November 16, 2003
Crunch
I’m working on a ridiculously convoluted essay that I was hoping to post here this weekend, but it's taking much longer to whip into shape than expected. I’ve already tried writing it several different ways, but none of them seem to be working. I try it from one angle and it falls apart. I rewrite it another way and find myself backed into a corner. I’m not even sure exactly what it is that I’m trying to write about any more. I thought I knew, but every time I spot something it vanishes before I can make the point.
Imagine a crime taking place. There is a group of men executing a heist that they have been plotting for months. Everything is going smoothly – the tumblers click away, the doors swing open, the alarms are disengaged. They walk through the heist with quiet, professional ease, stopping now and then to check the time and nod instructions to one another.
That's how it should work. Unfortunately, I’m standing at the safe and the drill bit has snapped and the alarm is going off and there’s sweat fogging up my glasses and it occurs to me that the video cameras have turned back on and the footsteps are coming down the hallway. This had been happening with enough frequency these days that I’m beginning to think I should reconsider my life in crime.
I need to take it easy. I need to walk down the block and spot a door slightly ajar or an open widow without a screen. I need to wait for a lucky break or a crime of opportunity. For now I’m just hanging around the old neighborhood smoking cigarettes and keeping my eyes open.
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