apparentreasons

?Jesus, shut up!?

There had not been so much as a strong sigh, but Tim always knew when Corey's mental House of Parliament was convening. A hundred voices, each fueled by more than one of its own agendas and often it was as if Tim was in the gallery to witness the entire display. Corey believed that Tim could hear each word from all the voices inside his head. He could not help but chuckle at Tim?s remark as neither of them had spoken since an hour earlier that morning. In fact, they had not said a word since Tim arrived to pick him up that morning so they could share the long-ride to work. It was not uncommon for Tim to drive. The discolored S10 served as an irreplaceable foundation of security to Corey?s construction worker identity. He often felt that without that touch everything about him would be revealed as an all too apparent illusion. The little truck, which is entirely too cramped for the two men and the size of Corey?s thoughts, is the punctilious mortar simultaneously bonding the bricks of lies he projects about himself and masking the sharp edges of each untruth to produce an aesthetically pleasing façade.

?Was I too loud again?? Corey asked. His response from Tim came in the form of a knowing smile. This kind of smile can communicate a shared secret or simply, as in this case, the unanimously agreed end of a discussion that neither person will have had ever begun.

?Dude you were out there this time.?

?That bad huh??

?I?m glad we?re almost there dude `cuz my ears are ringin?.?

The pair laughed as Tim turned down the newly paved black asphalt lane leading to the site. After a few hundred yards he steered the pickup across the oncoming lane of traffic, over the curb, and into the dirt lot that might have otherwise been an oversized baseball diamond if you ignored the mess of heavy equipment, ribbons of bright-orange tied to wooden stakes -where bases should be- and matching orange dashes in place of the usual symmetrical white-chalk base-lines.

**************************

?Yeah, c?mon Tim,? the group chorused, urging the young man to share any dirt he might have on his fellow commuter.

?The son-of-a-bitch could be the love-child of David Berkowitz and Hulk Hogan. I see that guy talkin' to any dogs and he's shit-canned,? the foreman in the white hard-hat added. The air filled with raucous laughter and the sound of clinking beer cans applauded the foreman's declaration as if it had been a toast.

Corey subtly returned Tim's smile from that morning. Tim knows none of the conversation is escaping Corey and too, he knows that, in the manner of a serial-killer from the foreman's description, Corey is completely aloof. The young man cleared his throat with a cough as he tucked his filthy, faded t-shirt into his equally worn jeans and struck an orator's pose. He achieved a most authoritative appearance in spite of his attire and moppish, straw-blonde hair-- as bleached by the sun as his skin was dyed by its rays-- and the gathering of thick- and wiry-muscled men roared with laughing and exclamatory approval.

"All I can tell you fellas, is what I've seen with my own eyes," Tim begins. "First job we worked together I meet the dude when he's pinned beneath the FOP cage of a tipped Bobcat 463. `Course no one knows nothin' about nothin `cept half his ribcage is cracked and all of this musta happened magical cuz no one admits to drivin' the damn thing. Takes most of the crew to upright the rig and the whole time this guy is talkin' to me like we been sittin' on a flat bottom boat fishin' for smallmouth all day. He just chats away all calm and cool like he's bored and about to take a nap." Tim pauses while the image takes hold in the minds of his audience. "Next day he is back on the job with some tape around his ribs like nothin' happened. Same distant expression as always and the dude don't even take so much as a sharp breath the whole day even though you know he musta been hurtin' somethin' fierce."

The story more alienated the group from Corey than it worked to earn their respect. Shrugging off a 1 1/2 ton piece of construction equipment was nothing to sneeze at, but everyone was unsettled by the idea that Corey may have actually enjoyed the experience. What had once been a jocular gathering broke into stragglers ready to call it a day and head for home. The pair's own return drive home was filled with Tim's indignation.

"Those fuckin' guys are exactly why I want to quit this shit!" Tim turned to make sure Corey was paying attention. "I say we quit talkin' about it every day and blag the truck dude."

