Oh, uh, I, uhm, er, I, uh,
I guess I don't need those.
— Slippers
Steve was one of my most memorable first dates.
Memorable? Yeah, that's definitely the right word.
We were supposed to go out for pizza and a SouthShore RailCats game. That's a local baseball team, and they were having a 4th of July fireworks show.
Greasy food and explosions could have been fun, but I'll never know, because other things happened. Mostly to Steve.
He picked me up after work at The Shady Lady. We were on our way to Needza Pizza when he parked the car in front of a warehouse in a bad part of town.
"What's up, Steve?"
He said, "I gotta do a thing. It'll only take a sec. Wanna come with?"
I took another look at the building we were in front of. It wasn't a warehouse. It was an abandoned warehouse, and that extra word matters.
I told him, "I think I'm good here. In the car."
"Cool. Back in a sec."
As he opened the door, he reached behind the passenger seat to grab a large paper bag that looked heavier than it had any reason to be.
"Oh, God." I thought, "I'm an idiot. Steve's a drug dealer. And he's not dealing pot."
I watched as he walked toward the abandoned warehouse. What happened next seemed obvious.
He knocked on a door.
It opened.
A bunch of hands reached out to yank his skinny ass in, like a cartoon character being pulled offstage by a giant cane.
YOINK!
The door slammed shut.
"I guess Steve's getting jumped."
Then nothing.
More nothing.
Eventually, the door opened again.
Five guys came running out. Steve wasn't one of them.
They piled into a pale brown van and peeled out, which meant it was time for me to go into that warehouse and find out what was left of Steve.
Sure enough, he was a crumpled up mess, lying on a concrete floor covered in dirt and crushed glass. His right eye was mostly shut. His left eye did its best to look up at me as he said, "Can't... breathe."
"Yeah, well," I said, "Air is for guys who take their dates out for pizza. You were supposed to be one of those guys, but you had to make a pitstop first. How'd that work out?"
"Got... jacked."
"No shit."
"Can't... breave."
"Let's count the number of ways you messed this up, Steve. You arranged a drug deal at an abandoned warehouse. You didn't scope the place out first. You didn't bring backup. And you made matters worse by bringing me, so I could bear witness to your epic motherfucking disaster."
"Cah't ... bweave."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Need... hewp."
"It's hospital time, bro. Can you get up?"
"Don't... know."
"God, I suck at dating."
"Thorry."
"Fuck you, Thteve."
I had to drive him to the emergency room and fill out the forms because his right hand was definitely, and perhaps permanently, messed up. His right arm, too. And his left leg. Probably a lung, and who knows what else.
"What's your address?"
"Thithfeen oh theven Thrankwin Terrethe..."
"Oh, for fuck's sake. I can't understand a goddamn thing you're saying. Give me your wallet. I'll get it off your driver's license."
He must have taken one right to the choppers, because his jaw was swelling up.
By this point, I'd had enough.
"Look, bro, you're gonna be here a while, and I never got any pizza. 'I hope you're hungry,' you said. Remember? Watching you bleed really works up an appetite, so I'm taking your car to get food. If you're lucky, I'll bring you back something you can ingest through a straw. Buh-bye."
What the hell was I thinking, going on a date with a guy my age who drives a Jag? Of course he's a drug dealer. And a dumbass. His car should have a vanity plate that says "ROB MEH."
Steve ruined my night.
He bled on my shirt, so that was ruined too.
But I had his wallet and he had money.
Better still, I had his keys and I knew where he lived. I wasn't going there without gloves though. Who knows how much of the detective stuff on TV shows is real, but there's an easy way to not find out.
First stop? Walgreens. I bought a hat, rubber gloves, a pair of slippers, obnoxiously-yellow-rimmed reading glasses, and a box of condoms.
Why condoms? So I could fake a panic attack in front of the cashier.
"Oh, uh, I, uhm, er, I, uh, I guess I don't need those."
If you're gonna do something suspicious, do something innocently ridiculous as a distraction. Just in case.
If the cashier remembered anything about our interaction, she'd remember a chick in an open inside-out button-down who was too shy to buy condoms. And if I ran into anybody at Steve's place, all they'd remember is fuzzy slippers and stupid yellow glasses, which would be a whole bunch of what the fuck.
Also, the gloves and slippers meant there'd be no fingerprints or shoe prints.
Leave no trace.