Break In // 3
Marijuana makes you see weird things. Like giant bugs in closets. Also, check your pockets before stuffing them.
Wordlessly, practiced in Anna Beth’s garage and by the book of Project FU, Mark and Anna Beth navigated the obstacle course of the hedge like a miniature wrecking ball, maneuvering like an eight limbed beast to hoist Jackson into the window as if they were putting wood in an upper slat. The sharpness of the hedge invaded Mark, and soon he was not just a swamp beast, but now some sort of aggravated forest god. Praying that Jackson would find footing and not fall as they deposited him, Mark realized that perhaps his singular mission across the lawn was not so bad, that he had not the limber nor the size nor the gall to actually break in to someone’s house. With Jackson disappeared into darkness and Anna Beth wiping the dirt from his shoes from her palms and Mark from his claws, they skirted the outside of the great, multi-roomed abode, half illuminated by the cerulean afterglow of the pool, the smell of chlorine uninhibited by the any breeze or the passing of bodies, keeping to the darkness. Project FU was, to Jackson’s credit, incredibly thought out, and his captured knowledge of the house, even months after he had actually been excommunicated and unpaid, finally imprinted on Mark that Jackson, for all his pot-smoking, pub crawling, nacho craving self, was perhaps the smartest, most vindictive person he had ever met.
Jackson’s figure appeared behind the back door porch like some captured painting, his blond beard the only thing admitting any color. The porch lights had not shown, which Mark assumed was Jackson’s electronic intervention, somehow, and tip toeing like cartoon cats looking to nap an unsuspecting chicken along the floor boards of Monty Pote’s outside oasis, Mark and Anna Beth were admitted into the mansion.
The world smelled stale, thick, unlived in. This was the way that rich people lived, a world unlived in, pristine to reflect their careers and their lifestyle. A maid to put everything where it belonged. This was how Mark figured it, all the houses in Beverly Hills, up in the Valley, on Rodeo and Mulholland and the lot of them; a whole lot of space for a whole lot of nothing. You’re not buying rooms to put things in, you’re buying rooms to show that you can do laps in your living room that is perfectly set up for an impromptu shoot by some designer’s digest. Mark could not help but take in the shapes of his surroundings, the beautiful eight person couches that cost more than what Mark had at Capital Bank, a beautiful kitchen island of what Mark assumed was Italian marble because it was the only marble he knew.
The three of them stared at one another, glancing in some pattern they were not aware of. It all conveyed the same thing: now what? And, as Jackson had done in the recent months to guide him in the sea of indecision, he consulted Project FU, shone a pencil sized flashlight that was covered with their bodies as if belaying wind from a waning lighter, looking half like a spelunker in this great darkness. All this while Anna Beth snooped around the kitchen island, tracing her finger on the marble, silently opening any drawers she could and peeking in, nose wrinkling. Mark wondered what Anna Beth was doing, snooping around like this, but he figured a part of this was to get her blood pumping to eliminate nerves, or perhaps to claim presence to the space. Mark looked around himself, his eyes adjusting to the large rooms before him, the Renaissance architecture, the three-story spanning windows, the large television set. This was inherently a house unlived in, not yet used to the passage of time of someone with roots, hardly the dust from its packaging brushed off in Monty Pote’s newly achieved echelon of wealth. No pictures, no signs of family. It was here that Mark figured Monty might be somewhat lonely, a forever bachelor, but then in the undercurrent of this relation he remembered the bar, and the super models, and the nice cars and thought boohoo.
He grabbed the remote control to take out the batteries just because he could. Just to fuck with him.
Holding the buttoned rectangle in his hand like some artifact, he investigated the device with his fingernails to find the clasp where batteries were held, and upon his first go around, itself notified from the schema of every remote control he’s ever had, he could not find the ridge that signified a change of power source. One of the soft buttons pressed against his palm and the room ignited in a sodium glow emanating from the floor to ceiling television set, turning Mark into a silhouette amidst the too bright colors that expanded into all the available space of the house.
“Mark!” Jackson whisper-yelled, as if Mark did not already know.
Mark fumbled with the remote, his paws now playing sudden hot potato, the remote floundering and falling with a deft thunk on the carpet. Mark dropped to his knees and Anna Beth had vaulted over the couch with surprising quietness to assist. Mark’s heart was beating like thunder in his chest, but he persevered and with a mud occupied hand he grabbed the device, spun, and, now visible, located the power button, of which he aimed everything appropriately, as if he were lounging on the floor, to the television.
It was Anna Beth who put a hand on his shoulder, and Jackson who tiptoed behind the couch, three idiots staring forward, entranced like some spell by the media before them. No sound was coming from the speakers, and Mark figured that even an asshole like Monty Pote would not mute the television before turning it off.
“Holy shit,” Mark said, and no one stopped him from speaking.
“What the fuck,” said Anna Beth, and no one stopped her from speaking.
“Huh?” pondered Jackson, and no one stopped him from speaking.