The two held a serious, question answering stare until Corey could no longer contain his smile.

"Dude," Corey mocked, "did you just use the word `blag'?"

"Yeah dude, heard it in a movie," he answered, smiling sheepishly at his partner. "So is that a yes?"

**************************

The smell of gun oil was probably the first thing Corey had noticed about Tim as his hands had grasped the driver's cage of the Bobcat. The smell of gun oil and an unflinching willingness to discuss robbing an armored car had ingratiated the youth into his life.

**************************

"Why don't you ever see armored cars on the highway?" had been Corey's opening question to a specific agenda, but not the opening question to this particular discussion. "Do armored cars ever break down? I have never seen one being towed."

"Yeah dude, and if armored cars are so secure, why don't the president ride around in one all the time and forget the extra security?" Tim jumped in. "I have never seen air support and lines of police and secret service following an armored car. Hell dude, why do they call them armored cars anyways? I mean they are totally armored vans or trucks!"

"That's true," Corey responded adding "most of them are diesel vans with Class III armoring. You could punch through those trucks with police-issue assault rifles. Very few companies in the U.S. utilize Class V armoring to protect against such weaponry."

Without Corey prompting or pressing, the light-hearted conversation stretched over a month and grew to an intricate discussion covering the plausibility of executing the crime and reducing the probability of conviction to near zero. A million minute details like agreeing that the risk of capture was acceptable but serving time was not strengthened the bond between both men. The joke matured from an exhaustive conversation into their secret lives. Unmitigated acceptance of one another could not have been more important as the off-the-wall idea they had joked about became an intensive hobby occupying substantial chunks of both men's lives. Had Tim hesitated at the volumes of security magazines and gadget catalogues Corey had in his home office it would have separated them. Were Tim's enthusiasm less than Corey's indifference about committing the crime, they would have stopped at merely joking. Tim would suggest materials written or even printed off the computer should be done on spy paper from the shomer-tec.com website. Corey contributed a policy of wearing surgical gloves and no beverages when working in what would come to be known as the `crime room'.

At least two months had been spent converting the adjoining bathroom in the master bedroom of Corey's home into the planning room, or what the two would come to refer to as the crime room. The beauty of the spy paper was that any liquid would pulp the paper into oatmeal. Paper shredders are a kindergarten criminal's tool. Corey and Tim planned this job to be their doctoral thesis. No blood, no foul. No body, no crime. No evidence, no conviction. The trust continued to grow as the two celebrated their clever adaptation of the bathroom with its added sprinkler system and concrete floor. The four drains, one in each corner, and inverted conical elevation of the floor guaranteed that the paper would continue to be reduced to mush even as it clumped down into the sewer. They both uniformly agreed that the extra expense and week of effort was well worth tying the sprinkler system into the wall switch of all rooms in the house. Tim's insistence that these measures still were not enough forced Corey to incorporate the concept of security features into the design. Banks have sensors fashioned into their teller's drawers as a backup. A felon would be wary of anyone attempting to trigger an alarm, but she could in turn demand the emptying of a teller's drawer, exposing the optical sensor to light or closing the electric circuit between the money-holding clip and drawer bottom, thus triggering the same alarm. This idea and Tim's assurance of the necessity inspired Corey to adapt a closing circuit into the deadbolt of the front door and to place a rupture sensing film around the perimeter of the glass in the rear sliding patio door. During the day, the highest likelihood of a forced-entry by law-enforcement would be through the front door as entering through the patio door would create an unsafe situation of high visibility for the officers. At night, the rear glass door would offer an option for uninvited entry. Either entry, if forced, would equate to Tim or Corey manually engaging the sprinkler system via the designated switch.

