Micah Jennings

The Journal of Micah Jennings:
Memoirs of a Torn Traceur
(Full Edition)








Written and Edited by
Eric J. K. Terry
February 13th, 2005






January 6, 2005
Watching Ella

I observed her carefully from above as she ran through her usual routine. They make it so easy. If only they lived a bit more spontaneously…
It was nine till seven and she was right on schedule. The woman fumbled clumsily down the stairs with several boxes of papers, balancing them precariously in one arm as she clawed for her keys with the other. Her car chirped and flung open a gaping trunk, which she fed her cargo.
It’s funny how these people do the same thing over and over. As she strode to her car door she stubbed her toe on an uneven slab of cement and cursed. I’ve seen her do this at least ten times! Then she leapt into her BMW and sped off, leaving long black marks where her tires spun against the asphalt.
I folded my binoculars and put them in my pack—I find it works best when I stuff them to the side, so they don’t get crushed when I roll, and more importantly, so my ribcage isn’t bruised. I checked the ground for a second, and then leaned from the eave and flung myself over the ledge. I cupped my feet around a drainpipe that ran the height of the building, eased my grip, and slid towards the ground.
I wondered momentarily if this woman really expects to keep anyone out with the pathetic four-foot fence that runs the perimeter of her property. I doubt it, because it only took a little push from the pipe and a 180, and I was balancing on the flimsy thing. From there it was small hop to her driveway, followed by a nice roll, if I say so myself.
The lady that owns the place is Ella Peterson. She works as a lawyer in the city, primarily as a defense attorney, and she usually wins. Or at least she lives like it. As pitiful as the fence was, it was just a small part of her complex (and definitely expensive) security system that ferociously guards the house. I’ve spied her fiddling with the various alarms, but it did little to keep me away. Had there been dogs, guards, or gun-toting spouses, things may have happened differently, but I was confident that this would be another simple job. And it was, once the rock was through her window.

***

January 7, 2005
My Secret

I got back to my apartment around 10:30. Fortunately Ben and Aaron were facing away from the window, watching TV. They’ve been talking for the last couple of days about how parkour was going to be on CSI. I guess they didn’t like it, because afterwards they started arguing about it. I don’t know what they were arguing about, exactly, since they seemed to be on the same side of the issue, but whatever. They’re weird like that.
I managed to slip in through our kitchen window, and from there I crept over to my room, where I unpacked and changed. I didn’t notice it before, but apparently some broken glass got into my shirt, because I had all these scrapes and cuts across my chest. But that was a small price, I’d say. I can’t determine the worth for a certainty, but I think I got at lest several thousand worth of jewelry (they always put it on their dresser!). If my intuition is correct, I’d say this has been the most profitable target yet.
As I showered I realized that the cuts were a lot worse that I’d first thought, as they wouldn’t stop bleeding. The bathwater ran pink for some time. I even spotted a few red droplets on the tile, so I was careful in wiping it all up. Apparently I missed some of it, because later Aaron questioned me.
I made up some hash story about scraping my leg at work. I’m not sure if he bought it, but so long as I keep the goods out of his sight, he has no reason not to.

***

January 8, 2005
The Bum

I stopped by the local pawn shop today to get an estimate on the jewelry. I’ve known for awhile now that the shop owner has had his eye on me, so I’m always careful in taking a new route home each time.
The pawn shop is rooted in a seedy part of town, where the skyscrapers turn their backs on the ghetto. It results in an unusual demographic mix of well-dressed businessmen and thieving gangs. This, of course, spells crime. I suppose it’s a little hypocritical to feel so condescending towards these thugs, but really, our style is completely different.
I subscribe to stealth, lurking in shadows and studying my target carefully before striking. These guys, on the other hand, are comfortable with their business in broad daylight, cornering and threatening their victims. I’ve never done this. I have a little class.
Anyway, as soon as I left the pawn shop (with over $7,800 in my bag!) I knew I had to take to the sky. Not only was there a fair chance that the police were watching me, but I’d also attracted the stares of a few ravenous gang members. Apparently they can smell money. The urban vultures, it would seem.
So I decided to run.
I know the area pretty well, so quickly I put together a map in my head of what my path would be, realizing I’d probably have to improvise a few times on the way. Sure enough, the first alley I turned down was different than I’d remembered—newly sequestered by a tall, brick wall crowned in braids of barbed wire. I paused for a moment, letting the sounds of the pursuing footsteps reach my ears while I looked for an escape.
Keep moving, my brain kept urging, so I obeyed, heading deeper into the doomed alley. I looked desperately for an alternate route—a door, a fire ladder, even a sewage hole, but I was trapped. Then I heard something—someone.
Sheltered in the shadow of a dumpster sat an old bum, emanating flies and a stench. He glared at me with remarkably clear green eyes while he exposed what remained of his teeth.
“Who’s you runnin’ from?” he asked. The answer refused to come to my head, so I remained silent. “It’s either someone who deserves to catch you or someone who don’t,” he decided. “Maybe both, from the looks of you.”
“Do you know a way out of this alley?” I asked.
“Only back the ways you came,” he chuckled. The footsteps were louder now.
“Has that done much good for you?” I inquired, pointing to a creased cardboard food sign that suddenly gave me an idea.
“Less good that it would for you,” he smiled, somehow grasping my thought.
“Thanks,” I said, stepping towards him. I assumed he’d give it freely, but he obviously had something else in mind as he creased the sign and withdrew it from my reach.
“Way I see it, you come in to some money. Either you ‘bout to be mugged, or those are the cops, comin’ to gitcha for stealin’. Any case, you settin’ to pay for this sign, and pay well.”
It was ludicrous, how bright this bum was, but he was right, and time was running out.
“Fine,” I conceded, reaching into my bag and peeling off a hundred dollar bill.
“Good to do business witcha,” he smiled, handing over the sign.
The gang was now only a hundred feet off. Bending the sign in half lengthwise, I cupped it in my right hand and ran up on the dumpster. I glanced at the wall once more and began running towards it on the alley wall.
One step, two, three. This was as far as my wall-run could possibly take me, so I jumped, with the fence still five feet off. As I soared toward it, I thrust my right hand out and reached for the barbed wire. It worked! The barbed teeth sunk easily into the soft cardboard, sparing my hands. With my grip established, I grasped the wall with my other hand and flung myself over.
I thereafter found myself a suitable fire escape and took the rest of the route I’d planned atop the roves. It was a close call today, but I made it. I still have the cardboard, too. It’s sitting right next to me, with its scrawled black letters still legible through the puncture marks.


***

January 9, 2005
Visiting Mom

Went to the Clayton prison today to see mom. She looks pretty bad, with blue smudges tugging at her eyes and wrinkles all over her face. It’s like she’s aged three times as fast since she’s been in. I hate seeing her in there, almost as much as I sense she hates being seen. It’s so unfair!
I told her that I’d raised several thousand more for a good lawyer. She seemed happy about that, and thankfully didn’t ask where it came from. I don’t think she’d understand. It’s perfectly clear to me, though. Ella stole that money from us. It wasn’t hers to begin with. We just kept forking it over and in the end she couldn’t even keep mom out of jail! Worthless! I wish I could make people see that, and then I wouldn’t have to lie about everything. It’s hard to keep it all straight in my head.
Mom said we’ll need at least another couple thousand to get her a suitable lawyer. We’re so close!
Ben asked about her when I got home. Like he really cares. I hate the way people do that—sloping their eyebrows and frowning as if to look sympathetic. They will never know what I have been through. They will never know why I do what I do. So I just ignored him and shut myself up in my room.
I need to start thinking about how I will get the rest of the money. I've been trying to think of who else owes us money and can't come up with anything. Except…well, except the government.

***

January 10, 2005
Bank or Judge?

I spent the night thinking rationally about a bank heist. I tossed two candidates around in my head—the Wachovia by the mall and the Bank of America off of the highway. It’s unnerving how readily these options popped into mind, and why.
These were the banks I considered joining when I was trying to open an account. Both of them gave me problems. Wachovia wanted more information than I was willing and able to offer, and BoA had a limit on how much cash they could accept as a deposit. I eventually opened an account with a federal union, but I’ve never forgotten the way the other two looked down their noses at me (and, more significantly, how they were understaffed on Tuesdays and Thursdays).
But even with a target, I’d have other obstacles to deal with. I’d need a team, for one. (And Ben and Aaron are useless in this regard, as they’d never even dream of breaking a law. They scrub their scuff marks off the walls when they parkour, for God’s sake.) And even if I could somehow scrounge a crew together, I know nothing of safes and bank procedure, aside from what Hollywood has taught me. So I’ve decided against banks. Anyways, I’m only after a few thousand.
But then another idea came to my head, or rather, a name. A name and a face. A grey-bearded face, speckled with bifocals and liver spots of age and “wisdom.” Judge Reginald Memphis, “strong arm of the South.” I’ll never forget the way he shook his gavel mercilessly at my mother and sentenced her away for armed robbery—a crime she never committed.
It was on that cold December morning that I realized my mother had been stolen from me. And if we were facing the punishment for robbery, we might as well enjoy the benefits. Then parkour found me, and everything came together.
Yes, Judge Memphis is to blame, isn’t he? Maybe if it had been a smarter judge, or at least one with a keener interpretation of “justice.” But no.

He will pay.

***

January 11, 2005
New Shoes

This morning I realized I needed new shoes. I was sitting there eating cereal, wandering about the room with my eyes as people do. I looked over by the door and there they were—a pair of worn out, frayed sneakers. The Nike swoosh had long-since peeled itself from the fabric, leaving behind a patch of light grey, like the tan lines of a sunburned tourist. And the rubber soles had separated from the toes of the shoes, so that now they looked like the mouths of a two scruffy puppets. I’d never taken the time to notice them before, and suddenly realized how pathetic they were. So I decided to buy some new ones.
I poked around the apartment for a while looking for Ben or Aaron’s sneakers to get an idea of what to look for. I couldn’t find them. So, with no options left, I grudgingly got online and went to Urban Freeflow. I hadn’t been to the site in ages, ever since I started criticizing the British newbies for buying into the philosophies that Jump London pushed. I did a little search for “shoes” and came up with a surprisingly helpful section listing some of the recommended choices. It seemed that a lot of people liked the Pumas, so with that information I headed to Athlete’s Foot and began shopping. A couple of hours later, I had bought myself a pair of Puma Cells, and decided to try them out downtown.
I hadn’t done parkour for the sake of parkour in ages, and I’ll admit: it felt pretty good. Just me and the concrete, and no alarms or police to worry about. It was a nice place to train, too. In one area I leapt from one railing to another at least eight feet down. I was surprised at how my instincts for drop-precisions had remained in tact. As I stood there, balancing easily on the metal handrail, I began thinking about other possible maneuvers amongst the given terrain. I ran back up the wall and over the initial railing and decided to try something new. I hopped up onto the rail and focused carefully on the lower rail far below. Then, with a carefully-executed dive, I somersaulted in the air and THUNK-landed precisely on the lower rail! A flip-to-precision!
I couldn’t believe I’d pulled it off, and raced back up the wall to try it again, but with a twist. This time, I ran up to the top rail and flipped OVER it, precision-landing on the one below. For the next half hour I combined other techniques, navigating in my own unique style. When I finally emerged from my trance-like focus, I realized that my acrobatics had drawn quite a crowd. Someone stepped forward.
“Whoa, are you doing that free-jump stuff? I saw it on TV!” exclaimed a scraggly-haired preteen.
”Sure,” I said.
“Can you teach me how to do that stuff?”
But before I could tell him no, a police officer squeezed through the crowd and pushed the kid aside. As soon as I saw the badge, I bolted. I could hear him fumbling with his walkie-talkie and calling for backup as I scampered up a wall and leapt over a few bystanders, summoning gasps from the crowd.
“Stop, now!” he screamed after me, as if the words would persuade me to ignore all the evidence that I could easily escape. At the next block I found a fire escape and took the rest of the route home by rooftop.

