Seems Fair To Me...

Except for one thing.

He had a penchant for stealing.

It was not the love of money that motivated him. His bank account was sizeable – over two hundred thousand in his savings as well as at least twice more in CD’s, stocks, and other investments. His job as network administrator for a software company on Wall Street earned him well over eighty thousand dollars a year before taxes. He owned a two-bedroom apartment in a high-end and respectable part of New York, for which he paid no rent, having inherited it from his father soon after his death seven years before.

Which begs the question: What motivated him to steal?

He enjoyed the thrill and excitement his hobby gave him. His love of thievery extended to many things: computers, pens, jewelry, food. He'd sometimes steal the phone books from the public telephones. Of course, he'd have no use for them, though that was besides the point. He simply stole for the fun of it, nothing more, nothing less, and seldom did he feel remorse.

Sometimes he felt guilty about the time he stole the Santa Claus and the reindeer figures from a cousin's Christmas tree. The figures, each made of plastic, were probably worth no more than ten dollars.

At the end of each day, just before retiring, he’d dwell on the morality of his actions, but only briefly, and always he came to the conclusion that the end justified the means. The few times it did bother him -- it was but for a short while. He needed the excitement, and stealing provided large doses of it, the thrill akin to that of the drug addict who injects himself with heroin. Never had his sleep been disturbed by guilt.

There was no limit to the kinds of things that he'd steal. It wasn't the stealing per se that filled him with the most excitement; rather, it was the delicious rewards of obtaining new and exciting things, be it through mental deceit or physical thievery. The high he invariably received never failed to make him feel grand and powerful, even if the objects stolen were worth but a few dollars.

Today, as he walked to work, he thought of what he'd steal on this day. Though certain he'd never tire of pastime, he’d always make sure to vary the things he'd steal, to ensure that his hobby would always remain interesting.

Today was December 24, 2009, the day before Christmas, a day of actions that would have dire consequences.

Forever.

It was a day just like any other, except...there was this feeling of death in the air, like a stench that just would not go away, lingering throughout the morning. Moments after awakening, something deep down inside told him that the next few hours held many surprises, perhaps most, if not all, unpleasant. In spite of it all, he tried to maintain a calm composure. Eventually, he thought, the positive thoughts would replace the negative.

What it was exactly that was bothering him he did not know. All he knew was that there was something within him, something heavy and cold, that pulled at him like a thick chain.

As he made his way through the streets, he sang a few tunes and, though his throat hurt -- the result of having drunk cold lemonade two nights before -- what he'd managed impressed him. Gosh, he thought, too bad I didn't make a career in singing, for I could...

His thoughts at once became jumbled, like a house of cards that had suddenly lost its balance and fell before your eyes. He shivered in spite of the warm weather on this cloudless July day, an icy feeling that ran up the ladder of his spine and to his neck. Thankfully, it remained there, for the gelid feeling would've surely entered his head and frozen him completely.

But what was behind his fear?

Maybe death was around the corner. He remembered the evening of seven long years before, when he'd been in a car accident. He'd been the driver of a car transporting him and three of his friends to his Riverdale home after a night out in Manhattan.

He remembered having been overcome moments after awakening with the uncanny notion that something unfortunate would occur on that day, though what exactly he could not pinpoint. For the first twenty minutes his stomach had ached, and his mouth felt dry before he suddenly felt better. It is said that birds and fish and many other animals feel in advance the arrival of a natural disaster, often behaving erratically prior to the event. Man, an animal like any other, sometimes man reacts in ways comparable to other creatures in similar circumstances. The day had been solid proof.

He realized -- twenty minutes too late -- that he'd been walking along a lonely stretch of street in a deserted part of Flatbush, Brooklyn.

Today, the wind blew steadily from the northeast. Now it felt cold, much colder than several minutes before; he still felt that overwhelming sense of impending danger.

He shuddered.

Realizing that he was hungry, he decided that he'd stop at a McDonald's. A cheeseburger with fries and Coke would be a welcome respite after forgoing yesterday's dinner due to an incipient cold (he never ate whenever he felt he was about to become ill -- in his view the body needed to conserve as much energy as possible in order to fight an illness).

