Instant Karma

Since beginning this prison term back in 2011, I have been about 99% convinced that I'd never see its end, that sometime over its interminable course the karmic wheel would spin around and call my number in the form of a case of painful, virulent, and terminal ass cancer. "Died in prison," would be my epitaph, and there is no stronger argument for having failed at life than dying in prison. You have unquestionably screwed the pooch if you die in the joint. You can be failing all your life but as long as you remain in the present participle, failing and not failed, there's still time to turn things around. That prospect was depressing, certainly, but not entirely unexpected, and even in a perverse kind of way welcomed. It's only as much as I deserve, I thought. If you want to be a licensed, practicing sonofabitch, you will damn sure reap the rewards of such a life and conclude it in the very epitome of ignominy.

I thought about karma a lot, and even if I didn't exactly imagine some higher intelligence compiling, grading, categorizing, and weighing all of our actions, I did agree that the particular set of laws governing the behavior of matter in our (humanity's) current living situation tended toward a condition of equilibrium for everything, as outlined in the second law of thermodynamics. It's not too much of a stretch to extrapolate outward to human behavior and suppose that that, too, is subject to the same inexorable tendency to settle equably; ergo, ass cancer for me.

However, as the years went by and the various embarrassing and invasive tests came back negative, little tendrils of hope began to crack my fatalistic exterior. Six months, I decided. If I can make it to six months shy of parole without a diagnosis, I'm home free. Even the ass-whippingest cancer couldn't kill me in six months, even treated by the chronically incompetent, questionably educated, criminally ignorant sort of "doctors" employed by the prison system. Anything that strikes me between then and parole will not present its finale until I'm safely back in the bosom of my loved ones, so nyah nyah nyah, even though I'm pretty sure that "nyah-nyah"-ing karma is a spectacularly bad idea.

The six-month mark came and went, as did the three, and just as I'm counting down to two and strutting around the place like I've got her exactly where I want her, Karma – that bitch – takes a look at me and says, Alright, you smug little shit, you think ass cancer is all I've got for you? Well, check this out, fool. Wha-BAM! Flu. Right smack in the middle of the deadliest flu season in years, as strapping young people across the nation are being felled daily by this scourge, I am stricken. Now, I'm in a reasonably good condition of overall health, but “strapping” I am not, if ever I was. I'm not even sure I know what it means. "Boy, that Elmer is quite a physical specimen, isn't he? I bet he could strap this whole farm in an hour's time."

If they can't stand up to this virus, what the hell chance have I got? I thought. "Well played," I said with a rueful grin. "Respect, Karma. Lull me into a false sense of security by holding the ass cancer in abeyance, then flank me with this entirely pedestrian and yet potentially deadly sneak attack."

And I did think, and feel like, I was going to die. My head felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, my joints as if they were lubricated with beach sand, and every torturous cough wracked me with pain, as if my lungs were lined with raw, exposed nerve endings. I lay there in my rack, resigned to my shameful fate and despairing of the reckless hubris that had landed me in this sorry-ass condition.

Despite all expectations, though, I seem to be pulling out of it. I'm still a little clogged up and muzzy­headed, but all signs point to recovery. I'm not discounting the possibility of a relapse and quick death, but for the nonce I'll interpret this as a stern warning not to get too big for my britches.

I should've learned my lesson years ago in Fort Bragg, when Karma first poked her meddling nose into my business. My idiot friend Shiloh approached me with a proposition. He had been tasked with the theft of a home-security system from Rite-Aid by a jobber in recreational pharma in exchange for a quantity of the ol' zip-bang-boom, had sussed out the premises and product and deemed the risk unacceptable, was looking to subcontract the job, and figured I was just the crash dummy he was looking for. I understand his reasoning, but in retrospect I am offended. I agreed without even doing any recon and headed down to the Rite-Aid.

I located the item in question and immediately determined that standard shoplifting protocols, i.e., secreting the item on one's person and spiriting it out the door with no one the wiser, did not apply here due to size and security measure considerations. No, what was called for here was the mad dash out the door and into the wind, hopefully projecting an image of being too crazy to pursue.

I parked my bike just outside the north exit, pointed in the right direction and in the optimum getaway gear, went back inside, grabbed the goods, and hightailed it out the door. I honestly don't think anyone even saw me, but I still executed a perfect flying mount onto the bike and hauled ass, turned right at the end of the building and headed east. I hit Franklin and was immediately run down by a passing car.