***

January 12, 2005
Finding Reginald - I

Today I made some phone calls looking for Judge Reginald Memphis. I learned that he can no longer be contacted though the court he used to reside in, where my mom had been tried. They gave me some other courthouse numbers, so I spent the afternoon using the best I could remember of court jargon:
“Hi, my name is Lawrence Arthur—I’m an attorney scheduled for a hearing with Judge Reginald Memphis at 4:00 today—what was that?… Oh, no judge by that name? I see, I must have dialed the wrong number.”
I went through this routine several times before suddenly hearing:
“One moment sir…I’m sorry, I don’t have your name listed on Judge Memphis’ itinerary for 4:00—“
I hung up in a panic. I had found him! It turns out he’s still doing the same thing, serving as a criminal ‘justice’ judge, swaying the jury whichever way suits him, as he did with mom. It was so painful to see the way in which the prosecution wheedled information from her and then accused her with her own words. (But I must put that behind me, for they have paid their dues.) In any case, it’s now clear that the judge was just as much to blame. He wouldn’t allow the prosecution to be silenced when they unfairly took advantage of my mother!
I got online and looked up the directions to the courthouse. It was about noon, and I knew I had a chance to see him, since the woman on the phone had said that my name wasn’t on the 4:00 slot, meaning someone’s name was. That gave me several hours to get down there, wait for him, and follow him home.
The area surrounding the courthouse was crowded with people. I guess someone important was being tried. I immediately realized it would be difficult to spot the judge in the mass of people, so I decided to find a better vantage point.
Across the street I noticed a building under construction, laced in rusty scaffolding. It didn’t seem to be in use, so I scaled it to the third level and studied the court doors. Suddenly I heard a clanging noise and found that, to my horror, someone was climbing the scaffolding behind me. My eyes darted around looking for an inconspicuous escape, but there was none. I was too high up to jump, and if I climbed down, I’d surely be spotted and caught. I needed to watch for the judge!
Then I saw my solution. Hanging from one of the scaffolding bars was a hardhat and drill. I reached quickly for the hat and slipped it on as I picked the drill up with the other hand. My heart beat furiously as the clanging grew louder. Then a head popped up from the boards.
“Who’re you?” Demanded an overweight man with a two-day beard.
“Mike,” I said.
“I don’t know you.”
I forced down the knot in my throat and found it impossible to speak.
“Wait,” he suddenly said, “you one of Tony’s friends?”
I nodded desperately.
“He told me about you. Get back to work.” With that he climbed back down the ladder.
I was still a nervous wreck, but turned my attention back to the courthouse, and just in time. There was Judge Reginald Memphis, pompous as ever as he strode down the steps and over to the parking deck.
With that I excitedly went to replace the hat and drill, but I was in for a final surprise. It came in the form of a jean-wearing giant, capped in a hardhat and drenched in his own sweat. He looked at me unhappily until I finally said:
“It’s ok, I’m with Tony.”
“I am Tony,” came the bellowing response.
It was time to run again.
But that’s enough for tonight. I’m wiped out, as anyone can imagine, and you haven’t even heard half of the day’s exertion. I’ll continue tomorrow.

***

January 13, 2005
Finding Reginald – II

I turned from Tony and leapt to the nearest support beam, swinging my body below it and twisting a half rotation. From this position I grabbed a lower rail, squeezing under this one as well. Finally my hands grasped the ladder and I slid down to the ground. My feet only touched down momentarily before I pushed them to move again, fleeing the scene by vaulting over construction materials to both lose my pursuers and avoid losing the judge.
As I rejoined the swarming crowd at the courthouse, I took off my jacket, turned it inside out, and put it back on. It’s a little trick I’ve learned to use when chased, throwing off your pursuer by changing colors. I think it’s from a movie.
I followed what I’d seen of the judge’s path, improvising along the way as I tried to deduce where he’d park. As I approached the parking deck, I was suddenly confronted with a blinding light. This is it, I thought, looking into the headlights. They’ve finally found me.
But I was wrong. Tires squealed noisily on the slick concrete, spraying an acrid mist into the air. The driver rolled down his window and yelled at me.
“Whassa matter with yew boy? I coulda darn well killed ya!”
Me and my mom both, I didn’t say. It was the judge. I studied his face for a long moment, his features locked in resentment as they peeked from the window of his smoking Mercedes.
“Sorry,” I said.
As I stepped aside, we both took off. He to his luxurious little home, I to my car, to follow him there.
I realize now that it was actually a good thing for that incident to occur. Since it set him into a small fit, he became noticeably irritable on the road, focusing on getting home. As a result, he didn’t take the time to recognize that he was being followed.
The ride was a short one, and led me, surprisingly, to an apartment complex. Nevertheless, Reginald is living it up in his space, which actually caps the building at floor eleven. I learned this from the mailboxes in the lobby. Fortunately it was already dark once I scampered up the fire escape and observed him from outside his window. I’m almost certain this will be an easy one. He’s got all my favorite traits—methodical organization, predictable working hours, even a helpful touch of OCD. It was rather boring to watch. Usually it’s amusing to see people’s behavior when alone. Some dance or sing, and many talk to themselves or do quirky movements or noises. But Mr. “strong arm of the south” was totally uninteresting.
He flipped on the news when he got home (roughly 6:30) and watched it for thirty minutes while sipping from a Heinekin. At 7:00 he threw a TV dinner in the microwave and ate it in front of rerun sitcoms. At 8:00 he pulled out some files jammed with papers and thumbed through them for a while. (I’m assuming it was regarding law, but I forgot my binoculars.) At 10:00, he went to bed.
I snuck back down the fire escape and returned to my car, getting home a little before eleven. It was a totally exhausting day. I’m tired just thinking about it.

***

January 14, 2005
Stupid!

Spent last night observing Reginald again. The man is a metronome—run by schedules down to the minute. I saw him watch the news till 7:00, prepare an airplane-style tray of food, and view sitcoms and files till his bedtime at precisely 10:00. I’m rather confident that I could safely and successfully strike tomorrow without incident, but I’ll give it a few more days.
Around noon today Aaron barged into my room asking if I wanted to go out to eat with him and Ben. I didn’t, but when I discovered the fridge was all but stripped of edibles, I complied. I couldn’t have made a worse decision.
We decided on lunch at Moe’s. They argued that since it was just down the block, it made more sense to walk. I soon realized they just wanted an excuse to parkour. I was only marginally impressed with their skills. An inner urge implored me to show them up, but my better judgment kept me in check, so I strode calmly behind them with my hands restrained in my pockets. If only they could see my flip to precision, I thought with a smirk.
When we got to Moe’s we found that the neighboring building was under construction, littered with caution tape and metal barriers. When I found one in my way I instinctively quickened my step, grabbed it, and glided over, stabilizing myself with the other hand. It was perfectly fluid—so much so that it caught the attention of Aaron and Ben, who looked at me quizzically.
“I thought you gave it up, Mike,” Aaron prodded.
“Gave what up?”
“Parkour. Nice vault,” said Ben.
I shrugged it off, but they eyed me carefully for the rest of the afternoon. I guess they figure it’s odd that I’ve gotten better since I stopped. It was such a stupid mistake to make, vaulting like that.

***

January 15, 2005
Aaron

Aaron came into my room today munching on some Doritos. It irritates me how messy these guys are—I’m often cleaning up after them, straightening their messes. I need things neat, clean, and organized.
“Do you have the Yamakasi DVD in here?” he asked, sucking on orange fingers.
“No, please don’t eat in here,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not. Just finished.” He launched the crumpled bag into my garbage can, sending a shower of crumbs into the air.
“You sure it’s not in here?”
“Positive. I know where everything is in this room, and that’s not here.”
“Yeah, it’s a little freaky how organized you are.” With that he traipsed about my space, poking around the shelves. Then he saw it. At the bottom of the shelf, far to the left, lay a rectangular cardboard box.
“Are those…” he trailed off, reaching for the shoebox and flinging it apart. “Puma Cells! I’ve heard about these, supposed to be real good for precisions and what not!”
“Aaron, do you mind? This is my room!” I snapped. Slowly his gaze returned to me.
“You’re still practicing, aren’t you?” He surmised, ignoring my complaints.
“That’s ridiculous. You know how I feel about parkour.”
“I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Why would I possibly take it up again?”
“I don’t know, there’s a lot of things I don’t know about you. You’re so secretive!”
“Right.”
“Look at you, Micah, you sit in your room all day with the door closed. You sleep into the afternoon and leave at night, to who knows where. You’re an absolute mystery!”
“I leave at night because I WORK at night, Aaron.”
“No you don’t.”
“What?”
“You say you work at Giaranno’s?”
“Of course.”
”You’re full of crap. I went down there last week and talked to the manager. He said you quit over a year ago.” It was coming apart. I knew it would, sooner or later, but now?
“What is it that you want, Aaron?”
“The truth,” he said simply, with remarkable sincerity in his eyes. “I don’t care if you’ve given up parkour or not, really. That could matter less to me right now. But I’m worried about you, Micah. It just doesn’t add up. There’s something you’re keeping from us, and it’s hurting you. Can’t you see it?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
And that was that. He nodded with a frown etched into his face and left the room solemnly. I wonder how much longer I can keep this up.

***

January 16, 2005
Guilt Trip
Ben and Aaron have lately been talking of nothing but organizing a jam. It’s supposedly for the Jump London newcomers, to “acquaint them with the finer aspects” of parkour. To me, this is crap. I say give them a backpack and a map and tell them to raise $1k before dawn. That’s how you learn parkour—by applying it in real life.
But my roommates seem to see it differently. I read something they’d typed up on it for the Urban Freeflow forums—all this nonsense about philosophy and safety. Parkour will never be safe. That’s where the adrenaline comes from! I can’t understand these people.
In the end, I’m the one keeping parkour alive. I’m the one that TRULY experiences it as a way of life. They haven’t scratched the surface.
Ben asked if I wanted to join in on the jam.
“It’ll be fun, Micah. Just thing of all the new ones that will be learning. We’re like the forefathers of parkour here.” It took everything I had not to laugh in his face.
“Ben, I just don’t see the practicality of it all. What’s the point?”
“Can you remember, Micah, what drew you to parkour in the first place?”
“That was a long time ago. I’ve changed.”
”Parkour hasn’t. It’s still there, offering freedom in an environment of restraint.”
His comment caught me off guard. I had to admit, it was poetically truthful. I often reflected on a similar sentiment as I ran from police across the skyline, losing them on the streets far below. Parkour had given me wings: I felt invincible.
“That may be true, Ben, but right now someone else’s freedom matters more to me.” The remark must’ve had a great impact on him, because he unexpectedly lowered his head in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, Micah, I totally forgot about her,” he said quieter, gentle tone. The words were whispered genuinely, and suddenly I saw him in a new light.
For all his naivety and blind passion for life, he had a deeper, thoughtful side as well. I felt a surprising surge of pride for him once being my friend, and wondered what had gone wrong between us. Was it me, after all? As I watched him turn dejectedly from me, I quietly offered:
“Don’t worry about it, Ben. You didn’t mean it.”
He smiled weakly, nodded, and walked off.