The compounded brilliance of the crime room was demonstrated in the inability of either of them to convince the other to refrain from engaging the sprinkler system. The initial, reassuring test had indeed been performed with oatmeal but many tests had since been performed as realistic scenarios. Celebrating their mutual design through engaging the sprinkler system meant rebuilding the entire crime from scratch as every piece of gathered data, every printed schematic, and every scribbled armored car schedule was dissolved and run down the drain. Bigger boys equal bigger toys. Each time the water washed away all of their work, the entire plan was rebuilt completely. The repetition worked to their great advantage as a tool guarding against errors of fatigue or lack of concentration and helped to solidify the hundredfold aspects of the crime in their memories as they underwent the planning and data gathering over and over again. Plotting and scheming passed the time much like any other hobby. The difference is that the work entailed hardened Corey's apathy and slowly eroded the black and white distinction of Tim's ethics. Right and wrong had blurred beyond recognition barring the most intense magnified scrutiny.

The scrutiny of ethics came the night before. For the first night in Tim's recollection, he wasn't thinking of the details of executing the `blag?. No physician can explain the anomaly of a cold sweat. Sweating is the body's response to overheating, not chills. Tonight his thoughts were filled with faces. Faces of uniformed guards, faces of spouses in cars dropping guards off at work, small faces attached to little waving hands seen from the back windows were all he could see with his eyes open or shut. Details of faces flooded his head. A pair of eyes from the would-be crime scene matched a set from his favorite pub. The same was true for countless smiles that matched those in the grocery store and the gas station. Even the hardware store turned over matches like Tim's own personal version of Hasbro's® trademarked Memory® game. The night lasted longer than any other, longer than all those spent in planning.

Tim arrived to pick Corey up as usual. He arrived in the same S10, wearing the same work clothes and met Corey at the same spot. Today was to be different. Today was crime day, the first day of the rest of their rap sheet; job one of the new trade. The only changes though were the locked passenger door and the expression on Corey's face as he tried the handle. That expression was locked in the rear-view mirror of the pickup as Tim drove away. All the faces in Tim's thoughts were replaced by the plan. All possible scenarios had been calculated, even this one.