He found a McDonald's three minutes later and entered.

At the counter he placed his order with a young man in her early twenties. She had bright-blue eyes, red hair, a pleasant face, though when she opened her mouth to smile he noticed she had rotten teeth. The words "toothpaste" and "braces" instantly came to mind.

The woman punched some keys on the cash register. "Like ketchup with that?"

Mike took out his wallet from his inside coat pocket. "No ketchup's fine," he said.

The employee took his money and after putting it in the register and giving him his change she disappeared into the kitchen.

The McDonald's was much less crowded this morning than usual. Two couples sat at tables, quietly chatting over their meals. The smell of beef and fries permeated throughout.

He glanced at his watch: 8:40 a.m. Twenty minutes before work.

He was loth to being late. The only other time he'd arrived after 9 was three weeks before, when he'd been involved in a three-car collision. Then, he'd also been hungry and so had stopped at McDonald's would be no real explanation, however. He considered calling the company, lying to them, perhaps telling them that he'd been in another accident before he figured that he'd have enough time to eat and be at work on time.

The employee returned a minute later with his order. "Have a nice day," she said as she handed him his meal. She smiled, though he sensed a fakeness to it.

"Thank you." He turned and searched for a seat. He found one near the door. He sat, wanting to eat his meal inside but then realized that he had only a few minutes before the start of the work day.

He left the restaurant, slamming the door behind him (not realizing that he'd slammed it), and walked ahead.

At the corner of the street he stopped and waited for the traffic light to turn green. He pulled out the cheeseburger and took a bite. He noticed, beside him, an old man with dark glasses, holding a leash. He looked at the dog he was guiding: a German Shepherd. He hated dogs, had hated them all his life and would always hate them for as long as he lived. He squinted his eyes and was about to utter an expletive when the old man pulled the leash and both he and animal moved along.

He was about to cross the street when a thought occurred to him.Now he knew the reason for his stress.

He needed a vacation badly. The sooner the better. For years now he'd been dreaming of going to the Pacific, away from the hustle and bustle of the large city that was New York. Not only would it afford him the opportunity to relax and recharge his batteries, a time away from the city would perhaps give him a different perspective of his current situation as well. Maybe he wouldn't take things so seriously, and maybe his stomach wouldn't o on creating as many problems.

He dug into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of aspirin, prescribed by Dr. Weinger three weeks before. “You’ve got anxiety,” the psychiatrist had told him. “The kind that won’t go away easily. But if continue with your therapy – perhaps for a month, maybe even less,” the shrink continued, “the prospects of success in overcoming it are excellent.” Now Mike held the bottle tightly in his hands. For the first time since his several-times-a-week stomach onslaughts he felt sorry he'd ever consulted a doctor; not only had he done little to relieve him of his malaise, Mike’s pocket was several hundred dollars emptier on account of his incompetence. The pills had actually made him feel much worse.

The smirk suddenly disappeared and became a frown. He put the bottle back inside his coat pocket.

He tried diverting his attention to other, more pleasant thoughts, and there was one that truly filled him with much joy. For a brief moment it flashed through his mind.

His first stop would be the CVS on 95th and West End Avenue three blocks away.

He wasn't going to try to live out the day on this stomach pain. How he'd hate if he'd have to vomit on the subway on his way home.

He crossed the street and walked. The afternoon seemed sunnier than usual, full of promise, and it was possible to believe that he could live forever.

Minutes later he was in front of the store. He entered.

He was grateful for the warmth inside. Outside, temperatures were around thirty degrees, and though he was certain that if he stood inside long enough it would become unbearably warm (he saw several employees behind their cash registers wiping their foreheads with handkerchiefs), it was still a welcome sight from the bitter cold outside.

"I'd like something for my stomach -- I'm in pain," he said when he reached the counter.

"That'll be aisle three, toward the back."

He made his way to the aisle and found a large bottle of Pepto-Bismol. He grabbed it and headed back to the cash register.

He was silent as he took the receipt and bag and walked out, to the gelid weather outside.