***

January 17, 2005
Tomorrow!

I can’t take it anymore.
It’s obvious that Reginald had a rigid routine to his day. I’ve sat there, freezing on the catwalk for 3 nights so far, and nothing has changed. I’m not putting myself through another night without a payoff. Tomorrow I will strike.
The only thing I’m a little apprehensive about is where to look for goods. As far as I’ve seen, he has no secret stash of money, nor some clichéd recess in a wall behind a painting. The only things of value I’ve seen are far too heavy to lug across the rooftops on my way home: expensive-looking furniture, electronics, art. But I’m fairly confident I will have time to locate something suitable.
I studied the windowpane of his apartment before he got home this afternoon. I looked for the usual indications of an alarm system, but didn’t detect any. No tiny black cases with those eerie bluish lenses, no strange wires. I suppose it makes sense that he feels safe perched way up there on the 11th floor. He’s in for a surprise.
For now I’ve forced myself to ignore the suspicions of Ben and Aaron that I somehow manage to fuel each day. I still think that it’s impossible for them to know the whole picture, but they definitely have bits and pieces of it. They know that my job cover is blown and may know that I still parkour…I guess they MIGHT suspect me of theft…Come to think of it, that would be no great leap of logic. Maybe they know?
AAAHH! I’m supposed to be setting that aside for now! I need to focus on the job at hand. I can’t lose my concentration. Tomorrow, I have to keep telling myself. Tomorrow, and this will be over. Tomorrow, and mom will be one step closer to justice.

***

January 18, 2005
HOW?

He knew. I don’t know how it’s possible, but somehow…he knew.
Everything went perfect—I wore my usual maintenance jump suit, complete with “Mike” sewn into the lapel, so that anyone asking could be told that I was doing a “routine structural checkup”. But no one did. There were no strange noises, no curious faces peeking from behind curtains.
His window opened easily with the aid of a fingernail file and hairpin: it just slid right up. I was in within forty seconds! I browsed around the living room, and didn’t find anything I could lift, so I moved into the bedroom. This is when my blood froze.
Judge Reginald was just sitting there, looking at me with cold eyes as he sat in a recliner. We stared at each other, motionless. Finally he spoke.
“Right on time.”
What did that mean? How could he possibly know?? Had I been set up?
I didn’t have the answers, but I had a reason to run, and suddenly the ability to move flooded my veins, rocketing me back into the living room and through the window. My feet barely touched the metal grating as I leapt down each flight of stairs. My ears throbbed with the beating of my explosive heart, along with a distant cry:
“Wait! We need to talk!!”
But my body wouldn’t stop. I kept running, vaulting, climbing, anticipating squad cars around each turn, at the clearing of each roof. Run, run, run, I kept thinking. My lungs ached with exertion as my eyes stung with the constant blast of the frigid afternoon air. But somehow, somehow I made it.
I sit now in my room, typing slowly as my fingers gradually thaw with the other shivering and tired pieces of my body. My clothing clings to me with the wetness of my own sweat. But all I can think is:

HOW DID HE KNOW??

***

January 19, 2005
Blood

My world continues to crumble…
Shortly after I’d finished typing up the events of last night, I was startled by a loud rapping on my bedroom door. It was Ben and Aaron.
“Where have you been, Micah?” Ben asked accusingly with crossed arms.
“Out,” I said.
“Care to be a little less general?”
“Ok, fine...”
”Go ahead,” Aaron chimed in from behind.
“You got me guys. I’ve been doing parkour,” I admitted as ashamedly as possible.
“We know that,” Ben said, stunning me.
“What?”
“We know,” said Aaron. “We’re not stupid. You can’t hide it from us. We want to know about what you’re using parkour for.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What’s the point, Micah? Just having fun was never enough for you. You’re always thinking practical, always looking for a means to an end. So why parkour?” Ben probed.
“I’m afraid you’re wrong, guys. I’m doing it purely for the rush, like you.”
“Then why so late at night, when everyone else is sleeping? Why so secretively?”
“And why the pack?” Aaron added.
“What do you guys think?” I said angrily, fumbling for a lie. “If you knew I’d started up again, you’d never let me live it down. And you’d always be so far ahead. I needed time alone, to catch up. And I’ve got water in here! Geez, you guys are paranoid!” I watched to see if my words had worked, but Ben simply stared at me with a wry look.
“Nice cover, Mike, but there’s no way you can possibly expect us to believe it. You know we would have supported you. You know we wouldn’t have given a crap if you got better than us, faster than us. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“You’re a thief. The one that’s been in the papers for the last year, “Mr. Untouchable” or whatever they’re calling you. I mean are there any other explanations for you staying out late each night, not having a traceable job, and somehow making ends meet with change to spare for your mom?” With that I lost it, lunging at him and grabbing him by his shirt.
“It’s what she deserves, Ben. They did wrong locking her up like that, and this is how they pay. It’s what they owe us. So before you start feeling righteous, remember that: we’re taking back what belongs to us, got it?”
He didn’t respond, so I threw him backwards into Aaron. The back of his skull collided with Aaron’s head, sending a sickening spray of blood over his friend’s face and shirt. My stomach lurched at the sight and I felt terrible but I refused to show it. Quietly I closed the door as Ben glared at me in disbelief while Aaron clutched his broken nose.
I just keep making things worse and worse.

***

January 20, 2005
Plan B

I dreamt last night. Haven’t in a long time, but I did.
I was falling from a rooftop, falling very fast, watching the windows and balconies blur by at my sides. A face called from above: “Wait! Wait! Wait!” It just went on and on and on. I couldn’t see who it was, but I knew the voice—it belonged to Reginald Memphis.
It’s the other question I can’t figure out: what did he want with me? He knew I was coming (he had to have known—he was just sitting there, waiting), so why didn’t he have me arrested? After all, with judge status, it shouldn’t be hard at all to station a few cops here and there, guarding the windows and doors. But there was nothing. Even on the way home I had a clear path! So what did he want? Could he have really meant what he said—that he just wanted to talk?? I ask myself these questions again and again—they bounce around in my head like rubber balls. What if I went back?
I think I know how I’d do it, too. I’d break in just before the he gets home from work. I’d sit in his little recliner and wait for him, just like he did to me, and then I’d say something like, “Ok, let’s talk.” I’m tired of feeling like this is totally out of my hands. I’m about to take control again.
Yes, that’s it… It’s the answer to everything—turn it all upside down, throw the ball back in his court and see what he comes up with! You can’t stop me now, Reginald. I will keep at it until I’m on top…

***

January 21, 2005
Step Ahead

I got to his house half an hour before I knew he’d be home, plopping myself into his mysterious recliner. It was more comfortable than I’d imagined, and as I waited my eyelids began to feel heavy, and soon I was asleep.
An hour went by before I finally woke up, urged awake by the drone of a newscaster from the other room. It was from the television. Realizing my carelessness I shot to my feet and again headed for the window, but this time it was locked. I reached for it, but a voice stopped me.
“Fallin’ asleep in another man’s chair…yew just rackin’ up the crimes, ‘aint ya?” Said the judge from behind the kitchen counter, pouring himself a tall glass of beer. “You drink?” He asked.
“No. I’m only eighteen,” I said.
“Oh, right. Yew seem like the law-abidin’ type.”
“What do you want with me?” I demanded.
“Boy, you broke into ma home. Twice, now. Seems that if anyone is owed an explanation, it oughta be me. So why don’t you tell me why yo here.”
“You said…you wanted to talk.”
“Yew ‘aint gotta bust into a man’s house to talk to him, yew know. They got these te-le-phones now.”
“Yeah, well…call me then,” I said angrily, returning to the window.
“But since yo here,” he called after me, “we might as well do some talkin’. Hungry?”
I shook my head but he warmed up a TV dinner anyway, tearing the gossamer film away and handing me a plastic fork. A few minutes passed as we ate without speaking, staring inattentively at the flickering screen in the room.
“Tell me,” he said, “when did you embark on yo…’life of crime’?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. At that he threw down his fork and looked at me belligerently.
“Do yew think I was born this mornin’? Yew seriously think that yo the first to do this—go through all this trouble to get yo revenge? Well you aint!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Could it possibly be the truth?
“You mean…there were others?”
“Others that took it to this level? No. You’ve got some skill in breakin’ in. That’s why I ask when yo criminal life began, cause I clearly ‘aint yo first.”
This man was truly intelligent, and he’d been a step ahead of me each time. Amazing.
“But how did you know I’d strike when I did? There are so many variables in all this…”
“I lucked out. Member, I almos’ hit ya in the parking deck that day. Knew yo face instantly. Figured it would be a few days for yew to nab me. I was right.”
“But you didn’t have me arrested.”
“Thought about it, but it wouldn’t do either of us any good. You’d just be more pissed when you got out and come lookin’ again, and I’d be in bigger danger.”
“You let me get away.”
“Yup. You sure you don’t want a drink?”
I shook my head.
“But you still haven’t answered my question,” I said.
”Whas that?”
“Why go through all this trouble? Why put yourself at risk? What did you want me for?”
He took a deep breath and leaned against the sofa, gazing at the ceiling.
“Those questions will wait for another day, I’m afraid.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Tomorrow, same place and time?” Reginald asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said as I headed for the window. “My front door. I keep it unlocked.”

