The aura of impenetrability here might have inspired my life of crime. Safety is why people moved here, after all. Not me, though. I inherited the house from my great uncle Merv, who was anything but great; but he felt guilty about me, for reasons I’d rather forget.

I lived in a studio apartment in Philadelphia before I moved here. I admit, I didn’t feel safe in that crummy building, where I heard gunshots on the street more than once. My next-door neighbors had screaming fights that might have been interesting if they hadn’t been so banal: she was having an affair, he was furious, she was crying, he slammed the door, blah blah blah.

So when Merv the Perv left his decrepit body to dwell in whatever nether world is reserved for such animals, and I was informed by his lawyer that I now owned a house—plus enough money to live on for twenty years or so—I didn’t have to think more than the time you’re given in final Jeopardy to write your answer and put down your pen.

I quit my data entry job and moved, joining the bromides at Funny Farm Acres, which is one of my names for this human platitudinous dead zone. I didn’t try to meet anyone. If they don’t know you, they can’t invite you to potluck dinners or their kid’s piano recital. I’m more productive as a loner, though it’s true that I was aimless the first couple of months. I lacked purpose.

Then I discovered stealing.

It was an autumn night of the new moon, which for you non-lunatics means there’s no moon at all. It was as dark as my mother’s hair dye, appropriately called “Deep Midnight,” which made her hair so black and thick she could have hidden bats in it—and I used to worry that she did. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep;  just after midnight I decided, what the hell, I wasn’t doing myself any good lying in bed, staring into the abyss. So I got up, put on my bathrobe and slippers and went outside to breathe some cool air.

My garage is separate from my house, just like all the others in this stomping ground. Seeing that I’d left the inside light on, I went in to turn it off and realized I hadn’t locked the side door. It dawned on me that I never locked that side door. Then I wondered if my neighbors did.

I tiptoed down the street to a house a few doors away from mine. No outside lights on—no need for them in Perfect Town—and the streetlight was easy to avoid. I approached the side door to this garage in what I believed was an expert stealthy manner and turned the handle.

It opened.

I had a surge of adrenaline like I hadn’t felt since the time I chugged two caffeine-rich Diet Mountain Dews after my mother was arrested for trespassing. She was marching back and forth on the roof of the high school in the little town in West Virginia where we used to live, playing the theme to The Bridge Over the River Kwai on a kazoo. I was twelve. They took her away, and I ran home, chugged those Dews—and ended up with a pounding heart I could feel in my sinuses. It didn’t feel so good that time. This time, though, the heart-pounding was fantastic.

I closed the door softly behind me and realized I couldn’t see much. At that moment I knew I would do this again and made a mental note to bring a flashlight next time. I inched my way forward, arms stretched out and waving in front of me like a blind person, until I touched the side of a car. I tried the handle.

It opened.

The dome light came on, providing enough illumination to size up the garage and what was in it. Tools, plastic storage boxes of who knows what, garbage cans—the usual stuff. I turned back to the car, a Beamer, sat in the driver’s seat, and put my hands on the steering wheel. Really comfy. I’d never been in such a fancy car. I felt important, like Judge Judy. Looking over my shoulder at the back seat, I saw a blanket and a travel mug; some receipts were on the floor. I leaned forward and felt around on the rug, under the passenger seat, and that’s when my future was sealed: my fingers touched a small object that turned out to be a diamond teardrop earring that glimmered when I held it under the dome light.   I deposited it in my pocket, got out of the car, shut the door quietly, and exited.

I skipped down the street!  Fifty-four-year-old me, skipping as if I were a girl who had never laid eyes on Uncle Merv. I even had to stifle a giggle.

It took me a while to settle down once I got home. I put the earring on and gazed at myself from different angles in the bathroom mirror. I did some jumping jacks until I was winded, enjoying the how the bauble slapped against my neck. Then I rummaged through the hall closet, found an empty shoebox, and lined it with a kitchen towel. I put the earring in it, closed the lid, and stuck the box under the sink. People don’t hide stolen goods under kitchen sinks. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do. That night I slept like a baby.