This city -- what a place of contrasts. From the glamour and opulence of Park Avenue to the squalor and danger of the South Bronx. You either loved it or you hated it; nothing in between, not in this metropolis of extremes.

He hated the place. The thing is, he'd once loved it. He supposed something from his past -- he couldn't pinpoint the exact event or moment -- was what had trigged his hatred for America's largest city.

He still retained within him some pockets of love for New York -- for example, he, too, had wept along with the rest of the world when terrorists sent two planes into the city's tallest buildings.

Maybe it was more a dislike than hatred proper.

But he had good reason for his dislike. Take, for example, the ever-increasing crime rate. True, Giuliani had done much to lower the rate and to get ride of the filth in the form of sex shops that once had dotted 42nd Street. But still, one here is as likely to be mugged, shot at, or murdered. My gosh, and how expensive this city is. He was going through some fast-food menus several days before and was shocked to see some of the prices: six-fifty for a cheeseburger, three dollars for a bottle of Gatorade, two dollars for a bottle of water. A rip-off in each case.

Could any place be worse?

He continued to walk, and as he did, he was overcome with an odd sense of déjà vu. He had been here before -- of that much he was certain. The when and why part he was uncertain.

He took a deep breath, looking at the sky. He exhaled (realizing he'd held his breath a little more than usual), and said to himself, "I feel awful."

He entered the subway. The stench was incredible -- the smell of urine mixed with garbage.

What a smell, he thought. Have never smelled anything like this before. Don't they have people who clean? What's up with this city?

This used to be a great city, he thought. The greatest in the world. But then you had people arrive from all over the world, and the neighborhoods gradually became marginalized. Parts of the city that used to be good are now slums. Take, for instance, many parts of the Bronx. He recalled his grandmother telling him how she used to go rope jumping as a child with her friends in the park and not worry about having to dodge bullets. You can never feel safe in this city.

He waited for five minutes before his train, the number 6, arrived. It roared on its way to the platform, and for ten seconds he had to cover his ears with his hands.

During the ride, he shared a seat with an elderly woman -- she must've been at least ninety, he guessed -- who, during most of the forty-minute ride had her head buried in the New York Daily News.

Only once did she look up from the newspaper, when the train announcer mentioned they'd arrived at Times Square. At that point she put the paper on her lap and turned her head left and right -- the gesture reminded him of that an owl would do -- studying the passengers sort of disapprovingly that exited and entered the car.

He reached the 15th Street station. He exited, leaving the ninety-year-old owl behind. He noticed two men arguing. One was a Black man, the other, he supposed, an Indian, for on his head he wore a turban.

"You stepped on me!" the Black man screamed. He had a large boom box on his shoulders, a thick silver chain with what appeared to be a dolphin or whale on his neck.

"Go to the sea and drown!" the turban-wearer countered.

He turned, wanting to ignore these people. God knows how many weird people this city has, he thought. People who talk to themselves. Homeless (he considered them weird, too) people. People who listen to music with the volume turned way up and shook their heads up and down in front of dozens of onlookers.

As the straphangers moved about, he took note of how crowded the place was, much more than usual. Women pushing their children in carriages, tourists and people moved about. This was truly a big city.

A minute later noticed a man -- more precisely, a homeless man -- on the top of the stairs that led to the street. He was sleeping. A bottle of rum lay beside him. He appeared to be middle-aged.

He mumbled something unintelligible as Mike approached. Obviously, he was in the deep stage of a dream. REM sleep, as they called it.

Perhaps out of curiosity, he continued to approach the man. Beside him lay a hat. And inside of the hat was money.

He turned, wanting to see if anyone was behind him. He saw no one.

He grabbed the hat slowly. "Sleep dear, you homeless person. Sleep sound. Sleep."

In the hat lay mostly coins, though he also noticed several bills -- one-dollar bills...

But also one...five-hundred-dollar bill!

How this five-hundred-dollar bill ended up here only God knows, he thought, for they were rare and he couldn't think of a reason why someone would want to part with such a rarity. Obviously, someone had given the homeless man the money as a gift. Either the donator had been rich or...