***

January 22, 2005
More Revealed

Ben and Aaron are still avoiding me. They’ll exit the room when I walk in, suddenly retreating off to someplace else. Aaron’s still got a bandage on his nose, and his cheeks seem to be bruised to a darkish-blue as well. I must’ve thrown Ben pretty hard.
It felt like I spent most of the day sitting around waiting for the afternoon. Finally it arrived, and around five-thirty I grabbed my jacket and took to the streets. It was strange to be out there without my bag, and stranger still to not be on the run, not be spurred on by the urgency of a thumping heart and tingling nerves. It was almost relaxing.
The most peculiar moment, however, was knocking on the judge’s door. I’m fairly certain it’s the first time in a year that I’ve visited a house knowing someone was inside.
“How’s it feel to be knockin’ for once?” He asked when the door swung open.
“Weird,” I said.
“Then let yo’self in nex time.”
“I will.”
He grabbed the remote from the couch and flipped off the television, which had been reporting some trivial crime in the area.
“Yew watch the news much?” He asked.
“Not really,” I told him honestly.
“They’ve had this big story, for over a year now, about a thief they can’t catch.”
“I heard.”
“The ‘Uncatchable’ I think they said.”
“Yeah.”
“About matches yo description. 5’ 7”, thin, able to scale buildings…So how do yew do it? Whas yo secret?”
“You just expect me to confess?”
“Why not? This is yo chance to brag a lil. I know it must be eatin’ yew up, not being able to tell everbody how good yew are.”
“I’m cautious…I keep to the shadows…Never look back, never think too big, have a backup. I don’t know, I’ve never listed it consciously. It’s sort of instinctive,” I explained.
“I see. It’s sorta the same way with bein’ a jugde, I s’pose. Without the jury, anyhow. Sometimes yew juss gotta do what feels right. Go with yo gut.”
“Did your gut tell you my mom was an armed robber?” I asked. He looked at me for a few seconds before answering simply,
“Yup.”
“Well you were wrong! There’s no way she could have done it!”
“Mmhm.”
He walked over to a large black suitcase and began rummaging through its contents.
“What is all that?” I asked.
“Court proceedings, records, transcripts.”
“You keep them?”
“Some of ‘em. Most I know I’ll never need again, so those get tossed,” he said, still digging through the bag. “Here it is.”
He handed me a manila folder stacked with papers and a few photographs. It was mom’s case file. It had her mug shot from prison, some of the trial papers, and even the verdict. “GUILTY” was circled in a red pen. Buried amongst the papers, I found a photograph of a young boy with messy black hair. It was me. The scattered memories tried to piece themselves together in my tired head.
I remembered mom screaming, going hysterical as the bailiffs dragged her away. Then there was uncle John, putting his arm around me and telling me it would be ok, that I would just have to go live with him for awhile. I was 11. Those were the worst years, when John drank and threw fits, complaining about having to support his sister’s son. I lived with grandma for awhile, too, but couldn’t stand her either. She’d say things like, “I always told your mother to be careful, but did she listen? No! And now look, she’s got a son she can’t even take care of!”
Then, shortly after I turned 16, my life changed. It was that Nike commercial. Seb was jumping all around, running through Paris across rooftops and alleys. At first it was just my hobby, my release from all the pain my life forced me to carry. I found Ben and Aaron, and together we rented out a small apartment, vowing to support each other and spread the word about parkour.
But I could never just abandon mom, leaving her in her cell to rot away and be forgotten in the mass of convicts. My conscience could never bear that. It was then, only one year ago, that I finally decided to seek revenge, taking back from each lawyer and juror what was owed: justice. From their pockets I would hire the best of attorneys to get my mother’s dignity back.
“When I saw yew in the parking deck the other day, I came back here and took a look at that file.”
“Why did you keep it?”
“For yew.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look at some of these others,” he said, offering me another file. It was very reminiscent of my own—it had a picture of a middle-aged woman and other documents clipped together, along with a photograph of a small child similar to my own.
“What’s this?”
“That’s from the Polaski case, 1983. A lot like yo own. Nickolas’ mom was locked up for vehicular homicide when he was 8. He grew up and came lookin’ for me. He was real mad…”
“You mean to tell me you keep all the files dealing with parents of small children?”
”I do. I’d say I get to meet them again sixty percent of the time.”
“What happens?”
“The same that’ll happen with you, Micah.”
“What’s that?”
“They come back the next day,” he said with a smile.
“Why are you playing these games with me? Just answer my questions!” I demanded.
“Sorry, you gotta play by the rules. I’ll see yew tomorrow.”

I still have so many questions…

***

January 23, 2005
Sorry

I apologized to Aaron today.
Came up behind him when he was on the computer, watching parkour videos. He jumped when I spoke.
“Look, Aaron,” I began. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He looked at me almost fearfully, distancing his injured face. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It was uncalled for.” He just shook his head slowly, as if he half expected me to strike again.
“When you get better, I’d like to take you and Ben on a little session. There’s some nice spots out there that I don’t think you’d know about.”
“Ok,” he replied.
“The apology is nice,” said Ben from across the room, “but you know we can’t support what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing it…at the moment,” I stated carefully.
“But you still go out every evening…”
“That’s something else. Don’t worry about it.”
”Ok,” Ben said. “I’ll trust you on this. I know you’ve been through a lot in your life, and I can appreciate you trying to get things figured out.”
”Thanks,” I said, meaning it.
“But if we find out that you’re still up to it, that’s it. We’ll call the cops, Micah. I’m serious.”
“Alright, I understand.”
I left for Reginald’s apartment at the usual time, 5:30. It was brutally cold outside, so to keep warm I ran. It seemed unnatural to be running without the vaulting, jumping, and climbing, so as I wove through the freezing streets I incorporated bits of parkour into my movements, rocketing over handrails and scampering up walls. By the time I reached his complex I was actually sweating.
As I took the elevator up to the eleventh floor I peeled off my jacket and wiped my brow. Reginald would no doubt have something to say about my appearance, I thought. When I got to his door I let myself in, turning on the TV and waiting on the couch. But as I sat through the first half hour of the news, I began to wonder where he was. That’s when I noticed a white envelope on the kitchen counter. MICAH was written on the front. I read the following:

Micah,

Sorry, but I had to stay late today. I’ll see you tomorrow.
-Reg

I was disappointed to read those words, as it means a delay of the answers to my questions, but I’m beginning to learn patience from this man.

***

January 24, 2005
So Cold

“So whatever happened to Nickolas?” I asked as I walked into Reginald’s apartment this afternoon.
“He’s in prison now,” the judge said flatly. “Came at me with a knife as I was comin’ out of the courthouse one day. Broad daylight, dumb kid. A guard nabbed him ‘fore he could get a piece of me. He’ll be in for a long time.”
“That doesn’t bother you? At all?”
“Why should it?” He asked.
“You took his mother away from him, for Christ’s sake! What would you expect?”
“I’d expect his mother to be more careful drivin’ in the firs’ place.”
“How can you be so cold?!”
“Not cold!” He shouted, “Just. You seem to have the two confused.”
“How is that just?” I asked. His face was red with fury as he marched to his black bag, flinging it open and dumping its files on the ground.
“Yew know why I have all these?” He shouted. “Yew know why the court is constantly givin’ me these cases dealing with the moms and pops of lil’ boys and girls?”
I didn’t.
“’Cause nobody else has the guts to do it themselves. I’ve seen it. Judges, staring down from their chairs, lettin’ sympathy get in the way of what’s right and wrong. It’s too hard. They give in, sustainin’ objections when they should be denyin’, preventin’ the prosecution from holding a fair interrogation.” He stared at me with sharp eyes and continued, “That’s NOT me. I’m the ‘strong arm’ because I believe in justice. And when I looked through the evidence against your mother on that day, no sad puppy-eyes were gonna get in the way of that justice. That’s my job.”
“And what happens when you’re wrong?” I asked.
“I’m too fair to be wrong, boy.”
“Or too proud,”
“Leave the word-twistin’ to the lawyers.”
“You didn’t give my mother a fair trial, Reginald,” I said forcefully.
“Yew think that’s the first time I’ve heard that?”
“You were wrong. You put away an innocent woman.”
“Don’t make me…”
“Make you what?”
He didn’t answer, looking at me angrily.
“Make you what?” I repeated.
At that he got on his knees and began searching through the files spewed on the ground. Moments later he was on his feet, handing me the “Jennings” file.
“Everything’s in there. Leave. Please,” he said.
His voice had a strangeness to it, a sudden grievous solemnity that I couldn’t understand. So I took the file from him and came home. It’s still sitting there, untouched, on my desk, waiting to be read.

***

January 25, 2005
No Way

“I’m sorry,” Reginald said as I walked in today. “I shouldn’t have given yew that file yesterday.”
“Why didn’t I remember all those things?” I asked.
“People usually don’t ‘member things that happened before they were born.”
“But it had to have come up in the trial. I remember everything else clearly, but all that other stuff…”
“Our brains have a habit of pickin’ and choosin’ memories, sometimes. Looks like yours threw away the ones it didn’t want.”
“But a heroin addiction?! How could I not remember her having that?”
“Prolly did it secretly. Yew may not remember cause you never saw it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I just don’t believe it,” I said adamantly. Reginald shrugged and continued,
“You know, some say that addiction runs in yo genes.”
“And?”
“Isn’t your uncle an alcoholic?”
“Yes…both.” I admitted.
“I know yew don’t wanna hear this, Micah, but…” he began.
“What?”
“It may be too late for your mom. Fighting an addiction after so long can be almost impossible,” he explained.
“And what, you want me to give up on her?”
“No. But you need to start worrying about yew now…”
“How?”
“You’ve got to fight your addiction now, before it’s too late.”
“What addiction?”
“Stealing.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s something I have to do. It’s based on principle. I’m only taking back what’s mine. You can hardly call that an addiction.”
”Then stop.”
“Why should I? I’m not done.”
“Prove to me that yo in control.”
“Fine,” I said quickly. “I will.”
“Good. That means you’ll need a job. I’d suggest yew start lookin’ now.”
“Ok,” I complied, grabbing my coat and heading for the door. “By the way,” I said before leaving, “I won’t be coming tomorrow. I’m going to see my mom.”
“A good idea.”
“I just don’t see how all that information can be right. She’ll tell me the truth.”
“Do me a favor,” Judge Memphis said. “Tell her how you’ve raised all the cash for her lawyer.”
“Why?”
“Do it. Trust me.”
I nodded, but there’s no way I’m telling mom. She’d disown me. That’s just the way she always was—moral, lawful, honest. That’s how I know that stuff just can’t be true. There’s no way.

***

January 26, 2005
Visiting Mom Again

Mom looked worse than ever today. Long, jagged crevices encircle her face, which still features those puffy, blue bags under her eyes. I almost suspect she’s being physically abused in there. It was actually hard to look her in the eyes today, due not only to her appearance but the things I’d read in the files as well.
But I held that topic off long enough in our conversation, asking her how things were going and if the food had gotten any better—dumb questions that always come out. Reginald’s words reverberated in my mind: Tell her about the money… I ignored his nagging voice for all of ten minutes before finally bursting out,
“Mom, I gotta tell you something.”
“What?” Her wrinkled features arced slightly with curiosity.
“It’s about the money…specifically, how I’ve been raising it.”
“My lawyer money?”
“Yes,” I said, pausing and looking for the right words. “Do you remember how it was for me, that day they put you away?”
“You cried. A lot. Didn’t the guard…do something…”
“He grabbed me and cupped my mouth with his hand to silence me. It was very traumatizing,” I recalled painfully. “Do you remember what I promised you that day?”
”Yes. You said, ‘Mamma, I’ll save you. I’ll do anything.’”
“That’s right. I meant it.”
”I know.”
“A year ago, I began living up to that promise,” I began to explain. “I got a list of all the jurors for your trial and tracked them down.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I found them. I found them and stole from them—but I had to do it, you see? It was just taking back what we were owed. They put you away and I promised I’d get you out! I promised, remember? I said I’d save you! I couldn’t break that promise, mom! I had to do what I did!”
She stared at me with eyes drenched in exhaustion for some time before speaking.
“And?”
“And I’m sorry! I know you must hate me for it, so I’m sorry! It’s not the way you would have done it, but I just didn’t see another way…I’m so, so sorry!” I was crying.
“Calm down, Micah. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not, I should’ve been smarter, more clever. But I just couldn’t think of anything…”
“You did what you could, Micah. We’ll get the money.”
“What?” I asked, puzzled, wiping my face on my sleeve.
“You’re not a failure, son. We have most of what we need. Just a few thousand more and this will all be over and I can come home.”
“Wait…you’re not upset about the money?”
“We’re only missing a little…”
”I’m not talking about the fact that we don’t have all of it! I’m talking about the way I got what we do have.”
”I don’t understand what—“
“MOM. I stole it. Stole!”
“You did what had to be done. You just told me that. What did you expect me to say?”
“I expected you to be furious about it!”
“Why?”
“Because that’s who you are…aren’t you? You always taught me about right and wrong, manners, honesty, respect…”
“Forget all that Micah. There’s no right and wrong in this world. It’s about doing what you can, when you can. Do what you’ve been doing. I’m proud of y—“
“NO! How can you say that?! That’s not what I remember of you! You’re supposed to say the right things! What’s wrong with you?”
“Life, son…Life is wrong with me,” she said dully. “Now get the rest of that cash and get me out of hell.” With that she got up from the visiting table and motioned to the guard, who escorted her back to her cell, leaving me crushed and alone.
I guess I wanted to be wrong today, and ended up being right. I just don’t understand anything anymore. Maybe mom’s right. Maybe life’s just wrong for us.

