Am I Bad?

The subject comes up from time to time, in episodes that sometimes take days to pass. It comes to me when I'm writing my memoir, my third attempt to put to paper what everyone tells me is a fascinating life. It surfaces in the microscopic details I have to employ to help recreate on paper what lives so vividly in my mind. Sometimes it seems like ages ago, another life. But such feelings are cast aside by the realist in me who is immoveable, rigid, and stubborn. The truth is that no matter what the circumstances, no matter what outside forces influenced my decision to act, I should have known better.

My father, brother, and I, robbed jewelry stores in New England for close to five years. The cap we said was enough before we'd stop kept getting bigger, a hundred thousand, two, a million. Some of the robberies barely netted us a few thousand, one took a month to plan and an hour to execute, all for a few boxes of catalogs. Others were huge, blanketing every available surface in our house in gold, gems, and cash. I thought I knew lust's allure when I discovered what other uses there were for the old back massager I found in our attic as a teen. The day I rolled around on ten thousand dollars in cold hard cash made that seem like an itch in my pants.

During those robberies we beat a man, duct taped two of them to wooden chairs then left them to fend for themselves. We shoved loaded guns into all their faces and threatened their lives. And ironically, one was killed after we chose not to rob him. A week later someone put a bullet in his head for the same reason we were only going to cuff him to the bathroom sink while we cleared out his store.

Today I'm clean, living a quiet life, on a tiny island, where people go to die, is how a friend describes Nahant. I prefer it that way. Considering where I could be. My brother is behind the wall for two more years, bringing his grand total to ten. Dad served 11 and a half of his twelve years. He's retired, collecting government checks, and living off his retirement fund.Prison never leaves me. It haunts my dreams. Part of my desire to see the memoir published is so the world can judge my father. I realize my head is on the same chopping block. But I offer it humbly, or so it may seem.My therapist tells me guilt in the absence of a crime is neurotic. What about guilt in the presence of one? He also says there are no bad people, only people with greater or lesser degrees of mental health. It took me a long time to allow these ideas to rent space in my head, let alone come to some understanding of what they meant.

Am I bad? Sometimes it takes convincing.