Perhaps he was dreaming. The ridiculousness of the situation almost made him laugh, but then he didn't want to awaken the man. He took the bill and was about to put it in his pocket when he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned and noticed a policeman about sixty feet away. The officer was writing something as he walked, never looking up from his pad to see what was unfolding not far from him.

Mike dropped bill back into the hat, then placed the hat back on the floor beside the sleeping homeless man.

And walked ahead, toward the steps.

When he came out into the street he noticed the weather was cooler than before he'd entered the subway. The wind was blowing harder, and the clouds seemed to have turned darker. He was sorry for not bringing his sweater with him.

His thoughts turned to the five-hundred-dollar bill he had touched, but not stolen, and immediately he was overcome with regret for not having taken it. The note would've made a nice addition to his collection of things stolen over the past ten years, ever since he became a kleptomaniac.

Had it not been for the cop, he would've had the money by now. Unfortunately, the officer had appeared out of nowhere, as though a ghost in a fantasy or horror movie, and so was the five-hundred-dollar bill.

He continued walking, trying as best as he could to ignore the homeless man's money he'd lost, but his thoughts continued to revolve around the bill.

Suddenly his hat flew off. He saw as it went to the middle of the street. A truck ran over it, flattening it.

He ran toward the hat. He reached it and surveyed the surroundings, hoping no cars were traveling toward him. In this part of the city cars tended to drive much faster than in others.

No cars, fortunately. Though...there was a black ball in the distance. It was quite hard to judge how far it was. It was as though he had been transported, as if by magic, again to the land of illogicality. He was sure it wasn't a car. Then what was it, this little black ball on the way toward him?

He turned to the flattened hat, picked it up even though his hands were frozen, as though he had suddenly been hypnotized, and ran...ran for his life. Toward the closest building to him, on the corner of the street.

No longer did he wish to look at the ball, but the greater part of his curiosity pulled at him even as he tried to run from the danger and toward the safety of the building.

He turned, then stopped.

And looked straight at the ball. It was much bigger now, at least ten times larger, and he felt evermore in danger.

And then all of a sudden...

Everything around him was dark. The air also had a heaviness to it that was stuffy.

Here, blackness ruled.

There was, however, one fundamental difference between this realm and the one from which he'd just come: he could now move.

You put two and two together and you got every indication that someone had just died: White light, darkness, the cold -- all these things pointed to death. He didn't want to admit it, however. Didn't want to tell himself that he was no longer alive. He hated the word, didn't like how it sounded, and wanted -- needed -- to get out like of here as soon as possible, before...

Most likely, he’d ended up at the place where people went after they died, which, it seemed to him thus far, wasn't a very pleasant place.

The first idea that came to him upon having met the darkness was escape. He could shout, of course. Maybe there would be someone to hear and save him. He doubted seriously that there was anyone else here, however. Just him and the eternal darkness.

He took in a deep breath, though regretted it moments later when a surge of air rose from deep within his stomach, and intuition immediately informed him escape would be hard once he fell into death's trap. His gut feeling told him so, and most of the time it was right. Not all the time, of course, but most. Throughout his life he had learned to trust that little inner voice of his, and today would be no exception. The ugly face of death had a mouth that was wide-open and would eat him up whole at any moment unless he acted -- now.

You'd better run, and you'd better run fast, the inner voice told him. There are enemies after you. They are ruthless, and they want to do some really bad things to you if they catch you.

And so he ran as fast as he could, though found he was still walking, albeit at a faster rate.

He tried screaming but, as expected, he could expel no sound. Such things always seemed to happen in the movies: A lady trying to escape from a monster when -- and this usually occurred after she made significant headway on her pursuer -- she suddenly falls, and then it takes her a long moment before she gets on her two feet again (by that time of course her enemy's only feet behind her).

Too bad I hadn't jumped to the light when he'd told me to, he thought. Perhaps I would've been able to reach the light with one nice-sized jump.

He stopped, turned.

Behind was as dark as the rest of his surroundings, however, and he considered screaming out again when he heard the voice say, "There's no way out." The tone was louder. "You're lost -- forever."