***

January 27, 2005
Parkour

I didn’t want to wake up this morning. Frankly, I never wanted to wake up, opening my eyes to the painful world that is slowly swallowing me. But my legs eventually crept out from under the sheets and I sat up, wondering what hurt another day could bring. Then there was a knock. I didn’t bother answering, since I knew what would inevitably occur. Sure enough, in a few seconds Aaron let himself in.
“Good morning, Micah,” he said, somehow feeling cheery under all those facial bruises.
“Hey, Aaron,” I replied. “What’s up?”
“Well, Ben and I found out that our morning classes got cancelled. We have the morning off, and were wondering if maybe, I mean, if you’re feeling up to it, but if not, that’s ok, but we were thinking—“
“You want me to take you to those spots I told you about?”
“Yeah!”
I really DIDN’T feel like going out. I didn’t want to have to get bundled up, traipse across the city, and jump around. But Aaron looked totally pitiful, and after all, I had nothing better to do.
“Alright. Let me get some breakfast first,” I said, climbing out of bed.
“Ben!” Aaron called suddenly over his shoulder. A few moments later Ben came trotting in, holding a plate of eggs and toast and a glass of OJ. I knew there was a reason I moved in with these guys.
When I finished eating we got our gear together and piled out onto the sidewalk.
“Ok, guys, you have two choices,” I instructed, pointing West. “There’s a back alley in that direction that is crammed with fences, railings, and stairwells. Go that way and you’ll find an abandoned factory. It’s fairly safe, but sometimes gangs like to sell…”
I saw their faces blanch in fear.
“Ok, West it is,” I said.
It was amusing to see the look on their faces as we entered the alley. Their heads pivoted slowly to examine the arrangement of walls and rails.
“Wow…this place is heaven!” Aaron awed. “Ben, look, you could do an angled cat there! And those rails—they look sturdy—we gotta try precisions there!”
“This is fantastic…” Said Ben to no one in particular.
“Then what is everyone waiting for?” I asked.
With that taunt I ran up to the narrower section of the alley and performed a move they’d apparently never seen. I kicked off the wall and bounced to the opposite side, pushing off a second time as I hit that wall. In this way I managed to tic-tac three times to reach a dangling fire ladder.
“HOLY CRAP!” Aaron excalimed. Feeling motivated, he hurdled a railing, spun a half rotation in the air, and wove his body back through the bars. Not to be outdone, Ben chucked his bag and ran straight up a wall. At roughly eight feet he pushed away from it and latched onto the metal rod of a sign. He swung from it gracefully and landed precisely on a handrail several feet away. As he dismounted he grabbed the next rail and vaulted it with perfect continuity, maintaining his speed and spin. This rotation brought him to the third rail backwards, and blindly he grasped at it and launched himself over, soaring a few feet and rolling.
I watched them dance with the obstacles for awhile from my aerial perch, noticing the passion which consumed their conscious thought. It was clear that they were not thinking, but merely moving. And it was beautiful.
But the morning didn’t last forever, and soon we were back in the apartment, faces flushed from the cold air outside. As Aaron headed for the shower, I returned to my room and plopped back into my bed, falling asleep before the water had been turned off. I woke only a few minutes ago, feeling completely refreshed and energized, if a little sore. Unfortunately, it means I missed visiting Reginald, but I’ll see him tomorrow.

***

January 28, 2005
My Explanation

Reginald asked why I hadn’t showed up the day before, so I tried to briefly explain parkour to him.
“It’s about moving as fluidly as possible through and urban environment,” I said. But it was obvious the definition was too broad for him.
“What’s this, with them skateboards or somethin’”? He asked.
“No, no. Just shoes. I mean, that’s the only equipment you need. It’s about thinking creatively. That’s really the only limitation—your mind.”
“I see. So yew just go runnin’ around everyplace?”
“Well, that’s part of it. It also includes jumping, vaulting, climbing…that kind of stuff.”
“Yew wear a helmet when doing this, what is it, ‘par-goor’”?
“Parkour. No helmet.”
“Seems dangerous.”
“Only if the traceur makes it that way—that’s someone who does parkour. But often they’ll get together and do it in large groups, which we call jams.
“Hm,” he said thoughtfully, scratching his face. “So yo pretty quick, I imagine.”
“Yes. I’m one of the first in the area, so I’m pretty good.”
“Any tie-in with this and them robberies?”
“Yeah. I probably couldn’t have done it without parkour.”
“Those friends yew were talkin’ of, the ones you jump around with…they also steal?”
“No, not at all. They’re good kids.”
“So why do they do it?”
”Pakrour?” I asked.
”Mmhmm.”
“For the pure joy of it, I guess. It was neat watching them yesterday. They’d never seen the area before, and they were just so filled with excitement and energy when they got a chance to play with it. It was just neat to watch, really. I sorta miss those days, when I could just parkour for fun. Not jumping out of a shattered window, or climbing walls to evade thugs…just pure parkour.”
“I ask, Micah, ‘cause if the city ever found out about this sport and its connections with the robberies, they’d probably shut it down.”
”That’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not. Look at skateboarding. We put up signs ‘cause we were tired of the paint-chipped hand rails and scuffed walls. It’s vandalism, and yo’s is worse.”
“That’s just me, Reg. Ninety-nine percent of the guys out there would never dream of what I’m doing. It’s just not the way most traceurs think.”
“That’s fine, Micah, but one bad incident is all a ban would need to be put in place.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Look who’s talkin’! Yo the one that started this mess. If yo buddies get their sport taken away, they’ll have yew to thank!”
“It’s not like I do it anymore, ok?”
“That’s good to hear for many reasons. I just hope it’s the truth.”
And it is.

***

January 29, 2005
Miscommunication

Today I got a call from the bank. They said that they would be charging me fifteen dollars for “accessing unavailable funds.” I figured it was some miscommunication, but I went in anyways to check it out. Like so many of my recent experiences, this one seemed odd, out of place. Here I was, standing in the bank, waiting to discuss a financial issue. I wasn’t jittery and unsure, looking to see if anyone was suspicious of my large deposit. I felt confident, unworried, knowing that for once I was in the right.
So with an inflated chest I stepped up to the desk, explaining firmly:
“I’m Micah Jennings. I received a call—“
“Yes Mr. Jennings,” the woman abruptly interrupted, “Ms. Lambert will see you in that office over there.” She pointed to a vacant room behind me. So I walked on over, feeling a tinge of nervousness tickling my spine.
“Please sit down,” Ms. Lambert said after we’d introduced ourselves. I sat. “The call you received was in connection with your account, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was told that I was going to be charged for going over the limit.”
“Were you aware that you’d done so?”
“Well, actually that’s why I came in. I think it must be some sort of mix-up.”
“Ok, well here’s your account history over the last twelve months.” She handed me a file of blue papers cluttered with type. It took me a minute to decipher it. I saw the deposits, which were correct—a few hundred here, another thousand later on—but the withdrawls were all wrong! It said I was consistently taking out hundreds of dollars!
“This can’t be right,” I said. “I’ve only gone into this account a few times, not every week!”
“Is it a joint account?” She asked. I thought for a minute.
“Well, several years ago my mother transferred it into my name, but…I’m the only one with access.”
“What’s your mother’s name?” She inquired.
“Lisa.”
She turned to her computer and began typing. In a few seconds, she asked:
“What kind of account transfer did you say she made?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was a while back.”
“Uh-huh. Because it looks like she’s still able to access the funds in this account.”
“What?”
“Yes, it’s a joint account. Don’t you receive bank statements?”
“No, I never have. My mom takes care of that stuff.”
“Well, you may want to ask her about this then. And if she doesn’t know what’s going on, we might have a real problem.”
“Ok, I will,” I decided, getting up to leave.
“Mr. Jennings?” She called after me. “Would you like to pay the fifteen dollars now?”
I ignored her.

***

January 30, 2005
Distraught

Last night's conversation with Reginald wasn't much. He advised me to discuss the account situation with her, so today I followed that advice. I was very abrupt with mom this time.
"Have you been accessing my bank account?"
“Our bank account?”
“You gave it to me. I’ve put in much more than I ever took out. Why have you gone in there?” I asked.
“I need it right now.”
“What for?”
“It’s keeping me alive.”
“Mom, this is prison. You’re not paying to be here…the public is.” I immediately regretted the way I’d phrased this as she gasped in shock.
“How dare you talk to me like that, Micah. I am your mother! I took care of you!”
“I know, mom. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. But you aren’t giving me answers. You’re being so…mysterious.”
“How?”
“Where’s the money going?”
“I told you, I need it right now.”
“What do you need it for?” I repeated. She didn’t speak, but her sunken face retreating from the question brought a sickening question into my head.
“Are you…getting drugs…with the money, mom?” She turned away and began scratching at her matted hair.
“Mom, you need to tell me the truth. I want to know if that money—the money that I spent the last year collecting—is being wasted on a drug habit.”
“It’s not a WASTE! It’s how I live, Micah. It—it keeps my mind sharp, alert!” She stammered.
“I can’t believe this, mom.”
“Well how would YOU know? You’ve never tried it, you’ve never known it. You—you’re just a common thief.”
“You are too, aren’t you?”
She shrugged.
“You did it after all. You were trying to support a drug habit, weren’t you? That was the truth, all along. All this time you lied. Lied to the court, lied to Judge Memphis…you’ve been lying to me, mom, haven’t you?”
“I SAID you wouldn’t understand!”
“But now I do, and I see how stupid I was to ever have faith in you.”
“Don’t try to turn your back on me. I’m your mother!”
“No. Not any more. My mother had integrity—she always did the right thing.” I paused for a moment and recalled the happier times of my childhood. “One day when I was in first grade I remember a classmate playing with a matchbox car. It was green, shiny! And I wanted it so bad. So, when he wasn’t looking I put it in my pocket. He thought he lost it! When I came home mom found out, and you know what she said? She said it wasn’t right to take what didn’t belong to me. Even though it was a small thing, she told me to give it back! And when I did, guess what? She bought me one just like it—do you remember that? My mother—the mother I knew—she loved me. But you…you’re nothing like her.” I stood up and motioned to the guard that I was finished, but as I left the room she wailed after me.
“My baby! Don’t leave! I just need a little more! A little more money and it’ll be enough! My baby! My baby! Please!”
Tears blurred my vision as I met the unforgiving chill of wintry sweeping across the parking lot. I cried uncontrollably for several minutes in my car, just sitting there sobbing, wondering what to do next. I was too distraught to go to Reginald’s today. I came straight home and took a long nap.