That was the first of my new-moon raids. I prepared for them by changing my habits. I trained myself to stay up all night, and I slept from dawn until the early afternoon. I sussed out my neighbors on afternoon walks to learn which car lived where and who had dogs that might stymie me. Each month when the annoying moon disappeared, I ventured out after midnight, dressed all in black, carrying a black flashlight, on the hunt for another garage. It was rare when I found one with a locked door, and if I did, I just tried another.

At first I concentrated on garages that housed fancy cars, since that first Beamer had made me feel so joyful and powerful. But I soon discovered that even the 150,000-mile Toyotas had good loot to offer. It’s amazing what people drop in the crevasses and under the seats of their cars. By the time I’d been out once a month for a year, I’d collected money (including $527 that I felt reasonably certain its owner probably wasn’t supposed to have), more jewelry, a credit card, a pair of leather gloves, Prada sunglasses, and a baggy of what I assumed was cocaine. (I didn’t take that. I’m not really a criminal.)

The interesting thing was: no one was reporting anything stolen, at least according to the HOA email newsletter. I figure that when people realize they’ve lost something (no reason to think it was stolen), and they can’t find it in their car— either because it never was there, or I’ve already taken it—they simply keep looking for it other places.

My monthly sorties brought me such happiness. I felt I had activated my own magical powers, powers that allowed me to become almost invisible and reap the benefits of my covert genius. Very soon, the shoebox was too small to hold all my loot. So I moved my growing Appropriated Items Collection to another hiding place in which I kept my own valuables. When I first moved in, I’d cut a rectangle in the wall behind the couch, low and near the floor, between the studs. Merv had covered that wall with gold-and-blue striped wallpaper, so I used some from the leftover roll to disguise the opening. It’s a pain to access; I have to move the couch and get down on my hands and knees whenever I put anything in there, but I never sell or use anything I steal, except for trying on jewelry. I’m a collector of stolen goods. Some people collect cute little china animals. Same difference.

Everything was going perfectly—until the night I was feeling around underneath the driver’s seat of a Subaru Crosstrek and my hand brushed against something metal.  I pulled out a Rigid brand heavy-duty wrench; I have one exactly like it at home that I don’t use it anymore because I was with Merv when he bought it, and it brings back bad memories. This one was in better shape, like it had never been used. Maybe I could use it, even though using something from my Appropriated Items Collection was against my rules. I stuck it in my backpack, then hunted around the Crosstrek for more goodies. I found a fancy Zippo cigarette lighter, chrome with engravings on it, and stuck it in the small pocket of my backpack. Deciding not to press my luck any further, I turned off my flashlight and slipped it into my backpack, exited the car, and headed out.

I was almost to the street when I heard a guy behind me growl, “Stop, right there.” And then a flashlight’s beam was lighting up the driveway.

I took off, alert enough to run away from my house, not toward it. I’ll tell you right now, I’ve never been a good runner. Once, when I was running away from Merv, he yelled that I was slower than LeBron James’s resting heart rate. Merv always was a big basketball fan. Anyway, it was easy to tell that this guy was gaining on me. I was slowing down. I wasn’t going to get away. So I stopped, leaned over with my hands on my thighs, and panted. And felt what I figured was a gun pressed against my head.

“I said, stop. Are you deaf?” His voice was deep and gravelly. I didn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry. I got lost.” I straightened up and he wrapped his left arm around my neck, the gun still at my head. I tried to make my voice sound shaky and old. “I live around here somewhere. All the houses look the same, you know how it is. You scared me back there. But I’m fine now. I’ll find my house.”

He whispered in my ear, “You as big a liar as you are a moron?”

I was still panting. “What?”