A chill coursed through him, and he could feel his teeth chattering. The voice still had a melodic tone to it, though the word "forever" had an eerie click to it, bringing upon a feeling of permanency to whatever situation awaited him on the other side; death would mean he'd be gone forever.

"Why don't you just give up now?" the voice added. "It'd be easier if you did."

"Are you saying I should accept death?" he heard himself say, and to his amazement his voice sounded as clear as if he'd spoken it in reality. "I ain't gonna do that," he added. "So many things I haven't done which I'd like to do. I really need to go back to where I came from." He paused, trying to regain his composure. Death was the tiger and he the hunted, yet he was generally loth to revealing his fears to someone; being a sissy usually gave your enemy a better advantage. He wasn't going to indulge the darkness, especially not after the horror it had put him through. "You're an idiot," he said after hearing no reply. "I will survive -- you'll see that I will."

"My son," the voice said creepily, and it sounded like one of those weird voices that advertised horror movies, "you have done yourself a very bad deed indeed."

Mike said nothing, still feeling disoriented.

"Now you must repent -- or else."

The thief felt a well of anger within him. "Excuse me?" He curled his hands into fists and opened his mouth wide. "But what have I done?" He paused. "And tell me just why I am here."

The voice didn't respond. There was a silence that was deafening, and the darkness at once seemed to be alive because of it.

"Tell me -- what have I done wrong?" he repeated.

When he heard no reply the thief took two steps forward. He stopped before turning his attention left, then right.

As expected, he could observe nothing other than darkness -- a deep, dark blackness that was more ominous than the way he felt inside.

"You took that bill," the voice said finally.

"Almost took it," he countered. His hands were no longer curled, and his mouth was now closed, though an anger still burned within him. "I put it right back into his hat. Was mostly curious -- wanted to see how a five-hundred-dollar bill looks like." He of course knew that was a lie, that he'd had the intention of taking the homeless man's money, but he'd put it back for fear after he'd seen the police officer approaching them. "Then you knocked me out and moved me here. And now just tell me where in -- "

"Son," the voice interrupted, "do you know what you've just done?"

Mike was silent.

"For your actions you have been punished with four years of bad karma." The Devil was silent for a long moment before he said, "I believe you must not go unpunished."

"Where am I," Mike asked, "In Hell?"

"That, my friend, you must find out for yourself."

Both the Devil and thief were silent.

"Repent," the Devil added.

"I don't know if I can do that," was all Mike could say.

Moments later he felt a jolt of pain on his back. It was excruciating, like a large pin being stuck deep into him.

"Okay, okay," said Mike. "So I promise I won't steal anymore." He paused. "So will this save me from Hell?"

The Devil replied, "If you repent I promise you will be saved from Hell."

"Seems fair to me."

Back in his office the next day, he sat at his desk, typing a report on the computer. This morning he felt more tired than usual -- and he had the Devil to thank. The bastard had sapped him of all his energy during the time he'd been forced to spend with him in Hell.

Moments later he heard a voice: "Hey, Mike!"

It was Peter, the VP of sales. He smiled, revealing a mouth that was devoid of the two front teeth, something Mike hadn't noticed before.

"Jeez, Pete, what happened to your two front teeth?"

Pete's expression immediately darkened. "It isn't very much of a pleasant story."

"I'll listen."

"Well, it all happened two weeks ago. I got drunk, you see. Spent all night putting the finishing touches on my still-life painting." Pete sighed. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this." Pete's face was flush with embarrassment.

"Go on. I'll listen."

"Anyway," Pete continued, "my neighbor, Mr. Stewart, he's one of the peskiest men you'll ever find this side of the universe. He spent the whole night with the TV on loud -- sounded like a movie-theater in there."

"And?"

"And well, you know, I really like my peace and quiet. I knock on his door for about ten minutes, just pounding away as if I'm some lunatic. And he doesn't wake up. Well, finally, after some more pounding, twenty minutes into it, the door opens. It's him. He's got his stinking alcohol breath, and he starts yelling at me, screaming from the top of his lungs, saying that I'm a bastard -- oops, young man, don't tell staff I said that -- for waking him from his sweet sleep, says he was having a wonderful and colorful dream of butterflies in a vast green valley and that he hated me deeply for stealing his sleep and, just as importantly, the dream.