***

January 31, 2005
Stuck in a Tree

I was in bed for most of the day, glaring at my ceiling and wondering if this was the worst life could possibly be…or if it could get worse. At 1:00 I phoned Reginald to let him know I wouldn’t be visiting him. I said I was sick. Of course, he didn’t believe me, and asked if I’d talked to my mother about the account. I told him the truth.
“So she was guilty all along,” I said sadly, feeling as though the last strands of hope were fraying. I waited for the inevitable “I told you so” from the judge, but he was ever impossible to predict. Instead, he said,
“I’m sorry it happened like this, Micah.”
“You’d be willing to be wrong?”
“I would. Are we on for this afternoon, then?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I consented.
When I arrived I found him sitting at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen. I asked about it.
“Micah, this is the real world,” he replied. “I know you’ve heard it before, but I think yo just startin’ to understand. You’ve been living in a fairly tale, yew know. Robin Hood—takin’ from the wealthy to give to the needy. But in this life, actions have consequences, punishments.”
“You’re turning me in?”
“No. Yo life is collapsin’ at every turn, and that’s punishment enough. But now it’s time to think about makin’ good to those you’ve hurt.”
“Hurt?”
“The twelve jurors that put yo mother away, Micah. The two lawyers that attacked her effectively and defender her futilely. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.”
“Well, life’s unfair. I’ve learned that, now they can too,” I said.
He looked at me blankly.
“When yo done convicin’ yo’self, yew can try that again.” He walked over to the fridge and pulled out his usual beverage, unscrewing the cap and downing half the bottle.
“I’m not askin’ yew to do it alone, Micah.”
“What are you asking?”
“Well, in real life, once in awhile someone comes along with a helpin’ hand. Gets yew back on yo feet and pointed in the right direction. I am that someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“All that cash yew stole—totaled about twenty-six thousand, right?”
“Roughly.”
“I’ve never done this before, Micah, but I’m a good judge of character, and I think yo a good kid, just a little confused. Here.” He pulled out a narrow slip of paper and slid it across the table. It was a check for seven hundred, payable to me.
“You’re giving me this?”
“Lending. Yo first job, Marcus Heinz, was for that much, right?”
“I think. He didn’t have a lot.”
“Then yo gonna cash that and give him back what ‘little’ you took. When I read it in the papers, you’ll get yo next check.”
“Until everyone is paid back?”
“Yup. Then you’ll begin paying ME back. I don’t expect it right away, but you’ll need to get a job.”
“And how am I supposed to give these people back their money? I can’t just walk up to them and be like, ‘hey, I was the guy that ripped you off, I changed my mind, here’.”
The judge looked complacent for awhile, and then said:
“When I was a lil boy, I used to love climbin’ trees. But sometimes I’d get stuck, way up at the top of a fir. And I would start hollerin’ for my dad, and when he’d come, I’d say, ‘Dad, help! How do I get down?’ And you know what he’d say?”
“What does this have anything—“
“He’d say, ‘Well how did you get up there?’ And I’d think about it for a second, and bit by bit I’d work my way backwards down that tree. Worked every time.”
“So…”
“So yo in a tree, boy. How did you get up there?”
“I…stole?”
“And how did you steal?”
“By using parkour…”
“Yew got it. I’ll see yew tomorrow.”
So here I am, typing away, reviewing the conversation bit by bit and wondering what he could possibly have meant…Maybe it’ll hit me tomorrow.

***

February 1, 2005
Marcus

I think I figured it out…
I was right when I said that I can’t just give the money back personally—it would be impossible to pull off without incident. They would probably mistake me for a psycho and end up running off and reporting me. And with even an ounce of sleuthing, the cops would figure everything out. I could LEAVE the cash someplace where they can recover it, though—I could put it in a bag in an alley someplace. But I don’t trust the alleys around here much with their greedy gangs and scheming bums. So what am I left with? I will have to deliver it. And since it would be stupid to leave such amounts of cash on any doorstep, it means I’ll have to break in yet again. This is where parkour comes in. This is what the judge meant.
So with this revelation I cashed the check. Of course, the bank reminded me that I also had a fifteen-dollar fee to pay, so I got that out of the way too…I should have robbed them after all.
With the cash in hand, I got in my car and slipped on my infamous hoodie/beanie combo and drove North to the quiet, modest neighborhood of Mr. Marcus Heinz. It had been a sloppy job on a sloppy day. It was stormy, with water lurching from the sky and drenching everything. But I had stubbornly committed to a schedule, and instead of postponing the strike, I went for it. All went well until, with the goods in my bag, I leapt from a second-story window and twisted my ankle in the boggy lawn. I had to limp the distance back to my car, which was parked on the opposite side of a wooded acre.
Dusk was settling in as I drove slowly down his street, vividly recalling the last time I’d been there. I parked in the same spot, hiked through the woods, and found his hidden key easily for the second time. I knocked first, making sure no one was home. Satisfied, I unlocked the door and placed the bagged cash on his kitchen counter. In the end, the entire escapade couldn’t have been more than six minutes, and I only vaulted a single banister. Rather disappointing, actually.
Still, that’s one juror down, eleven to go. And two lawyers…but do they really need it?...

***

February 2, 2005
NEWS

I walked into Reginald’s apartment proudly as I heard the latest news reports blaring from the television set.
“A bizarre story tonight—This Carrow County man received a pleasant surprise yesterday evening when he found a paper bag stuffed with money—his money. With us now is Mr. Marcus Heinz, who was robbed roughly a year ago for the same amount that he found today “returned” to him. Can you tell us more, Mr. Heinz?”
“Uh, no, really. I just came in, it was there, waiting for me on my counter, right there,” he pointed as the frame panned across the kitchen.
“It’s worth noting that Marcus was suspected to be the first victim in a series of robberies by the so-called “Uncatchable” thief. Apparently, he’s turning his career around. This is Robert Lau, Channel 5 news…”
“Yew done well, boy.”
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure it would make the news.”
“Me either, but it makes a good story, huh?”
“When do I get my next check?”
“It’s on the table.”
I picked it up and read the amount—$1,200. The job came back to me.

Her name was Maria Hernandez. She owned a fabric store on the outskirts of the city, and her business did fairly well. Still, it being only my second heist, I rushed through, grabbing only a few items before my nerves got the best of me. Had she been farther down the list, I may actually have skipped her. Although she eventually sided with the others of the verdict, I’d always noted the compassion in her eyes towards me and mom. But at the time I was consumed by vengeance, and after all, I reasoned, she hadn’t really bettered my situation any. I’ll admit: it feels good to be getting this back to her.
At home I found my roommates huddled around the monitor, viewing newbie videos on Urban Freeflow.
“Ugh, was that a roll?” Said Aaron.
“Not sure, but it was bloody loud,” Lamented Ben. Aaron shot him a quizzical glance.
“Did you just say “bloody”?” Ben shrugged and they both had a laugh. Apparently the phrases of the British online population is beginning to rub off on them. I’m afraid they’re totally hopeless.
“Hey,” I called as I approached the two. They greeted me.
“I just wanted to let you guys know that I’m going to be out late for the next couple of weeks or so.”
“Can we ask what for?” Ben asked.
“I’m returning the cash.”
That confused them, so I took the next ten minutes explaining the week’s events, and how Reginald had lent me the money on the premise that I would get it back to the hands of my victims.
“So what do you think?” I asked. It was Aaron who finally said:
“I think Luke Bessin just found the story for his next movie.”
I was glad to see them laugh, and joined in, but I have no idea what he was talking about…

***

February 3, 2005
Maria

“I wake up this morning and I see a bag—there, by the couch. I open it up and find money.”
“You mentioned earlier that this was the same amount that was taken from you. Can you confirm this?”
“It is.”
“So, in a strange continuation on yesterday’s story, it appears as if the city’s most wanted thief is continuing with his distribution of a series of ‘refunds’ to his victims. However, not everyone is as pleased as Ms. Hernandez with the returned money…” The shot cut to a chubby man with a beard dressed in police uniform.
He said, “What this person is doing is still considered a crime. It’s breaking and entering, plain and simple.”
“Yo prompt,” Reginald remarked, flipping off the TV. “I only gave yew the money last night!”
“I want this to be done with. I dropped it off early this morning.”
“The next check is—“
“I got it already.”
“Jed Seigel.”
“Yeah. I hated him as a jury member.”
“’Cause he was blind?” The judge asked.
“How can someone review the evidence if they can’t see? It seemed so unfair. But I guess, in the end…”
“In the end he understood enough.”
“He was very strange.”
“Mmhm…I recall that. I expected him to excuse himself from the jury, but he stayed. Had a sixth sense about him,” said Reginald.
“I remember breaking into his house. It was very quiet, very dark, so I figured he wasn’t home. I snuck around the place for a few minutes and grabbed a few things and then headed for the bedrooms. I opened the door slowly and nearly had a stroke. There he was—just standing there in the dark, eerily motionless, listening to me. I’d totally forgotten that he didn’t need the lights on. I was terrified, so I ran with what I had.”
“Couldn’t have been too bad—the check’s for eight hundred.”
“I got his watch. Expensive one, too, even said the time out loud.”
“Huh.”
I thought about him sadly for a moment, imagining him raking his hands across different surfaces, looking for his watch. I’ve done such hurtful things…

***

February 4, 2005
Déjà Vu

The recollection of palpable fear overtook me as I returned to Mr. Seigel’s house today. The neighborhood is nice, but his place is a chaotic mess. I imagine that’s not the way he sees it, though. In his mind, it’s probably very organized: each item burrowed in its designated spot. In any case, I had to use parkour just to get to the back door. The entire property is littered with junk—unfinished projects, abandoned vehicles, etc.
It was in broad daylight that I clambered over the trash to his house, jimmying a window that stuck after budging only ten inches. But I managed to slide in. As I did, a repulsive odor struck me, and I could remember that, too. It was obvious that I could put the money anywhere and rest assured that he’d find it, so I set it delicately atop a load of filthy laundry. Satisfied he’d locate it, I turned for the window, and then it happened.
As if held hostage by some horrific case of déjà vu, there stood all six and a half feet of Jed Seigel. He wasn’t wearing glasses, so his milky, twisted retinas were clearly visible. Like a zombie, he craned his head sickeningly, alert to my next movement. I watched him slowly lower himself to the ground, returning with a solid, wooden curtain rod. He gripped it tightly. This was very bad.
Nervously I glanced around the room, desperate for an escape. His body blocked the door, and the window was several paces behind me. Slowly I stepped backwards towards the open route, but as I did so my foot brushed against a plastic bag, and hearing it, he charged.
In an instant I changed my mind about the window, knowing I could never squeeze through such a space at speed. So, facing him, I curled into a ball and rolled past. Thinking he’d cornered me, he swung his weapon violently, sending a shower of items across the room. But he was quick to learn, and spun around instantly. I dodged his next swing by leaping towards a wall and running along it a few steps. The sound confused him, but he kept moving, and gradually I was being cornered.
In seconds I was against the wall, watching as his arms bent powerfully to deliver the first and final blow. Thinking quickly, I took two steps towards him, and turned back to the corner. As the rod tore through the air, I bounced from the wall and flew back over his shoulders, vaulting him in leap-frog fashion. As the momentum threw him off balance, I returned to the window, where I was able to slither through.
It sure is a lot of work giving people money…