		Apparent Reasons

	?Jesus, shut up ?Jesus, shut up!? There had not been so much as a strong sigh, but Tim always knew when Corey's mental House of Parliament was convening. A hundred voices, each fueled by more than one of its own agendas and often it was as if Tim was in the gallery to witness the entire display. Corey believed that Tim could hear each word from all the voices inside his head. He could not help but chuckle at Tim?s remark as neither of them had spoken since an hour earlier that morning. In fact, they had not said a word since Tim arrived to pick him up that morning so they could share the long-ride to work. It was not uncommon for Tim to drive. The discolored S10 served as an irreplaceable foundation of security to Corey?s construction worker identity. He often felt that without that touch everything about him would be revealed as an all too apparent illusion. The little truck, which is entirely too cramped for the two men and the size of Corey?s thoughts, is the punctilious mortar simultaneously bonding the bricks of lies he projects about himself and masking the sharp edges of each untruth to produce an aesthetically pleasing façade. ?Was I too loud again?? Corey asked. His response from Tim came in the form of a knowing smile. This kind of smile can communicate a shared secret or simply, as in this case, the unanimously agreed end of a discussion that neither person will have had ever begun. ?Dude you were out there this time.? ?That bad huh?? ?I?m glad we?re almost there dude `cuz my ears are ringin?.? The pair laughed as Tim turned down the newly paved black asphalt lane leading to the site. After a few hundred yards he steered the pickup across the oncoming lane of traffic, over the curb, and into the dirt lot that might have otherwise been an oversized baseball diamond if you ignored the mess of heavy equipment, ribbons of bright-orange tied to wooden stakes -where bases should be- and matching orange dashes in place of the usual symmetrical white-chalk base-lines. ************************ ?Yeah, c?mon Tim,? the group chorused, urging the young man to share any dirt he might have on his fellow commuter. ?The son-of-a-bitch could be the love-child of David Berkowitz and Hulk Hogan. I see that guy talkin' to any dogs and he's shit-canned,? the foreman in the white hard-hat added. The air filled with raucous laughter and the sound of clinking beer cans applauded the foreman's declaration as if it had been a toast. Corey subtly returned Tim's smile from that morning. Tim knows none of the conversation is escaping Corey and too, he knows that, in the manner of a serial-killer from the foreman's description, Corey is completely aloof. The young man cleared his throat with a cough as he tucked his filthy, faded t-shirt into his equally worn jeans and struck an orator's pose. He achieved a most authoritative appearance in spite of his attire and moppish, straw-blonde hair-- as bleached by the sun as his skin was dyed by its rays-- and the gathering of thick- and wiry-muscled men roared with laughing and exclamatory approval. "All I can tell you fellas, is what I've seen with my own eyes," Tim begins. "First job we worked together I meet the dude when he's pinned beneath the FOP cage of a tipped Bobcat 463. `Course no one knows nothin' about nothin `cept half his ribcage is cracked and all of this musta happened magical cuz no one admits to drivin' the damn thing. Takes most of the crew to upright the rig and the whole time this guy is talkin' to me like we been sittin' on a flat bottom boat fishin' for smallmouth all day. He just chats away all calm and cool like he's bored and about to take a nap." Tim pauses while the image takes hold in the minds of his audience. "Next day he is back on the job with some tape around his ribs like nothin' happened. Same distant expression as always and the dude don't even take so much as a sharp breath the whole day even though you know he musta been hurtin' somethin' fierce." The story more alienated the group from Corey than it worked to earn their respect. Shrugging off a 1 1/2 ton piece of construction equipment was nothing to sneeze at, but everyone was unsettled by the idea that Corey may have actually enjoyed the experience. What had once been a jocular gathering broke into stragglers ready to call it a day and head for home. The pair's own return drive home was filled with Tim's indignation. "Those fuckin' guys are exactly why I want to quit this shit!" Tim turned to make sure Corey was paying attention. "I say we quit talkin' about it every day and blag the truck dude." The two held a serious, question answering stare until Corey could no longer contain his smile. "Dude," Corey mocked, "did you just use the word `blag'?" "Yeah dude, heard it in a movie," he answered, smiling sheepishly at his partner. "So is that a yes?" ********************** The smell of gun oil was probably the first thing Corey had noticed about Tim as his hands had grasped the driver's cage of the Bobcat. The smell of gun oil and an unflinching willingness to discuss robbing an armored car had ingratiated the youth into his life. ************************ "Why don't you ever see armored cars on the highway?" had been Corey's opening question to a specific agenda, but not the opening question to this particular discussion. "Do armored cars ever break down? I have never seen one being towed." "Yeah dude, and if armored cars are so secure, why don't the president ride around in one all the time and forget the extra security?" Tim jumped in. "I have never seen air support and lines of police and secret service following an armored car. Hell dude, why do they call them armored cars anyways? I mean they are totally armored vans or trucks!" "That's true," Corey responded adding "most of them are diesel vans with Class III armoring. You could punch through those trucks with police-issue assault rifles. Very few companies in the U.S. utilize Class