November 13, 2022Fiveo1

My hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. Holding the donut. The roundabout — I travel around and around. No destination. No goal. I hadn't even packed.

The new car smell lingering in my nostrils. The exquisite sound system elegantly blasting salsa from Puerto Rico through its Bose. Everything you would expect from a high-end luxury sedan. The staple of success at $80,000.

The Mercedes-AMG C63 Coupe slid around the roundabout with ease. Weaving in and out of the stagnant traffic around me.

As it was on that July 4th, 2021.

I never would have imagined the predicament I found myself in. It was just that easy.

—

I walked down the boulevard in the middle of the day, leaving my hostel behind. I didn't have a plan. Stealing a car wasn't on my agenda. It kind of just happened.

I knew it would start. And it did.

I had seen the Mercedes for a moment a few days earlier, out on display along the boulevard, when I walked past it to check out the other cars in the showroom. The staff actually shooing me off. Apparently my attire of flip-flops, shorts, and tank top didn't scream the color green they were looking for.

—

I had landed in Medellín two weeks earlier from Santa Marta. Over the past three and a half months I had been beach-bumming it across Colombia, arriving in Cartagena from Miami before that. On the road for about five years at this point, moving from country to country at my measure. Colombia being my thirtieth.

After a month lounging around Palomino — resort style. Cold cheap beer. Weed. Beautiful women in bikinis. Sandy Caribbean beaches as far as the eye could see. I was living the dream. Accomplishing everything I had set out to do.

Absolutely nothing.

Early retirement. A life without regret. And I was nailing it. Truly living life to the fullest.

Medellín was not on my list originally. I hadn't heard of it before. My only reference was Narcos on Netflix. Pablo Escobar style.

—

As I strolled along, my destination certain, I casually lifted a large rock from the side of the road to my shoulder and continued on my way. Passing lively restaurants as I went. The patrons eating and socializing, living life, unaware of what passed them by.

I hadn't brought anything extra. Flip-flops. Shorts. T-shirt. A joint for the road. And my California driver's license in my pocket. No money. No credit cards needed. It would just start, I assumed.

Passing through the gated communities of Envigado, I continued on my course. No malice intended ahead. Just the soul's obligation of answering the question driving me.

The Mercedes on display. Front and center.

—

As I approached the glass wall of the dealership — the massive plate glass doors standing between me and my uncertain fate — I was uncertain of the process. A novice in this department. Outside my realm of expertise.

The simplest of solutions I had resolved by the presence of the large rock on my shoulder.

Midday as it was. Not a person in sight on a Monday afternoon. The normally busy street vacant of movement as I observed my surroundings. A quick second look. And the next instant, the rock was flying through the air.

Inevitably, it impacted the plate glass door. Bouncing off with a loud bang. Unsuccessful with my first attempt, I continued the process. Bouncing this massive rock off the dealership's plate glass doors again and again. Until one of the doors gave way. Fell forward. Shattering on impact with the glossy showroom floor.

The second door directly followed suit.

My fate was sealed. My course of action certain.

—

The spectacle visible to the passerby — ignored. The armed security guard unmoved from his post. As I stood at the entrance uninterrupted. A leisure to my actions.

I stepped inside.

No alarms. No cops. No security. And all the time in the world, as it seemed.

—

Standing beside the pristine high-performance machine, its windows rolled down. I took a moment. A subtle metallic silver hiding the raw power under the hood — only observed by the AMG badge of honor.

The Mercedes-Benz C63 Coupe. A beautiful machine of elegance and raw power. A sports car in a suit and tie.

Opening the driver's door, I slid into the leather seats. My hands gripping the steering wheel. Paddle shifters at my fingertips. The start button. The ignition. My purpose at that moment.

Extending my right index finger, I pressed start.

The sleeping beast roaring to life. The 603 horsepower awakened from its slumber.

Without a key I sat. Uncertain of what came next. The car idling, waiting to be set free. The lack of security or alarms confirming my actions. My irrational suspicions.

—

In front of my path of escape — an extremely large truck. The only solution, as I exited the superbly comfortable leather seats, was to see if lightning strikes twice.

The raised heavy-duty beast was a hindrance by only a couple of inches, preventing my departure. A thought that had just occurred to me as I climbed the side steps. Opening the wall of a door and taking my seat in the captain's chair.

A simple button of "Yes or No" waiting to be pushed.