***

February 5, 2005
Ideas

I decided not to tell Reginald about the close call with Seigel. I don’t want to give him any reason to stop writing the checks that are steadily cleansing my stained conscience. So I told him that the delivery went without incident.
As I suspected, Jed didn’t report the money to the media, so there were no follow-up stories to the “prodigal thief” piece that’s been running for a few days now. Tonight, for filler material, they consulted a “criminal expert” who bumbled his way through an analysis of my actions.
“I think it’s reasonable to assume that we’re dealing with a split-personality entity here,” he said surely, adjusting his glasses. “They’re rather common in my field, and highly predictable. The best tactic is to plan ahead, to get inside their minds before they cause the most damage…”
“But wouldn’t you agree,” the interviewer refuted, “that the thief isn’t exactly causing damage?”
“Perhaps, but that’s where these cases become tricky—you can never label two criminals with the same stamp—is he just building reputation for something bigger? We don’t really know…”
And with that blatant contradiction, the interview ended. Reginald leaned over and handed me an envelope. Inside was a check for five thousand dollars.
“I didn’t take this much until months later…this is too much,” I said.
“It should cover the next two jobs, I reckon.”
“You’re combining checks?”
“Boy, if yew keep depostitin’ checks for the same amount that is later reported on the news that evenin’, how long yew really think it’s gon take them bankers to figure it out?”
”I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Also, yew gonna hafta find out how to keep them jurors from hollerin’ to the news people. A few more faces on TV and they’ll start recognizin’ each other. Yew were lucky before, when you robbed ‘em, that they didn’t mention their names or show their pictures. But this time, yew gotta use that noggin’.” I thought about it for a second and wanted to give him an idea, but I couldn’t think of anything.
“I’ll figure something out,” I assured him.
”I know.”
But I have no idea where to go from here! I can’t just leave the money with them anymore…

***

February 6, 2005
The Solution

I spent a good portion of last night trying to come up with a solution to the problem that Reginald had brought up. If my victims ever get in contact, they’ll certainly make the connection and lock me up. The goal was to come up with a plan that would keep the person quiet about their returned money. For hours I twisted under the sheets, shoveling through my thoughts to find the perfect answer. It didn’t come.
This morning, as I hovered groggily over a bowl of corn flakes, I noticed Aaron sitting at his computer. He was grumbling about having to “clean crap up,” apparently some reference to his position as a moderator. I decided to ask him what he thought of my dilemma.
“Why don’t you just tell them not to report it?”
I scoffed at the idea. “Just walk in there, hand them the money, and beg them not to ‘tell’ on me? That’ll work.”
“You don’t have to do it face-to-face, Micah.”
“What?”
“Leave a note or something, or type it, if you’re scared to leave fingerprints or whatever.”
How was it, I thought, that after a night of intense brainstorming, my solution finally arrived from Aaron, who, through divided attention, still took barely took ten seconds? Could it really be so simple?
“That’s ridiculous,” I lied. “It’ll never work.” With that I threw my bowl in the sink, retreated to my room, and began writing out a note:

To whom is may concern,

I apologize for any troubles that the absence of this money may have caused. I have returned it in full. I only ask that it please not be reported to the news. I am trying to get my life straightened out, and further publicity will make this difficult.

Thanks,
Mi—

I scratched it out and wrote: “Mr. Uncatchable”

Satisfied, I returned to Aaron.
“Hey, let me use the computer when you get a second,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could manage.
“Yeah, just a minute. I’m sending a warning to one of the members.”
“What for?”
“He keeps mentioning “using parkour for crime”.”
“Tell him it’s profitable, and a pretty cool rush.”
Aaron got a laugh out of that, hitting “send” on the screen and getting up. “Oh, by the way, printer’s out of paper.”
“Thanks,” I responded, grabbing a stack of white sheets and sliding them into the tray.
“Yeah, I would’ve typed it too,” he quipped, walking off.
Once I’d delivered the two bundles of cash along with the notes, I headed to Reginald’s, where I nervously waited to see if the story would air. It didn’t, and we both were able to breathe with relief. It isn’t over yet, but it’s getting close. Only nine deliveries remain!

February 7, 2005
Needing Time

I had two deliveries today, and both went without incident. It took the entire morning and afternoon, so once I finished I headed straight to Reg’s place.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said.
“About?”
“Well, so far I’ve written yew checks for a total of about fo-teen thousand.”
I nodded.
“And so far, I haven’t seen any of it comin’ back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sheepishly.
“No, no. I don’t want yew to be sorry, I want to know how I’m gonna git my money back,” he said smiling.
“Well, I think it’s going to be awhile.”
“I understand, Micah. I knew from the beginnin’ it would take time to finish payin’ off. I just didn’t expect it to take this long to start. Now I’ve been pretty easy about all of this, so far. I know what kinda situation yo in, and I do wanna help yew out. But I need to see yew helpin’ yoself out too. Have yew even looked for a job?”
I admitted I hadn’t.
“I think yew should start. In fact, I think we should cut it back to one check per day, so yew can have some time for job-huntin’.”
I agreed that it would be a good idea. He grabbed his checkbook and wrote out the amount for the next return. I accepted it with a tinge of disappointment, knowing that this would equate to yet another setback. More than anything, I was upset at myself.
A minute later, the news broadcast begun, signified by the confident voice of an anchorman previewing the night’s stories.
“Police in Fayette crack down on speeders…”
“A kidnapping terrorizes a small community…”
“A new health report reveals worrisome information regarding SUVs…”
“And finally, our top story for tonight: a local thief tries to turn over a new leaf…”
We flashed each other a glance of panic and then lunged for the remote, raising the volume. It was bad news. One of my victims decided to ignore the note.
“So I saw all that money and the note there, and it asks me not to tell anybody, so I says to my husband, ‘We should report it, could be terrorist or somp’n!’” The woman explained haphazardly. I realized it was one of yesterday’s deliveries. After a few more of the woman’s useless comments, the camera returned its focus on the reporter.
“After talking with authorities this evening, we have learned that they believe they have linked the victims, but they would not say how, as their investigation is still under way. For those yet to be compensated, this is a time of mixed feelings of hope and worry, but police have maintained their stand that the thief should still be viewed as a criminal. Robert Lau reporting live from the scene, Channel 5 news.”
Reginald shut it off and gave me a sober look.
“It’s yo call. What do yew wanna do?”
I was already convinced about what needed to be done. “I have to get that money back. If I can return all of it before they catch up with me, I just might be able to sway their minds.”
“It’s a longshot, boy.”
“You’ll get your money back, Reginald. Even if I get locked away, I will never forget about our promise.”
He stared at me intently for some time. Then he nodded. “Ok, that’s good enough for me. I’m takin’ a risk, but yew really are one of a kind, Micah. I don’t doubt yew for one second.” He took the check from me and tore it up. Then he wrote a new one and passed it to me. The figure was staggering. He’d written a check for the remaining twelve thousand.
The end is near. I can see them now, shuffling through mounds of papers, realizing who the only possible suspect could be. Or maybe they’re closer. Maybe they’re on the rooftop outside, watching me with binoculars, as I watched so many before. But no matter how much I dwell on this, my only anxiety stems from knowing that I may never right all the wrongs of my past. I’m so close. I just need a few more days…

***

February 8, 2005
Tears

I am drenched in exhaustion. I raced to make four deliveries today, a venture that took me almost two hundred miles across the state. Mary Ward, Donald Brantley, Faith Holm, and Alahm Benjara are all accounted for—a total of over two thousand dollars returned. Needless to say, I wasn’t able to make it to Reginald’s, and I doubt he was surprised. I was home no sooner than 10:30.
Ben approached me as I fixed myself a sandwich after showering.
“We saw you on the news tonight,” he said.
“What?” I asked apprehensively.
“’Mr. Uncatchable,’ that is. They don’t seem to know who it is. Another one of your victims turned up, decided to report it. They mentioned there’s some ‘connection’, but that’s all they’ve said.”
“They said the same thing last night. I would’ve thought they’d have figured it out by now,” I said, biting into my sandwich. Ben nodded.
“Aaron and I came to a decision today.”
Here it was. I knew it was inevitable, and I was ready to accept it. “I understand. I’ll be gone by tomorrow night,” I said.
“Actually, that’s not it…”
“It isn’t?”
“We can’t judge you anymore, Micah. We’re spectators to your life—we’ve never lived it. Neither of us know what it’s like to fight for a mother’s justice, only to find out that you’ve been struggling for a lost cause…”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Your life has been hell. At every turn you’ve been given a new burden, and yet somehow you manage to cope. You just don’t quit. This—this justice mission you’ve been on…it’s incredible. I don’t think I’d have your strength in that situation.”
“Thank you, Ben. But I think it best, at this point, to spare you and Aaron from trouble…”
“No. Trouble or not, we’ve decided you’re staying. You’re doing the right thing against all the odds, so how could we possibly push you away? We can’t make things worse like that.”
“You’re saying I can stay?”
He nodded. “If the police knock on that door tomorrow, we’ll tell them you’ve moved. We’ll tell them we had no idea about your secret, and you’ll be safe here.”
“This doesn’t sound like you…”
“Micah, you’re fighting for your innocence now. We’ll do everything we can to make sure you win that fight.” He spoke with such resolute determination that I my vision hazed with tears. I hate myself for every doubting such a close friend.
But the hands on the clock march along steadily. I can only pray for enough time to make the final five deliveries…

***

February 9, 2005
Donna

I was furious when I saw the time on the digital clock next to my bed—I’d overslept two hours! Perhaps I overdid it yesterday, but still! It’s yet another frustrating setback, and it meant that I was only able to manage two deliveries today: Jackson Smith and Donna Pierce.
It was fitting to do these together—I robbed them both in August of last year. By this time, my technique was highly refined. I’d establish their patterns and routines from carefully determined surveillance spots. Within a few days I knew if and where they hid their most valued possessions, and by the end of the week my job was complete.
But these two were unusually difficult cases. It wasn’t that I couldn’t figure them out; in fact, I had nailed Donna’s habits after a single stalk. My trouble came from within me.
Both Jackson and Donna were simple people: neither lived luxuriously by any means.. Jackson grew corn, Donna lived in drab apartment in the city. I remember convincing myself desperately that it was right to take from people who had so little.
They’ve taken from us. This is what we are owed, I’d think. I was never fully swayed by this, particularly as my eyes peered hopelessly around their homes, seeing how simply they lived. Still, I ended up generating a total of $1,000 from the two. I was anxious to get it back.
But Donna had moved. I asked the woman in the crammed lobby office, who merely reported: “Moved out last fall. Couldn’t pay the rent…”
The words dealt a painful blow. “Do you know where she went?” I asked.
“Yeah, just moved across the street. Smaller place. Something she could afford,” she told me haltingly.
It was hard to believe, but the woman was right. Donna’s new place was even more crammed and inhabitable than the first. I left an extra couple hundred, and returned home in anguish.