"Anyway, after he finishes I tell him to calm down, but he doesn't. And then he jumps at me. Could you believe it? He attacks me. And so we go at it. Both of us are dancing on the floor. He’s got his arms around my neck, and I'm grabbing him, hands around his chest, trying to free myself. We dance for about, oh, I would say, three minutes. Luckily no one heard us. Then, after I break loose I bust him in the lips, make sure it's a nice square punch, and then he falls down -- for good. At first I think I killed him, but then when I bend down and hear his heartbeat I am relieved. So I drag him inside, pick him up, put him on his bed, and that is the end of it all."

"I'm just glad you're all right, Pete. Take care of yourself. We all need you here at the company." Actually, Mike was convinced the company didn't need him and could care less of what happened to him.

"Thanks for the concern." He paused, and Mike thought he saw sadness in his eyes, as though aware of an impending misfortune. "Hey, sorry for getting off the subject, but..." His eyes took on a look of seriousness. "Nah, forget it."

Mike wanted to pry for more information, but after a second he said, "You have a nice day, Pete."

He heard another voice: "I'd like to have a word with you, Mike."

Mike turned and was face to face with his boss, Harry Weathers.

"Into my office," said his boss. "Please."

Without saying a word Mike walked to his office.

"Please sit," he boss said, seated at his table. He pointed to a chair in front of him.

He sat, then folded his legs. "Okay -- at your service."

Mike noticed the heavy air and the prominent smell of cigars.

"Don't mean to suffocate you with the scent," his boss said slowly, "but the air purifier's broken. Hasn't been working for a few days now." He slouched in his chair. "Have to call the manufacturer for a refund."

Mike didn't say anything. He tried hard to gauge what his boss was about to tell him.

Another puff of the cigar.

"I'm sure you called me here for a reason," Mike said uneasily.

"Well, Mike," his boss offered, "this won't be easy to tell you."

Mike swallowed.

"Business is not going well, Mike," his boss said.

"That mean you'll be letting me go?"

His boss rose. He put the cigar in his ashtray, then gave Mike a hard look -- the kind that seemed to say you'd better not react violently to what I'm about to tell you.

"Does that mean I'm about to be fired?"

"Times are hard, Mike," he said solemnly. "I'm afraid I'll be forced to let you go."

His body sagged, and his blood became hot with anger. "But Harry -- "

"I'm sorry," his boss said, and even as he did he rose in his chair, and for the first time in a while Mike noticed how fat he was.

He approached Mike.

"How could you?" Mike said scornfully. "I gave this company much more than all of your employees combined, and now you have the gall to fire me." He felt his mouth go dry. He took a deep breath, concerned for himself that he might get a nervous breakdown and end up in the hospital.

He thought of what kind of revenge he would exact on his boss for laying him off. After all, he'd been the best employee he'd ever had. So why lay him off? Was this a joke?

"You're joking, aren't you?" Mike asked.

His boss nodded, and for a split-second Mike thought he'd had been joking. But then a frown appeared on his boss' face. "I'm sorry to do this to you, Mike. I really am. The times have changed," his boss added. "A lot of our jobs have been moved overseas. Sometimes things just happen -- things that are beyond my control." He smiled, though it felt insincere to him. "Listen, I'll give you a good recommendation."

"But why?"

"It's through no fault of your own, really. Ever since 9-11, as you no doubt are aware, the times have been utterly difficult for most IT companies." A long pause. "Listen, Mike. You're a good kid -- very bright and still young. I'm sure you'll have no problems finding your way."

"I enjoy working with you." Mike's face reddened. He felt his hands curl in a fist, though the boss hadn't noticed it. "I love this company. I don't want to go anywhere."

His boss shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry...terribly sorry."