“I think you know exactly where you live. I’ve seen you. I recognize that ugly hair of yours. You moved into Merv’s house. You as much of an asshole as he was?” He tightened his hold on me. “Don’t lie to me.”

I kept lying. “I just got lost. That’s all.” I sniffed a little, hoping he’d think I was crying.

He let go of me but kept the gun in position. “I think you’re a conniving thief. What’s in your backpack?”

I didn’t answer him. He grabbed it off my shoulder and dumped it upside down. The small pocket on the front was unzipped and the lighter fell out.

He shone his flashlight on it and sighed. “What a pathetic excuse for a woman you are. What else you got?”

I can think quickly even in tricky situations. “My flashlight. It’s heavy.” That was one friggin nice lighter I had stolen, and if he found the wrench, too, I figured was deader than roadkill.

Then he surprised me, big time. Backing away he said, “I’m still pointing my gun at you. Pick up the lighter and hand it to me, but don’t turn around.” I did. “Now pick up your backpack and walk away. Right now. Do not turn around. Walk to the end of this street, take a right, and take your ass home. If you look back, if you stop, if you scream or make any loud noise, I will blow your brains out, do you understand, old hag?”

I was so amazed that I was going to live I almost turned around to thank him. Instead I said, “Yes, sir,” picked up my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and started walking. When I got to the corner, I turned right and kept going, keeping my word. I’m not a lying cheat, like Merv. I steal, but that’s different.

I was shaking when I got home. Not scared so much as really pissed. Calling my hair “ugly” and me an “old hag” and “pathetic” was uncalled for. True, my hair is gray and frizzy, but I’m not in bad shape—something he couldn’t have known, I suppose, given the loose clothes I was wearing. But it’s just mean to call people names.

I took a shower and stayed up all night watching Hoarders on Merv’s 50-inch flat screen hi-def TV, holding that wrench in my hands and stroking it. When I went to bed I put it under the kitchen sink because, as far as I knew, everyone had a wrench like that and I might need it for something. The odious wrench I’d inherited from Merv was in my hideaway place, out of sight and, most of the time, out of mind.

I didn’t go out the next two new moons; but it’s no fun to deny yourself the things you’re good at. Besides stealing and data entry, I’m really good at Jeopardy and I could win if I ever went on that show, I swear to God. I also can hold my breath for a really long time; I once swam underwater the full twenty-five yards of the pool at the gym when I lived in Philly. I didn’t want to lose stealing along with swimming and data and trivia. I was depressed.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that Crosstrek guy, and thinking about him just made me madder than blazes. I’d say things out loud, just to hear myself talking and make myself feel better. “I’d like to see him hold his breath for twenty-five yards. Or forever.” “He thinks I’m old and ugly? He’s probably dumber than a wheelbarrow.”

But for those next couple of months, I never walked, ran, or drove down the street where he basically assaulted me. In fact, I didn’t leave my house. I had a lot of food in the freezer and if I needed anything else, I had it delivered. I tried to find the Crosstrek guy online, but all I had was the name on the car registration I found in the glove compartment—Michael Johnson—and I don’t need to tell you that that name is as rare as a man with narcissistic personality disorder. I watched out my window in the afternoons after I got up in case Johnson was stalking me, but I never saw him.

The third new moon after my Johnson encounter passed, and I decided to get out there again on the fourth. It felt great to put on my black clothes—hoodie, sweatpants, sneakers, gloves—and head out into the night at 12:01 a.m.

I walked to the opposite end of Happy Hamlet from Crosstrek Johnson’s house and picked my garage. Unlocked, easy peasy. The car was a Chevy sedan, black, inside and out, which made me happy. I sat in the back seat awhile, just enjoying the scenery. Then I I shone my flashlight around and saw a large paper bag in the front passenger seat. I grabbed it and discovered the kind of refrigerator container you keep leftovers in. “Hubert” was written in black marker on the plastic top. I opened it.