They were spellbound by the television as if the entire concept of this media had manifested right in front of their eyes. Before them the television fashioned itself more of a mirror, duplicitous, looking inwards like some surreal Magritte painting. It was of the living room, the very same of which they stood currently, taken from a vantage of a camera in the top left corner. The room in the screen was in broad daylight, perhaps taken from this morning, and even though it was empty Jackson still checked and confirmed via hand motions that the camera was not there at present, which eliminated the anxiety of capture on camera.
“It’s just…this room,” Mark whispered, “nothing is happening.”
“I thought it was a porn or something,” said Anna Beth, biting her lip.
“Who takes a video tape of a room?”
Then, on screen, the up-and-coming actor, now master of his own work, walked into frame, presumably from the same door the trio had just invaded. Following behind was Catherine Ale, her blonde locks bouncing atop her shoulders, looking as if every micro movement of her muscle could be snapshotted, as if every fiber of her being was propped by the Hollywood machine to make her the new It girl. The camera was slightly sped up, only evident once movement was introduced into the screen, and they moved at a slightly hurried pace, circling speaking of something, the two Hollywood goliaths conjugating in this beautiful Beverly Hills home. A flash of acknowledgement from Monty Pote looking Catherine Ale’s shoulders harpooned self-consciousness in Mark as he directly acknowledged the camera, which Mark thought was a standard no-no in cinema.
“Something is wrong,” said Anna Beth, “you could see it in his eyes.”
They continued to watch the rapid movements of the duo. They began to circle one another, hands moving in frantic motion, as if play acting a fight, or running lines. As if Mark had precognitive ability, Monty and Catherine both flourished a sheath of papers, were consulting them, pointing out notes.
“Just a stupid movie,” Jackson said, “let’s just get on with it.”
The movie continued to play, Mark enraptured by the voyeuristic nature of it all, until finally the two of them embraced one another, Monty’s hands holding Catherine’s waist as if they really did care for one another. Mark, having recently masturbated to Catherine Ale just two nights prior, clenched his pawed hand so hard that his claws dug into his pads. Anna Beth, tsked.
“I thought celebrities just start dating another for like, publicity,” she said, shaking her head.
The two of them touched foreheads and then they disappeared into the door next to the television. The video continued to play for a solid minute, showing nothing, until cutting to black. Mark and Anna Beth stared at one another, and then broke their gaze to look at the neighboring door.
“I though that was a game closet,” Mark said.
“A game closet?”
“You know, like Monopoly and Clue and stuff.”
“Or a sex dungeon,” Anna Beth said, eye brow raised. She turned behind them but found Jackson gone, of which she gathered Mark’s attention and together they stood in the blackness of their opponent’s palace, aliens in a strange world. Mark felt an icicle of over-imagination invade him, somehow pulling him like a spelunker from the actual reality of their illegal activities. What if it were a dungeon? What if beyond the door was not mismatched tokens and unused chess pieces and boxes containing multicolored and cheap plastic gathering dust? The allure of the mystery made it hard for Mark to turn away, but then he remembered where he was, and that, like everything else in his rival’s life, of course he would have orgies with A-listers in his basement. All that was in Mark’s basement was a crawl space full of rats, trash, and sleeping homeless men, and he shared that crawl space with everyone else in his apartment.
Jackson snapped, literally, and Mark understood the necessity for what he would typically have construed as a rude way to garner someone’s attention. The three of them gathered together, faces illuminated by the damped flashlight as if they were telling a ghost story. Jackson pointed to the next stage in Project FU: Steal shit.
And steal shit they did, pulling out their backpacks, taking nothing that would be generally noticed, like Monty Pote’s recent Earnie win for breakout star, but small things, expensive cutlery, tiny pieces of art, China that was clearly expensive but even more clearly selected by a hired hand. Jackson admitted that this was inspired by Manson’s “Creepy Crawly” endeavors, of which his subordinates would break into the houses of Hollywood Elite and do nothing but move furniture around to incite impish fear as they sniggered in the desert. But Jackson knew this was crazy, and instead decided that taking something was the obvious course of a break in, especially if one was in Jackson’s case, where a debt was to be paid for services uncompensated. So Mark pawed his way through the expensive books, taking any nic-nack from the office, going so far to extend the verb steal to ruin, as if he needed to redeem his campaign of inconvenience. Using his claws, he tore drapes, cut into expensive sofa cushions with cauliflower trails at his wake, bent every single fork that he could, sans the ones made out of pure silver or gold, which, in a feedback loop of anger, proved to be many. He either tarnished every painting by scratching or drawing over it in child-like loops, and for photographs of him and his family, Mark forced himself to keep North and look away as he took the pictures off the wall, unscrewed the nails, and drew a faucet’s droplet of satisfaction to add reframing pictures onto the already growing list of what Monty Pote and Catherine Ale would wake up too. They worked like moles, three of them, and Mark passed Anna Beth stealing books and skulking in the liquor cabinet, Jackson actively seeking memorabilia from old tv shows, sets, stages – anything of actual value, the man would take a vile of Monty Pote’s spit if it sold – while Mark himself, satisfied with his loot, now proceeded to empty Monty Pote’s fridge, confident that the glow from the Jetson’s like automat would not incite attention, tossing streams of green, healthy goo full of nuts and pomegranates and goddamn kale down the drain. Let him eat at a taco truck like everyone else.