"Fine," Mike said simply. "If that's your wish -- "

His boss put a hand on Mike's shoulder. "You don't understand -- "

"I well understand." Mike's voice was rising. "You're letting me go, that's what you're doing." He sighed. "I gave this company seven years of my life, and this is what I get."

"Mike, it's nothing personal. Really." He patted Mike's shoulder.

Mike looked at his boss' face, which wore a frown. Under normal circumstances he would've taken it for a genuine gesture. Not now, though; the glower was bogus, part of his vast theatrical repertoire, as fake as fool's gold. "I think you're making a mistake," Mike said calmly, yet firmly. He squeezed his fists, and his mouth instantly became dry. He turned. "Fine, if you insist, but I'm not too happy about it."

He walked out the door without turning.

But fortunately he'd return. It wouldn't be the last time he'd be here.

He would later return and steal something -- anything. Once he did he'd consider himself even. After all, he'd given him seven years of his time -- and seven years was a long time. During his tenure at the company he'd been instrumental in its growth, helping to transform it from the small, relatively nameless and faceless company that it was when he’d started to the multinational firm that it now was, with subsidiaries in five other major cities and annual gross revenues likely in the tens of millions.

Later, probably this evening or the next, he'd do the deed.

Fifteen minutes after being laid off, he surveyed his surroundings. It was just your usual day. There was a large crowd of people on Wall Street. Everything was the same.

Except for one thing.

People were staring at him. It was as if they knew he was a thief.

Otherwise, how could you explain the looks on their faces?

He felt the first raindrops falling. Luckily he had his umbrella. He pushed the button, though it wouldn't open.

"Hey, sir," said a young boy of about eight. "What's that on your forehead?"

Around the boy several other children had gathered. All were giggling. "Would you kids stop laughing at me?" he said. Angered by their taunts and stares, he considered slapping at least one though thought against it when he figured it would only make him end up in prison over something relatively minor.

Was this all a joke?

Mike took off his hat, then touched his forehead. It felt normal.

"What do you mean what's on my forehead?" he asked, directing his question at the boy who'd made the comment.

"Ha!" the boy screamed out.

He tried as best to ignore the kid, to phase him out of his mind, though he knew that it would be a difficult challenge.

He walked ahead, trying to smile, but even a simple smile, one that could, perhaps soothe his soul, was not possible. It eluded him.

Fifteen minutes later he stood in front of his building. He regarded the structure, which seemed foreboding, and a crazy notion appeared in his mind’s eye—that it would, at any moment, come crumbling down.

What is it with me?

He entered and noticed the elderly landlord opening the door to the laundry room.

"Wonderful weather," offered the old man, then added, "You know I'm joking, don't you?"

Mike turned the key and the door opened.

"Hey Joe," he replied. "Could be worse, though."

The landlord said nothing as he disappeared into his apartment office.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He was a glad the property owner was no longer there. Sometimes his small talk would lead into conversations about food, talks that would last for way too many minutes.

He didn't need one of those. He just wanted to return home and get some rest.

He entered the apartment. He wondered why it felt so stuffy.

The air had a heavy feel to it, as though the door hadn't been opened in ages.

He headed straight to the large window in his living room. After a brief struggle he opened it, letting in a welcome rush of cool fresh air.

Once, he'd lived more modestly than now. Thanks to the various scams concocted through the years, he'd amassed an enormous fortune. But alas, those days were over -- gone with the times.

His first thing he'd do is rid himself of whatever lay on his forehead.

First of all, what's on my forehead?

He went to the bathroom and regarded himself in the mirror. On his forehead, in black lipstick was the following:

I am a thief.

He examined the sentence closer. Something on top of the word "thief" struck him as odd. Just above the "e" lay a small perfect circle, within the circle two dots and below the dots a semi-circle: a smile. It reminded him of Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy" song and the T-shirts the hit spawned during the late 1980s.

But who had put the words on his forehead? Bobby McFerrin certainly hadn't. He concluded they'd been placed there during his travel through darkness shortly after the incident with the homeless man and the five-hundred-dollar bill.

At first he thought it was some sort of joke, or a dream, perhaps. But those words on him were just as real as the very mirror that had revealed them to him.