V armoring to protect against such weaponry." Without Corey prompting or pressing, the light-hearted conversation stretched over a month and grew to an intricate discussion covering the plausibility of executing the crime and reducing the probability of conviction to near zero. A million minute details like agreeing that the risk of capture was acceptable but serving time was not strengthened the bond between both men. The joke matured from an exhaustive conversation into their secret lives. Unmitigated acceptance of one another could not have been more important as the off-the-wall idea they had joked about became an intensive hobby occupying substantial chunks of both men's lives. Had Tim hesitated at the volumes of security magazines and gadget catalogues Corey had in his home office it would have separated them. Were Tim's enthusiasm less than Corey's indifference about committing the crime, they would have stopped at merely joking. Tim would suggest materials written or even printed off the computer should be done on spy paper from the shomer-tec.com website. Corey contributed a policy of wearing surgical gloves and no beverages when working in what would come to be known as the `crime room'. At least two months had been spent converting the adjoining bathroom in the master bedroom of Corey's home into the planning room, or what the two would come to refer to as the crime room. The beauty of the spy paper was that any liquid would pulp the paper into oatmeal. Paper shredders are a kindergarten criminal's tool. Corey and Tim planned this job to be their doctoral thesis. No blood, no foul. No body, no crime. No evidence, no conviction. The trust continued to grow as the two celebrated their clever adaptation of the bathroom with its added sprinkler system and concrete floor. The four drains, one in each corner, and inverted conical elevation of the floor guaranteed that the paper would continue to be reduced to mush even as it clumped down into the sewer. They both uniformly agreed that the extra expense and week of effort was well worth tying the sprinkler system into the wall switch of all rooms in the house. Tim's insistence that these measures still were not enough forced Corey to incorporate the concept of security features into the design. Banks have sensors fashioned into their teller's drawers as a backup. A felon would be wary of anyone attempting to trigger an alarm, but she could in turn demand the emptying of a teller's drawer, exposing the optical sensor to light or closing the electric circuit between the money-holding clip and drawer bottom, thus triggering the same alarm. This idea and Tim's assurance of the necessity inspired Corey to adapt a closing circuit into the deadbolt of the front door and to place a rupture sensing film around the perimeter of the glass in the rear sliding patio door. During the day, the highest likelihood of a forced-entry by law-enforcement would be through the front door as entering through the patio door would create an unsafe situation of high visibility for the officers. At night, the rear glass door would offer an option for uninvited entry. Either entry, if forced, would equate to Tim or Corey manually engaging the sprinkler system via the designated switch. The compounded brilliance of the crime room was demonstrated in the inability of either of them to convince the other to refrain from engaging the sprinkler system. The initial, reassuring test had indeed been performed with oatmeal but many tests had since been performed as realistic scenarios. Celebrating their mutual design through engaging the sprinkler system meant rebuilding the entire crime from scratch as every piece of gathered data, every printed schematic, and every scribbled armored car schedule was dissolved and run down the drain. Bigger boys equal bigger toys. Each time the water washed away all of their work, the entire plan was rebuilt completely. The repetition worked to their great advantage as a tool guarding against errors of fatigue or lack of concentration and helped to solidify the hundredfold aspects of the crime in their memories as they underwent the planning and data gathering over and over again. Plotting and scheming passed the time much like any other hobby. The difference is that the work entailed hardened Corey's apathy and slowly eroded the black and white distinction of Tim's ethics. Right and wrong had blurred beyond recognition barring the most intense magnified scrutiny. The scrutiny of ethics came the night before. For the first night in Tim's recollection, he wasn't thinking of the details of executing the `blag?. No physician can explain the anomaly of a cold sweat. Sweating is the body's response to overheating, not chills. Tonight his thoughts were filled with faces. Faces of uniformed guards, faces of spouses in cars dropping guards off at work, small faces attached to little waving hands seen from the back windows were all he could see with his eyes open or shut. Details of faces flooded his head. A pair of eyes from the would-be crime scene matched a set from his favorite pub. The same was true for countless smiles that matched those in the grocery store and the gas station. Even the hardware store turned over matches like Tim's own personal version of Hasbro's® trademarked Memory® game. The night lasted longer than any other, longer than all those spent in planning. Tim arrived to pick Corey up as usual. He arrived in the same S10, wearing the same work clothes and met Corey at the same spot. Today was to be different. Today was crime day, the first day of the rest of their rap sheet; job one of the new trade. The only changes though were the locked passenger door and the expression on Corey's face as he tried the handle. That expression was locked in the rear-view mirror of the pickup as Tim drove away. All the faces in Tim's thoughts were replaced by the plan. All possible scenarios had been calculated, even this one.