He had just finished taste-testing an organic plum tart before tossing it down the drain when Anna Beth appeared next to him. Her eyes said it all, and Mark loosened the tripod of his claws and met with Jackson at the prior-agreed upon Western veranda, the great curtains flapping in the moonlight like some visiting specter. Propping it open like some adventurer in a Mayan labyrinth, Jackson ushered Anna Beth through the window with little effort, and borderline pushed Mark’s fur-clad body through the opening, Mark thankful that Peebo fur cushioned any thunk from his admittedly portly frame. Then Jackson hopped through the portal himself, closing it carefully, and as they had previously practiced in theory, skirted now across the side of the lawn, past a hedge, and albeit slightly clumsily due to the immediacy of their endeavor, made it onto the naked, winding streets that constituted Beverly Hills, birthed almost comically in a flurry of puffed hedges.
“What happened?” Mark asked once they had captured their breath, the adrenaline dwindled somewhat in direct proportion to the distance of the hole of which they had been ejected.
Anna Beth shook her head, a string of black makeup trailing down her cheek like a popped blood vessel. Her eyes were sour and hot pink, she sniffled and Mark noticed that for some strange reason he found Anna Beth a pretty crier, all things considered. She said, “The closet door was open.”
Mark furrowed his brows, his rounded teddy bear ears seeming to shrug in conjunction. “So?”
It was Jackson who continued, his voice quivering “And something was there, right Anna Beth? Something was going into the closet?”
She sniffled and nodded.
“What’s going on?” Mark said, “Enough jokes, guys. If you saw Monty or Catherine or the cops you can tell me. I can take the anxiety hit. No need to play tricks. I’m already dressed like a fucking Pobo.” Mark knew he said his dirty costume’s name wrong, and the fact that Jackson did not correct him actually did cause Mark worry. He continued, “Look, we followed all the orders, double checked everything in Project FU. We’re fine. Let’s go home and reconvene in a couple of days, like we planned. Take the heat off ourselves.”
Jackson ignored him. He said, “Something. Was. There. Right?”
Anna Beth sniffled again, wiped her cheek to create a black apostrophe, and nodded.
“What was there?” Mark said, no longer feeling protected but annoyed, left out of some horrible joke, envious for no real reason that he was not included in this joint trauma.
And without prompting, like some greater force had activated both of them, Jackson and Anna Beth said in half unison, one step behind the other so their voices overlapped. But it was clear enough to the three of them: A bug. They stared at one another, shook their heads, and Anna Beth legitimately shivered while Jackson attempted to smack himself awake.
“What kind of bug?” Mark asked.
“A beetle,” said Jackson, looking at his feet. Anna Beth shivered.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mark said, “we’ve almost botched this. We’re tired.”
“Yeah,” Anna Beth said, “yeah, that’s right.”
Their cars were several miles away, way past Rodeo, and thus began the panting trio staggering like reverse and drunken Santa Clauses, their bags full of goodies taken rather than given, sweat pouring from their nose and slightly chilled by the damned morning breeze. Anna Beth lit a cigarette and the acrid smell trailed them like a caboose, Jackson spat at their feet as if marking territory. Mark was still in the Peebo costume, lumbering along, unable to peel off the prop as it had essentially been glued to his skin. His exhaustion dominated any semblance of embarrassment or frustration, and Anna Beth, remaining forever quiet, was equally as exhausted to force him to strip.
They had parked their vehicles at various points around Beverly Hills to not arouse suspicion, Jackson would drop off Mark who would drop of Anna Beth.
. “So,” Mark said, finally reaching Jackson’s car, “we’ll all see each other at Josie’s?
Jackson, looking at Mark but past him, glanced now over his shoulder at the direction of Monty Pote’s house. His lower lip quivered, eyes as red as Anna Beth’s, who had situated herself in Jackson’s beat up car amidst the tumbleweeds of In-n-out burger wrappers, looking outside, beginning to chain smoke.
When Jackson did not answer, Mark put a paw on his shoulder. The image was ludicrous. “Did you really see something back there?”
Jackson shrugged, “Let’s just get some sleep.”
They settled into the car, the haunches of his beat-up steed groaning with their added weight. Jackson put the keys into the ignition, turned on the headlights, and leaned back in his chair, eyes wide, looking at nothing.
“Get on with it, Jackson,” Anna Beth said, “I’d like to go home.”
Jackson raised his hands to the keys, trembling. “We can’t.”
“Why?” Mark said, feeling exhausted particularly because he had just sat. He had not realized the trials he had been put through; the crawling, the falling, the cold jettison of sprinkler. His body had remembered that underneath his furry exterior he was a mortal being of this plane.
“I left the notebook,” Jackson said, flatly.
“That’s fine,” Mark said, “it’s not like it has your name on it, right?”