***

February 10, 2005
Ella Revisited

I’m done.
I’m tired beyond words, but I am actually done. Ella Peterson was my final delivery. Like the thirteen others before her, I had planned on sneaking in and leaving the cash. But as I approached, I recalled how difficult it had been to ‘sneak’ in the first time, and how I’d eventually resorted to breaking a window. I wasn’t about to do that again. In any case, it was late, and she was certain to be home. So, not wanting to cause further problems and sensing that my end is inevitable, I decided to do the unthinkable.
Bag in hand, I approached her gate and buzzed the intercom system.
“Yes?” a tinny voice asked after a few moments. “Who is it?”
“My name is Micah Jennings. You defended my mom in a case several years ago. I was wondering if we could talk.”
Silence.
“Well, I’m in the middle of dinner…what is this about?”
“It’s kind of a long story, but… basically I have something that belongs to you.”
A few more moments passed, followed by the groan of metallic gears as her gate peeled open. As I approached the porch her door flung open. She watched me curiously.
“Who did you say you were again?” She asked.
“Micah Jennings. My mom’s name was Lisa.“
“Lisa Jennings... Was that the custody case? Wait, no, I remember you now! One of the few I lost…”
“Yes, but I don’t blame you, Ms. Peterson.”
“That’s good to hear. You were very upset that day when the verdict came though. I was frustrated that I couldn’t do more for you, but—“
“No, no. You shouldn’t be.”
“I shouldn’t?”
I shook my head slowly. Already a knot was beginning to bulge in my throat. “Funny thing is…turns out…she was guilty all along.”
Ella looked at me consolingly, but admitted:
“I had trouble believing in your mother’s innocence myself. She seemed clean enough when we were consulting, but in the court…there was so much evidence against her. The prosecution knew it. The judge felt it. The jurors…they just saw it. But the effect that had on you—the innocent child in the middle of it all; it’s for YOU I regret not doing more.”
“It was difficult,” I said. “For a long time I despised everyone that helped put my mom away.”
“Was I on that list?”
“At the end of it, yes.” I handed her the bag. She peeked inside and withdrew the bundles of cash carefully.
“That’s all of it. $7,800.”
“You…You were the one? Are you the same thief that’s been—“
“Yeah, that’s me. Targeted the jury, the prosecution…you.”
“And now you’re giving it back?”
“When I learned the truth, I couldn’t keep it. It was difficult enough trying to justify it without the facts.”
“I don’t know what to say…this is unbelievable…Thank you for returning it.”
I didn’t think it right to acknowledge her appreciation when I was merely giving back what was hers, so I walked silently away gate as she studied me with apparent awe. Before I reached the gate I remembered something and called back:
“By the way, I might be looking you up in the near future.”
And now I wait. I wait for the sirens and the thudding footsteps, or the battering ram splintering our apartment door. My time is nearly up, but I am no longer worried. I’m ready for the end.

***

February 11, 2005
Grace

I’ve been given another day of freedom. I dreamt I was already spending my life in a glossy-walled brick cell, and expected to see exactly that when my eyes opened. I was almost shocked to feel soft, plastered walls at my sides. I ran my hand along the porous surface, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on the other side. I opened the window and filled my lungs with the sweet scent of spring’s first breath. It’s important to take this all in now. I will have little more than these memories when I’m taken away.
Ben asked if I’d be interested in tagging along with him and Aaron as they scouted for suitable parkour spots. Tomorrow they’ve scheduled a large jam geared towards the new crowd. I remember how Ben described it to me several weeks back. ‘We’ll be like forefathers,” he’d said. I laughed then, but now… I’m going to miss not being there. I could teach the beginners so much. Not just about the movements of parkour, but about its use. There’s so much I want to say. Maybe I’ll have another day? In either case, I thought it a privilege to join them.
Saw the judge for what I strongly suspect will be one of the last times. His eyes shone with luster as I told him that the deliveries were complete. He didn’t even mention me needing to pay him back, although this is at the forefront of my mind. It seems that as I try to right the wrongs of my history, I only shift the burden from one victim to another. If only I could take it all upon my own shoulders…I would feel so much better.
We talked about what a journey the last month has been, and how we’d done the right thing. Then the conversation shifted to regrets. I, of course, had a long list, starting from the moment I blinded myself to the truth about mom. Reginald listened intently, patiently, as he always does. Finally, when he’d absorbed what I’d said, he mentioned:
“I regret never seein’ yew in action.”
“You wanted to watch me break in?”
“No, I mean that par-goor thing. Seems like a fun thing to watch.”
I mentioned the jam for tomorrow.
“Darn. Sorta last minute, but I’ll see what I can do. I wanna see what this is all about.”
So he agreed to try to attend, and I prayed for another day of liberty.
When I got back, I found all the lights off in the apartment, except for the computer monitor in the living room. It was partially covered with a post-it note. On it was written:
“F5”
I pulled it off and glanced at the screen. It was the urban graffiti forum of Urban Freeflow, where parkour videos were posted and consequently rated by other members. Following the note, I hit the refresh button and watched as the page reloaded.
Pinned to the very top of the forum was a topic entitled:
“Micah Jennings Feb 05 Sampler!” It had over two thousand views and dozens of posts, along with the highest possible rating.
I fumbled with the mouse desperately, looking to see what this was all about! The initial post was by Bjammin, Ben’s UF screen name. It read:

This video is a compilation of clips filmed over a week’s time without the runner’s knowledge. He doesn’t visit the boards much, but we simply could not avoid sharing his abilities with you. A must see!

I followed the link and watched myself for the first time. I’d never been able to step back like this, and I was impressed with how it looked. It was obvious the filming was incognito, evident by the shaky angles and clipped scenes. Still, it was fun to watch! I went back and read the comments.
“WOW! Dood, how long av u been pkin?!! Amazin!”
“0:16, 0:34, 1:14, 1:18, 1:49, 1:56, 2:03, 2:21 – I’ve never EVER seen that stuff before!! One of the best videos Ive seen—EVER.”
“Incredible flow!!!!! Honestly the best vid since Releve.”
“Where do u come up wit dis?? AHHH!!”
“Astounding understanding of movement. You’ve earned yourself a sticky spot as video of the week!”
And so it went, on and on for several pages. It is their gift to me. My last thing to remember them by. I doubted them, I betrayed them, and I hurt them, but Ben and Aaron only give back good in return. I will never forget them!

***

February 12, 2005
The Offer

I couldn’t have asked for a better day.
We got to the city a couple of hours prior to the jam. Aaron took a few pictures with the camera he’d brought along, and for once I smiled easily into the lens, ignoring the whispers of the future.
The climate was perfect—a friendly breeze kept the sweat off our backs while the sun warmed the handrails. By 8:00 a diverse crowd of energetic newcomers had formed. All sizes, races, and genders were represented. Their undisciplined technique was evident, but I set that aside, simply admiring the vigor throbbing within them.
Ben climbed atop a concrete pillar and spoke to the group.
“It’s great to see so many here! If you have questions, ask me—my name’s Ben—or Aaron. Another very experienced traceur with us is Micah, there,” he motioned. At my announcement I could hear remarks of surprise.
“Yup,” Aaron said. “Same Micah.”
With that clarification, an entourage quickly formed. Gladly I showed them the correct techniques—jumping, landing, rolling, vaulting. I was careful to watch for bad habits. Some tried to roll directly along their spine, and for that they were scolded, perhaps a bit too harshly.
“Do you want scoliosis?” I asked.
He shook his head guiltily.
“Then make contact here first,” I instructed, patting the back of my shoulder. I was strict, but by the close of the jam I could see the benefits. Everyone had rolls down to a science, and some were even trying them on concrete!
For the less novice group, I focused on vault variations and the importance of linking.
“You must learn to carry yourself over,” I said firmly. “Do NOT throw yourself over. Think of the fluidity of water. Learn to listen to the movements of your body. Don’t force it in an unnatural position. If I am rotating when I take off…” I twisted my torso and began spinning over a railing, “…then I must rotate when I land.” As my feet made contact I maintained the directional force with a left-side roll and exited to a sprint. I could hear their feet slapping behind me as they kept up. I glanced back and was gratified to see some follow me over the rail.
At lunch Ben and I talked about their progress. He thanked me for my help in teaching.
“You’ve made it easy on us. They’re mostly just listening to you!”
We laughed.
In the afternoon we held run session. Our goal was to get each beginner to link a full circuit of movements, however poorly done each technique was.
“The goal of parkour is to not to clear one obstacle at a time,” Ben said. “Think of each obstacle as a small piece of the entire run. Your aim is to complete the entire run so that it feels like it was done with a single movement.”
I nodded approvingly.
“Micah will demonstrate.”
I gave him a sour stare, but he refused to back down.
“Show them how it’s done,” Aaron whispered at my side.
Shading my eyes from the fading sun, I surveyed the area meticulously. I hadn’t done a single run through it yet, and was daunted by eyes that anticipated perfection. I envisioned a path.
There were rails at various levels of the stepped and walled courtyard. No doubt I could simply leap from one level down to the next, but it would leave me with fewer opportunities apart from more rolls, and they’d seen enough of that. I raked through my repertoire of movements…Could I possibly do…I thought about it for moment. It had been weeks since my last attempt…Did I dare to try it again without a single trial?
I did.
Realizing my path I leapt from the obstacle and eased into a roll. As the horizon rose at my side I jumped to my feet and lazy vaulted the first railing, dropping nearly four feet to the next level. A rail raced up to me from the floor and sturdily I clasped it, swinging under without touching ground. The underbar threw me into a spin, and as I’d preached, I went with it, linking to a roll. Gathering speed, I darted to the next railing, arching my back high into the air and propelling myself with both hands. I now soared dangerously to an even lower level, but my rooftop training had taught me much, and I embraced the concrete easily, using my roll to decelerate.
Now, fully overcome with fluidity, I approached the final rail to the largest drop yet. Planning my steps subconsciously, I dove into the sky, facing my palms to the heavens. At the plateau of my leap I sliced my arms inward, forcing myself into a spin. The grey cement blurred with the orange horizon as I unfolded my limbs and prepared to land. The balls of my feet connected with the rail, and instinctively my body flattened, throwing back my arms and drawing my knees to my chest. I waited, frozen, expecting my balance to vanish, but it remained.
The crowd now raced up behind me, leaning over the railing above and gasping at the sight of me perched, still, on the rail.
“Oh my GOD!” Someone yelled.
“Did I really just see that—a flip to precision??!” