was keep my mouth shut.

“Who the fuck is Sam?!” I say, trying to lower my voice, as I bop him on the head with my mini bat.

“Ow!” He yells, as he rubs his head.

Dylan is not as gentle. He grabs him and chokes him unconscious. I did not see that coming.

I’m in a full panic, but doing my best to remain calm.

We keep looking, but we’ve agreed not to ransack the house. Weed and money is all we’re after.

He’s still out. The clock is ticking.

I see his car keys on the dresser. I grab them, run outside, pull my bandana down and casually check the car. Nothing.

There’s a briefcase in the trunk.

I get excited.

I open it.

It’s a hookah..

“Fuck it, I’m taking it,” I say to myself. “I have to get something out of this.”

I never used it.

I go back inside. Dylan is upstairs watching over Ben. He found a couple hundred dollars in his wallet, nothing else.

Dylan points at the Xbox 360. I shake my head. It’s time to go.

This is a disaster. Not only did he hear my voice, but we walk away with basically nothing—two hundred dollars and a hookah.

Not twenty minutes later, I get a call from a friend who’s already heard what happened.

I deny it. I know he doesn’t believe me. This is a nightmare.

We drive to the other side of town and hide out for a few hours.

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A month later, I wake up early one Saturday morning and go to the kitchen to get something to drink.

I’m hungover and trying to piece together what happened last night.

I grab an ice-cold Mountain Dew from the fridge and drink half of it.

I turn to head back to bed and sleep for another few hours. As I do, I glance out the window.

My car is gone.

Only twisted metal and ashes remain.

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If you’re feeling generous:

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Thank you for reading!

Enjoy the rest of your day.

-Sam