Most of the time I ask for things nicely. I say “Please may I borrow your car?” and I’ll even say “Thank you very much, I’ll have it back by Thursday.” I won’t even drive off really fast leaving behind the smell of burning rubber and a cloud of dust; I have the decency to wait till I’ve driven on a bit and round a few corners.
I often slow down near schools, because, the way I look at it is that if I’m in and out of there quicker, less people will be in danger. Who wants to survive getting hit by a car? I mean I could drive slower, but not slowly enough that anyone’d live a normal life afterwards. Perhaps it’s for the best that I speed up. What am I even saying? The whole point I’m trying to make is that it is better to speed up, and that’s why I speed up. If you’re thinking of it, then don’t think- have some conviction and put your foot to the floor. Follow your gut.
Speaking of guts: when I’m in a restaurant I’m often very polite and nice. I’ll even strike up small talk and sometimes, if I’m getting the right signals, I’ll create inside jokes and tip quite generously. Then next time I’m in I’ll wave hello, order my food, basically follow the same routine, except afterwards I’ll leave a very small tip, usually just the smallest coin I can find in my coin pouch. A coin caked in mud or that I used to scratch a profanity onto the roof of one of the cars I borrowed. Then I’ll have a word with the manager and complain to high heaven about the service and the horrendous meal I had just endured. I’d say that it pained me greatly to say it because I’d really had such a lovely time before. I don’t need to see the looks on their faces after I leave. I just imagine it and it cracks me up. Cracks. Me. Up.
You might wonder who’d be stupid enough to give me their car? The answer to your question is either someone who is absolutely rock stupid, or who is genuinely afraid for their lives, or the lives of their loved ones. These days you’d be surprised how untrusting people are, even if they are thick as crap. I’m not going to tell you everything that I do though because I might need to borrow a car from you one day and I’d like that element of surprise, you know?
You’ll only know it’s me when days later, perhaps weeks later, maybe never though, you’re taking the kayak off the roof or you’re trying to clean the moss off the sun roof and there it is, a word, glinting silver-metalic at you from beneath lipstick red paint:
I get annoyed when the postman delivers mail to my address and it’s for anyone else but me. When there’s enough of a build up I’ll go out to a different neighbourhood and post it all at roughly the same time as one’d expect a post run. There are a number of occasions I’ve been questioned but I claim to either be with some company that does that sort of thing, or, if there’s no one else around, I smile, ask a question like “Isn’t this 139 Fenton View? The sat-nav has never let me down yet.” and close the distance.
I sometimes read about a maniac in the local papers but it never gets any further than that. I polish my shoes, read the papers and consume bowl after bowl of cereal. It keeps things regular. Otherwise I get bunged up and that’s not good. Last time that happened I nearly got fired. The toilet got all blocked up and there wasn’t much I could do about it. In an unusual fit of frustration (unusual because I often feel euphoric after a good dump) I stomped the toilet bowl until it came apart like a chocolate orange. It was horrendous. I managed to get out without being seen, but the manhunt that ensued in the following weeks was particularly thorough and I had to lay low for a much longer time than I was accustomed to.
Sometimes I light a fire in the back garden to burn clothes with suspicious stains and items which don’t belong to anyone, but most importantly don’t belong to me. I can’t really get away with doing this sort of thing in my own back garden so I wait tilll very late at night and it has to be a petrol fire unfortunately. No time to collect kindling. Just enough time to drop my bundle of goods and splash some fuel on it and leg it to the nearest taxi rank. I get back to my place with the scent of petrol still strong on me, and a sweat on my forehead like double glazing, it’s fantastic. A quick shower and brush of the nashers and I’m ready to sleep. After one of those nights I’ll typically get myself a pair of new clothes the next day. Nothing too fancy, but distinct enough to stand out on its own as something I’ve never worn before.
I try to be good, but life goes on. Life goes on and I try, to be so good, at what I do.