The first time I stole was a month later. I can tell you I did not walk into that dormitory expecting to embark on a spree of crime. It was circumstance that overcame me. We were called for an overdose. A campus security guard led us into a dorm room where a student sat sobbing with his head in his hands.
“He told me he took a handful of pills and drank a shit load of beers,” his roommate said. “He said he wanted to die.”
“Why did you call?” the student said angrily to his roommate, his speech slurred. The student had long hair and wore a tee-shirt that said “Fuck War.” “I just want to be left alone.”
There were posters of rock bands on the wall. U2 and Dave Mathews. I looked at the expensive stereo equipment. Someone was loaded.
“What did you take?” Tom asked.
“I didn’t take anything,” the student said. “I just drank.”
“His prescription bottles are in his bureau,” the roommate said. “He’s on antidepressants. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to kill himself.”
“Go check them out,” Tom said to me.
As the roommate led me into the bedroom, and showed me where the prescriptions were, I heard Tom ask, “Why do you want to off yourself?”
“None of your business. I wish you’d all leave me alone.”
The roommate answered, “His girlfriend broke up with him.”
“Fuck her,” Tom said. “You want to get her back, go fuck someone else, don’t take pills. You take pills and she finds out, she’ll think you’re a weenie.”
Tom had his own method.
As I was sorting through the meds, which were in the first dresser drawer—the dresser itself was littered with empty bottles of Corona—I saw several small film canisters in the tray and I opened one. I knew right away it was weed. It was filled to the brim. I glanced over my shoulder, saw I was alone—the roommate had returned to the main room—and just like that, a synapse in my brain misfired. I did something completely out of character for me. I felt as if I was standing outside of my body watching someone else doing the misdeed. I recapped the canister and slid it in my pocket even before my heart started to pound. It was that fast.
What went through my mind? I was thinking about Carrie, and how pleased she would be if I brought her this little gift. She’d lamented how much she liked a smoke, but that she’d been out since she’d broken up with Jimmie Winslow.
“How’s it coming in there?’ Tom looked in the bedroom. “What are you finding?”
“Valium, Prozac, Wellbutrin. There’s just a couple Valium missing. No empties.”
“Well, one way or another, you’re going to the hospital. You bought yourself a ticket by saying you want to die, bought yourself a charcoal shake.”
I was by now feeling pangs of conscience, and would have returned the vial to its proper place, but two police officers appeared and Tom was giving them a quick rundown, including showing him the prescription bottles, and saying, “It doesn’t look like he took much, but we’ve got to take him in. Get his sneakers and a jacket, and let’s get going.”
The roommate was in the room now gathering what Tom had requested, and I was called back in the main room to set the stretcher up.
The roommate rode in the front with me as I drove to the hospital. He kept looking back at Tom and his roommate. Tom was lecturing the guy on how to handle women.
“The way to keep your woman is to satisfy her. I’m not talking about being a good boy. I’m talking about TCB—taking care of business. Every time—every time you are in the sack with her—you give her everything you have and more. That’s all that matters. You must conquer her. All this sensitive crap might work at first, but once a woman has had a true man—a champion sire, she is yours at the ring of a bell. You can not call her for a year, then give her a little ring-a-ling and suggest a little get together and she is there. That should be lesson number one in college. Study history. The arms race. The side with the best weapons wins. No surrender. The Gatling gun. Blitzkrieg. The Allied army on D-Day. The H-bomb. Desert Storm. Overwhelming power. It’s the American Way. TCB. Taking Care of Business. You might want to look into it. “
I was glad Tom’s show was keeping the roommate from suddenly remembering that they kept their stash right where my thieving little hands had been.
“Is he always like this?” the roommate asked me.
I nodded.
“I know he’s your partner,” the guy said, “but what a fucking asshole.”
I just shrugged. Who was I to judge? Tom may have been a little burned out and full of himself at the same time, but he was entertaining, and at least he wasn’t a fucking thief. And I had to hand it to him—from the way his pager was always ringing—he seemed to have the ladies at his beck and call.
***
“Why are you so jittery?” Tom asked once we cleared the hospital.
“I’m not jittery.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re the type to try to off yourself if a girl pulls one on you?”
“No.”
“We’ll see.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“How a man acts in adversity is the mark of character. Soon as your squeeze puts the hurt on you, we’ll see how you act. You’ll turn into a blubbering fool. You’ve got to be a man and go out and bang someone else before twenty four hours are up.”
“She’s not going to put a hurt on me.”
“She’s not, huh?”
“Nope, not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a fucking conqueror,” I said. “TCB.”
That cracked him up. “You’re all right. I’ve taught you well. Still… we’ll see.”