The engine turned over. The beast came to life. Shifting into reverse — the beeps indicating my direction of choice. The backup camera navigating my course. Clearing my path.

As I cautiously pulled past the immovable object that once stood in my path. Through the entryway. Over the top of the glass, crackling under the weight and pressure of the wide tires. Making a path ahead.

Destination unknown.

—

Pulling onto the main road from the dealership parking lot, I took in the day. Windows rolled down. The radio a blend of salsa and jazz. A surreal moment in a day of unintentional insanity.

My foot applying the pressure. Fingers triggering the shift in movement. The rhythm of the mood passing through me.

Unleashing the insanity that brought me this far.

—

I stopped at a restaurant. A host came out. I asked if he knew how to open the sunroof. He showed me. I offered a test drive. He got in. We drove around the block. I told him to break the tires loose and feel the power. He smiled. Satisfied. We returned. He got out. I asked for two beers. He said yes. I walked to the bar, took two Coronas, and returned to the car. A rolled joint tucked behind my ear. Not yet smoked.

I drove off.

—

On a double-lane road, I stopped the car. Got out. Urinated in the middle of both lanes. Traffic continued around me. No one honked. No one stopped.

I got back in. Crossed a bridge.

—

Then the roundabout. Around and around. Gripping the steering wheel tight. Holding what I later called "the donut." Weaving in and out of stalled traffic. Trying to break the tires loose.

I turned right and accidentally entered a one-way street going the wrong direction.

Oncoming traffic approached.

I slowed down.

—

So as the plainclothes officer pressed his .38 revolver against my temple, his other hand holding securely to my shirt collar through the driver's window, I again pondered my life decisions.

I had inadvertently turned off the roundabout onto a one-way street going the wrong way. A plainclothes officer had been conducting routine maintenance on the local traffic cameras when he heard the call of a stolen Mercedes over the radio. As he curiously observed me going round and round the roundabout from his vantage point. When I turned down his street going in the wrong direction — springing into action — he stepped in front of my path, revolver drawn and pointed directly at me as I pulled to a stop in front of him.

Bringing everything to a halt as observers in their cars watched the scene unfold before them.

I had no intention of running. It was more self-preservation than anything else. As now he was standing beside me in an attempt to extract me from the car. His pistol pressed against my head as he demanded I exit the vehicle in Spanish.

With a move of reflex, my right hand quickly clasped around the revolver, covering the hammer. My other triggering first gear as I stepped on the gas. The power pulling us apart as he released his grip on the gun. I pulled away, tossing it on the seat next to me. The officer losing his footing and grip, tumbling away.

—

I drove a short distance. Saw the officer pursuing on a motorcycle. I stopped the car. Took the gun from the passenger seat. Emptied the bullets into my hand. Threw the bullets into an empty grassy area. Handed the empty revolver back to the officer.

The officer said calmly: "Please sit down."

I said: "Sure."

I sat on the curb.

—

I couldn't tell you why. It was an irrational intuition that drove me. Thoughts and actions without remorse or hesitation. Void of fear.

I had awakened that beautiful clear day in Envigado. Wandered to a local restaurant around the corner for breakfast. Eggs Benedict. Bacon. Asparagus. Coffee and a shot of Bailey's to start the day right.

Heading back to my hostel, I wandered upstairs to the open patio to lie in a hammock with other travelers. Smoke a joint. Practice playing the brand new guitar I had just purchased a few days earlier.

As noon approached, the decision was made. Standing up. Putting one foot in front of the other. I was going to start that car because I knew it would.

—

The sensation of life in the moment.

The lack of security and alarms confirming my actions. My suspicions.

I took a moment. Another thought.

Up to this point, my actions were led by an internal drive of necessity without reason.

And then — the handcuffs. The police truck. The holding cell. The nine computer hearings. The guilty plea. The seven-year sentence.

All because I pressed a button.

All because the car started.

All because — for one insane, glorious, inexplicable moment — I knew something the rest of the world did not.

The Mercedes would start.

And it did.

—

I wrote this on November 13, 2022. I was in cell #3 at the Envigado police station. I had been there for over a year. I had nine court hearings behind me. I had no idea when I would see freedom again.

But that day — the day of the roundabout, the revolver, the beer on the curb — that day was worth it.

Not because I got away. I didn't.

Not because the car was fast. It wasn't fast enough.

Because for fifteen minutes — between the shattered glass and the handcuffs — I was completely, utterly, irrationally alive.

And that is a feeling I have been chasing ever since.