He put on some soap, followed by water, and scrubbed. A smile formed on his face as he moved his hand in a circular motion. I'm going to get rid of this "I am a thief mark" from my forehead, he thought.

He soon found, however, that the rubbing did little, if anything, to rid his forehead of the sign.

He tried washing the mark a second time but still it would not go away.

He went back to the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets. Inside lay a four-pack of Dove soap. He grabbed one, and a smile instantly lit his face.

This should do it. Much stronger than regular soap.

He returned to the bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror he turned the tap on.

The mirror cracked.

He moved back several feet, concerned that it might explode into shards that would sink deep into him. The sound was like that of a balloon that had just been popped. The line -- a diagonal line that crossed the entire width of the glass -- was thick, about two inches in diameter.

"You stupid mirror," he said to himself. "What -- am I too pretty for you?"

He heard another crack -- this one louder than the first. He covered his ears with his hands, and moved back again.

First traveling to Hell and now this cracking mirror. Not exactly a good day. Is this a sign from the Devil?

Then, another sound -- a soft tad-tad -- as though someone was walking in the hallway.

A knock at the door.

"Yes?" said Mike.

A moment later he thought he'd heard the Devil's name. That's ridiculous, he thought. Am I dreaming? What's going on here?

A man's face appeared on the mirror in front of him.

The one whose five-hundred-dollar bill he'd wanted to take.

The homeless man stood there, laughing at him.

Moments later he was in the same pitch-black darkness he'd been earlier today just after the truck had whizzed by him.

"Ha, ha, ha!" he heard the voice say, and it reminded him of the voice of several days before, when he'd been in Hell.

"Stop laughing at me!" he yelled. "Stop!" He covered his ears. The sound was unbearable, like someone screaming with a blow-horn right into his ears. "Please stop!" He felt his heart thumping hard in his chest, and for a brief instant he had the insane notion that it would burst out.

"So you sinned again, Son," the voice said. Surely, this was the Devil, Mike thought. Who else would put him through so much horror?

"Look, man," Mike began, "I don't know what you want from me, but I -- "

"Ah, but your boss's computer. You -- "

"I didn't steal my boss's computer." Mike's face was red. His fists curled tightly. "I didn't steal anything. I am innocent."

"Ah, but the thought was there."

"I'm sorry?" Mike was confused.

"You don't get it, do you?" There was silence. Then: "Well, I guess you have a lot to learn. Let me take you on a journey. Come take my hand."

Then he saw the hand -- large and thick, could've been the size of an elephant -- stretching out from the darkness.

"You will learn," the voice said. "And you will return. Someday you will. Now come."

But now there was a worse dilemma: He was dying!

As though having been hypnotized by the voice, Mike complied. He got on the hand.

Slowly the hand took him away. It was then that he felt a peace, a quiet peace like that one felt in the last few moments before sleep. Off into darkness he went...

And so ended the life of Mike Lowell, a young man who believed too much in the value of riches. Who, in spite of having nothing to gain and everything to lose, always burned with the desire to take things that weren't his.

Somewhere in a park in Manhattan a young boy sat with other children his age. They still laughed about the man with the writing on his forehead. Never had they seen anything like that before.

And a homeless man awoke to a new day. The smell of liquor remained on his breath. He stretched, then massaged his face. The five-hundred-dollar bill still lay in his hat.

All were oblivious to the death of Mike Lowell.

To them, and everyone else, it was just another ordinary day.

Christmas, of course, was the day after, and somewhere, Mike Lowell remained without stolen property, for everything he had ever stolen would remain in this world.

THE END

Bio: Andy Echevarria has short stories published or forthcoming in such publications and e-zines as Great Mystery and Suspense Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Static Movement, Demon Minds, Galaxy E-zine, and Aphelion. Throughout his life he has had many 'writerly' jobs, including bookstore clerk, cashier, telemarketer, and even spent several months on a kibbutz picking bananas. A native New Yorker, he now lives in South Florida. His most recent Aphelion appearance was Doppelganger, in the April, 2008 edition.

E-mail: Andy Echevarria

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