Well – not exactly. They hit my rear wheel and I went flying ass over teakettle into the road. I rolled, keeping a death grip on my spoils, and sprang up and grabbed the terminally taco-ed bike. I threw it into the bushes outside the DMV and limped-ran away, bleeding at the knees and elbows, feverishly determined to complete my mission. When I arrived back at HQ, consummated the transaction, and related my story, Shiloh said, "Instant karma, man. Better be careful."

"I better be careful? Shit, you're the one that oughta be karma'd. I'm an unwitting accomplice," I said.

"Well, whatever, but you're the one with the holes in your pants," he said. Valid point.

I didn't think too much of the incident until the next day — concerns about spiritual retribution are inimical to productivity in the petty-theft biz — until the next day when I boosted a 16-pack of AAs from the Safeway and came outside to find my bike seat gone. You don't get much more instant than that. Incidentally, bicycle ownership in the tweaker community is a fluid and mutable concept. After the previous night's mishap, I simply appropriated one that didn't appear to be in immediate use. They're all mostly stolen anyhow.

I was tempted to write the incident off as coincidence, naturally, but being of a scientific bent, I decided a test was in order to determine if I was indeed a karmic target. I handed over two dollars to the next grime-encrusted tosspot I saw stumbling down the sidewalk. "God bless you, man," he blubbered.

"Don't spoil it," I said. "Have a nice day."

I went on home, sat down to wait, and not five minutes had passed before Will Hawk came to the door with a sizable quantity of the finest. This almost never happens, as Will is, to put it kindly, no scholar and will be immediately divested of whatever valuables he may acquire by less than scrupulous opportunists. He therefore depends mainly upon the kindness of his friends to provide for his intoxicatory needs, me included.

Here he was, though, fully loaded and ready to par-tay. Third time's the charm, I said to myself. I need no more convincing. Karma, for whatever reason, has chosen me as a test subject on which to demonstrate her powers and abilities, damn the luck. Right then I conceived of a plan to dodge the vengeful bitch's assaults. "Say, Will," I said. "I need a favor.

"Anything, dog. You name it."

"I have incontrovertible evidence that Karma is out to get me," I began.

"You mean Naomi's mom?" Will interrupted. Our friend Naomi's mom is named Karmah.

"No, it's a concept… Never mind. I just need you to stick close to me for a couple of days. Like, real close. Like don't ever leave my side." I didn't know how finely calibrated Karma's ability to plot a vector was, but I figured since Will was taller, wider, and louder than me, some of my intended karmic justice might be absorbed by him. It was a sound theory and I stand by it.

"I got you, dog. Locked on and locked in. Til the wheels fall off."

Basically, what I was turning my devoted companion into was a flak jacket, or some of that stuff fighter jets eject to trick incoming missiles. If this seems cruel, I assure you that this is exactly the sort of thing that Will and his ilk were put on this earth for.

I didn't get a chance to test the theory right away, as we were flush with dope and just sat around getting spun for a couple of days, but eventually the sack ran dry and we were forced to make a move. Will proposed the idea of driving down to Little River and stealing a generator he'd seen in an unlocked shed. I allowed as how that sounded reasonable and borrowed a pickup truck from Sandman for the job. Around midnight the clouds began to gather, creating ideal conditions for a late-night felony foray. "Let's roll," I said.

As we drove south, the clouds became more active, roiling and scudding about and flashing here and there with distant lightning. By the time we arrived the thunderheads had opened wide and we were in a full-on electrically-augmented toad-strangler. Perfect, I thought. We're stealing a generator in an electrical storm. Fuckin' Karma sits around waiting for opportunities like this. She luh-huvs irony.

Screw it. In for a penny, and all that. "You ready, dog?" I said.

"Let's do this," Will said grimly.

Like Butch and Sundance we exploded out of the truck and into the deluge, sprinting the quarter-mile or so to the shed. We made it there safely, disconnected all impediments to the generator's free movement, grabbed the handles and again sallied forth into the tempest, now significantly weighted down but still moving at a pretty good clip.

You know what was coming. Will took the lightning strike like a champ, and as he stood there glowing, limned against the sheeting rain like a neon sign, I felt a queer mix of guilt and satisfaction. I thought I might have to drag him back to the truck along with the genny, but he barely missed a step, shaking his head vigorously and resuming the caper.

We made it back without further incident and took Will to the ER, but he was nearly unscathed, left with only a small burnt patch on his head and a lingering facial tic. That was the end of Karma's obsession with me. I'm guessing she was ashamed at having missed such an easy shot, but for whatever reason, she's left me alone, until now.

Coda: As I type and edit this, my virus has indeed marshaled its forces and reasserted its hegemony on my body. My fate is in the balance, subject, of course, to Karma's fickle whims. Pray for me.