The Madman's Life

Why I Stole a Car

January 15, 2023

Why I stole a car.

I needed the shortest point between A and Z. The Mercedes bridged that gap.

Apparently, to write — and entering a prison allows that without hindrance. A time of perpetual thought. Every moment in your head examined. Your thoughts processed to exhaustion. Every rabbit hole a plummeting depth into every instance as you examine the smallest fragment of thought.

My thoughts — scary even to myself.

The perspective of my insanity is very real. Multiple versions of myself play out every day. An uncertainty of who I really am. A redefining of my structure as I venture down every shady path available. Every hidden opportunity explored.

The thoughts of my future — exciting. Exhilarating. No limits. Period.

The life I was given was mine. Mine to define. Mine to set the limits. My boundaries are a bit broader than most. My acceptance of the ever-changing gray area known, not hidden.

I have limits. Women and children top my chart. I will break things to correct someone wronged. That doesn't mean I want to hurt people. It means I accept the path I am on — no matter where that may lead. Good, bad — no indifference.

—

I was teaching someone the other day how to pick a lock. In return, he taught me — unproven to myself — a new technique.

He explained that if you take the sulfur from match heads and pack them into the key port of a lock — filling it completely with the sulfur from multiple matches — then strike a match and touch it to the tightly packed key port, the small ignition will blow the lock's internal pins. Pop the lock.

In theory, it sounds sound.

But he assured me —

And then the entry ends. Unfinished. A sentence hanging in midair like the lock that never opened.

—

Perhaps that is the point.

Not every technique gets tested. Not every lesson gets learned. Some locks stay closed. Some theories remain theories. And some stories — like the one about the match heads and the sulfur and the exploding pins — trail off into silence because the teller ran out of time or paper or courage.

I stole a car because I could. Because the Mercedes was there. Because the glass broke and the engine started and the road stretched out before me like a question waiting for an answer.

I did not ask myself why.

I do not ask myself now.

But if you want the truth — the ugly, uncomfortable, make-you-look-away truth — here it is:

I stole a car because I wanted to know what would happen next.

And what happened next was seven years in a Colombian prison. Two years in a holding cell. Nine computer hearings. A transfer to Bella Vista. A release date of March 18, 2026.

And then a walk across a country. A flight on a forced ticket. A hostel in León, Nicaragua. And a blog post written years later, trying to explain something I still do not fully understand.

—

The match-head trick may work. I never tried it.

The car theft worked. I did try that.

One lesson: some doors should not be opened. Some locks exist for a reason.

Another lesson: if you are going to steal something, steal something worth the price you will pay.

I paid seven years.

The Mercedes? Silver. AMG C63 S Coupe. 600 horsepower. It started when I pressed the button.

I do not regret it.

I do not recommend it.

But I do not regret it.

—

The entry ends here. Incomplete. Like the story of the match heads. Like the story of the lock. Like the story of a man who stole a car because the shortest point between A and Z was a broken window and a push of a button.

Z, for the record, was not freedom.

Z was a concrete block. A glass door. A revolver to the neck. And a question I still cannot answer:

Why?

Not why I stole it. I know that.

Why I pressed the start button.

Why I turned right instead of left.

Why I did not run when I could have.

Why I handed the empty gun back to the officer and sat on the curb and drank a beer while they photographed me next to the stolen car.

That is the lock I cannot pick.

Those pins will not move.

And I have stopped trying.