I didn’t scream. I’m proud of that — given that I’d never seen a severed finger before. I could tell this one wasn’t very old. It was bruised, and there was blood in the dish. I didn’t know if it was Hubert’s and if there were more containers with more fingers hanging around, but I didn’t want to find out.

I popped the lid back on and thought about how defingering would require a heavy, sharp knife. And that reminded me of the time that Merv pointed a knife at me, and my mother told me to run. That’s when Merv laughed at how slow I was.

Merv ain’t laughin’ now, I whispered to myself, holding that refrigerator dish.

And that’s when I got my brilliant idea. Pretty soon Crosstrek Johnson wouldn’t be laughing much either.

I left that car and its garage, and I took the finger. I knew exactly what I was going to do with it.

It was dangerous, sure. But we all have to find meaning for our lives, and sometimes that requires taking risks. I jogged home, dug into my secret stash behind the couch for Merv’s wrench, then headed to Crosstrek Johnson’s—and, honest to cripe, I don’t know if the people in this place are just stupid or if they’re all criminals, but his garage door was unlocked. Ducking in, I deposited the finger in its refrigerator dish on top of the worktable, partially hidden behind a paint can. Then I put Merv’s wrench in plain sight on top of the table—and got the bejesus out of there.

As soon as I got home, I had a Diet Mountain Dew, did some jumping jacks, then watched Hoarders, my favorite show (I consider myself a curator of stolen goods, certainly not a hoarder). About an hour before dawn I got in Merv’s crappy old Ford SUV and drove to an all-night drugstore, where I bought a cheap burner phone. Then I drove to an empty field just outside of town, dialed the police station, gave them Crosstrek Johnson’s address, and told them there was a missing finger on the worktable in the garage, and no, I would not give them my name, and I hung up. Then I smashed the phone with a rock and drove to Hancock, which is about ten miles away, dumped the phone pieces in the trashcan in the ladies room at the Waffle House, and drove home.

It was almost daylight by then, and my bedtime. I checked my stash of stolen stuff—I always did before going to bed, kind of like saying good night to my family—put on my PJs, positioned my eye mask, and got under the covers. I fell asleep quickly. I was proud of myself and at peace. But I woke up with a jolt a few minutes later. I realized that the black Chevy owner who probably cut off that finger—or knew who did—was still doing just fine on the other side of Edenville. And that didn’t seem right. But I had another month to figure out my next moves, so I went back to sleep.

The police showed up at Crosstrek’s, all right. It was on the news. They found the finger and traced it to a body left by the river a day or so earlier. Black Chevy was hauled away because his kid’s name was written on that leftovers container, and, really, how many Huberts are there these days? It was a slam dunk.

Crosstrek Johnson swore he didn’t know anything about the finger and had no idea how it got there. But the police got a warrant, searched his place, and took the red Rigid 10-inch Heavy-Duty Straight Pipe Wrench for testing.

Turns out Merv’s DNA was all over that sucker. Johnson was nailed for murdering him.

Hey, he should never have called me an old hag.

Modern Women: 21st Century Dance, A Coloring Book

by Julie Lemberger, edited by Elizabeth Zimmer

Women, the largest and yet most unrecognized population of the dance arts community, are spotlighted in renowned dance photographer Julie Lemberger’s Modern Women: 21st Century Dance, a coloring book, edited by Elizabeth Zimmer. Lemberger, who has been photographing dance for almost two decades, transformed her photographs into illustrations almost ready to color and then added psychedelic, floral and abstract backgrounds for the figures “to dance in.” The 92 page volume features today’s leading dance innovators and interpreters, and celebrates their diverse genres and perspectives. Modern Women: 21st Century Dance is a perfect gift for children-of-all-ages including grandparents and grandchildren, especially those who love women, dance and art. Two options available: Coloring book for $20 Shipping & handling is $5 each for U.S. addresses. Please contact for International shipping costs.

Available at etsy.com/shop/dancecoloringbook or julielemberger.com

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