My name is Rochelle Lewis. This is my story, and I’m sticking to it. I had a run-in with the law, but it all worked out. Starting at the beginning is boring, so that means I will begin on the day I find out I am a wanted person of interest for murder.
Yawning loudly, I’m thinking about not getting out of bed this morning; it’s too snuggly in these warm blankets. The weatherman called for rain; maybe I’ll stay in bed all day. What am I going to do if it is raining outside? I hate pirating in the rain. All my clothes bog me down when they are drenched. I guess I'm going to have to get up and find out. It’s not like I live in a lap of luxury in this shitty one-bedroom apartment.
Every morning my coffee maker is on a timer, and smelling the heavenly brew motivates me to move my ass. Glancing at the alarm clock, it’s time to head out. Oh shit, I got to go. I will be late, and then I'll lose the UPS guy and won't be able to track him for the day. Hauling ass out of bed, dressing in regular admin-type work clothes of slacks and a blouse, I pour myself a steamy cup of coffee and pop some rye toast in to consume on the road. Desiring not to incriminate myself with nosy neighbors, I leave the building dressed as an admin, not a porch pirate.
Once inside my nondescript car—a white Toyota Corolla with all the emblems removed —a slash of mud covered the license plate, which couldn’t be read except for two nonconsecutive letters; I hauled ass to the UPS warehouse and waited down the street for a truck to leave. While waiting, it’s time to change into my white-out costume quickly. Everything but the face mask isn’t used until hitting the first subdivision or house. I wear the customized facial mask to affect the surveillance and leave it on until finished for the day, glancing away at oncoming vehicles. Unless a cop car is spotted, everything except the wig is taken off my head. Being short is an advantage behind the steering wheel because only my head shows. Unseen, unnoticeable.
To ensure that the same delivery truck isn’t followed twice, a planner records the truck number of the one observed each day. Staying behind the truck is easy as it's taller than most vehicles on the road, traveling several vehicles behind. The trickier part is in the subdivisions. Finding an empty driveway to scrunch down in until the package was delivered, and no one expeditiously fetched it. That was the opportune moment to enter the driveway or park in front of the house to snatch the prize. Since looking like a painter, I would pretend to leave a fake card (as in, no card was left), presenting the neighbors with the impression of sales marketing.
One time, a lady caught me picking up the package. But I handed it to her and smiled, stating that I was painting a neighbor's bathroom and wanted to leave a few cards in the neighborhood. And politely asked the lady if she was interested. The lady said, “No.” Thank goodness.
My name is from a combination of my parents' first names. I’ve been told I’m intelligent, witty, and fun, and I don’t take life too seriously as being unfettered. When I was a young five-year-old, both my parents, Roger and Michelle, were hit by a drunk driver and died. The grandmother who raised me died of a heart attack when I was seventeen, leaving me an orphan with no family left. But my best friend Meagan’s mom, Susan, helped keep me out of the foster care group, providing a home. She was my second mom since I was over there more than with Granny. Forever grateful for the assist. I occasionally drop in to check on Susan. There had been a few friends in high school and one friend from a previous job. But we lost touch without seeing each other at work every day. If not for my best friend Meagan, who has been my BFF since third grade, I’d be alone.
In grade school, fifth-grade bullies teased and persecuted me because I was so small. One day, on the playground, one giant bully pushed me off a swing because they wanted it. Falling on my hands and knees, I tried not to cry, but the sand was in the scraps and cuts and hurt. Meagan ran over from the seesaws, shoving the harassing boy, and asked, “How did he like being pushed to the ground?” Saving me from the bullies in the schoolyard endeared Meagan to me, and I followed her around like a puppy dog for the rest of the school year. We became fast friends, having lots in common. Meagan was the only person who truly knew me inside and out. Without her, I didn’t have much of a reason to live. But I digress into memories.
Today was a typical day, except for the overcast weather. California is usually bright and sunny. Sitting along the street from the UPS depot, I waited until several trucks left. Looking at the truck numbers, I spotted one that had not been followed before. Leaving the parking space, I kept my distance and trailed behind to their destination.
The truck pulled into a nice neighborhood and stopped a few houses inside the entrance. I drove past and went around the block to avoid being seen watching him. Once I was at a comfortably safe distance, I watched the door. The lady answered and received her package. BUMMER.
The following package was left several streets over in the same neighborhood. No one answered the door, so it was left on the porch. BINGO! The first surprise of the day. Anticipating collecting the box and opening it later to reveal—hopefully—something good I could use or worth money to sell. Overall, I really did enjoy that part of the job.
Once the UPS left, it was easy to pull alongside the street in front of the driveway, adjust my mask, and walk to the house as if I belonged. At the door, there was a door camera. Laughing, I whispered, “Good luck, asshole. You’ll never catch me.” Grabbing the box, I returned to the car and took off after the UPS truck. My rule was never to let curiosity get the better of me, and I opened them when I was safely home. If stopped, claiming I was delivering the packages was plausible.
Some days were like hitting the jackpot and scoring big time. On other days, it was junk. But it was the same joy as Christmas morning with optimism: receiving what is asked for from Saint Nick. There were more days of poaching worthless stuff, but the pawn shops liked the trinkets. They were easy to sell. There was always a good story for selling the shit, making them outlandish at times to laugh about later. Wishing there was someone to share the stories with; it was a lonely existence.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Catching up to the delivery driver was usually simple since they stayed in the same vicinity and traveled from one neighborhood to the next. It was a matter of learning the system. At the next intersection, I spied on the lavish white house, receiving a big box without anyone collecting it. JACKPOT! Pulling into the driveway backward, I opened the rear door to receive the big box. I sauntered to the open gray-painted porch and pirated a heavy cardboard box. Not in any hurry, it was carefully squished into the back seat. After leaving, I turned around the next corner, viewing the review mirror for suspicious activity. Damn, the owner arrived where I had just vacated. Shit, that was too close for comfort.
On days that exhibited a close call, I quit before the proverbial shit hit the fan. It was a sign that the day was over and time to head home and not push my lucky stars out of orbit. Karma could be a nasty bitch if you pushed her beyond the comfort zone. Time and time again, having gone beyond the boundaries of good sense, it bit my ass more times than I can count. As a high school senior, I finally learned the lesson of quitting before being caught.
Reminiscing those vexing days, the sun shone bright, the wind barely blew a warm breeze, and it was senior day. Every senior worth their grain of sand was at the beach. About two-thirds of the class probably arrived at Fiesta Island for a day of sand, surf, and drinking. It was the best senior party ever to end all shenanigans. The morning was fantastic; no one else was on the island's oceanfront side. The water was warm enough to swim, inviting chicken fights or shoulder wars, as some called it. The best part was the huge bonfire, where many dried off and warmed up. A buffet table was set up with food and drinks, many containing liquor. Everyone contributed and partook. There is inadvertently always one or two people who don’t follow the unspoken rules, so jail time does not become an issue.
Mike and Tina were the two at this party who screwed the pooch for all of us. They became drunk and couldn’t keep it in their pants, and of course, security drove by right at that time. Needless to say, the party was asked to leave, and the security guys took Mike and Tina away for indecent exposure and intoxication while a minor. We started to pack our stuff to leave, but once the cops left. Jimmy had a bright idea: “They are gone; let’s party on.” Wow, everyone shouted, “Hell yeah!” Music blasted, and the party continued. The next hour rolls around, we all feel safe on our senior day, and Whoop! Whoop!
Yep, you guessed it. Followed by a big paddy wagon for all of us hoodlums. Never seen some of these kids move that fast before. Scattering around like cock roaches that just saw the light. I hopped in one of the cars to outrun the cops. It was a bad move; the cops were smart enough to block the Fiesta Island entrance. So, we all joined the rest of our fellow students in the police van. My lesson was learned when allowed to leave scot-free – just do it.
The close call was a sign that it was time to go home. It was not the most productive of days—only two boxes—but they could be worth their weight in gold. It was an adrenaline rush waiting to arrive home to open my boons. First, stopping in a deserted spot, I put away my work clothes, which are folded into a duffle bag I keep behind the passenger seat. It’s not hard as it all fits over my regular clothes, and then I arrive home as an admin. My dump of a place has no garage, so ingenuity is necessary. The duffle remains in the car and only comes out on wash day at the laundromat. Nothing suspicious is going on around here.
Most of the larger boxes are opened in my back seat; if they contain something to keep, I bring it into the house. Otherwise, I have a space for returns to the store and another for the pawn shop. About once a week, I travel to different pawn shops and scalp them for as much as I can wiggle out of them. I dress cutesy, act ditzy, and give them a sob story. Appearing sixteen, but being a smart twenty-nine-year-old has its advantages, so I dress and flirt young, and Wal-lah, I walk away with twice the cash they first offered, sometimes more. Yes, it’s a gift.
The first box opened was a surprise, indeed, and made the day special. It was a nice Kitchen-Aid mixer with attachments. No wonder the box was heavy. Cool, at least $400 to $500 store credit unless I sell it for cash. I will leave it in the box in case I need to ship it. Saving the small ones for last, lovely things in small packages, so they say. Slicing open the seal, a car drives by and slows down. It's not a good sign to have busybodies. Backing out of the rear door, I lock my car and walk to the house. Curiosity is killing me to see what is in the package. All my instincts say something good. I’ll return in a few minutes after my inquisitive friend enters his house. I believe he has a crush on me but is too chicken-shit to ask me out. Not that I would be seen in public with the dweeb.
While home, I'll throw some food into the microwave: nothing special, just a frozen dinner for lunch. I appreciate my little bungalow of safety. The kitchen has one countertop that also holds the sink, stovetop oven, and, next to it, an apartment-size frig all along the back wall—a small table for two that is not flat and rocks a bit. I keep adjusting it with cardboard or anything else I can find, but, alas, it still wobbles. The living room holds a worn sofa I found along the side of the road; at least it wasn’t ripped and doesn’t look half bad in a blue scrunchy couch cover. A small television on a scarred thrift table and a stand-up light draped with a pretty red paisley scarf from the same thrift store. Ambiance makes all the difference. The only other two rooms are a small bathroom with a shower, no tub, and a small bedroom with a queen-sized bed and dresser. No walk-in closets for me. Not that I have any clothes to fill one. The good news is that cleaning day takes one hour. The rest of the day is whatever I want.
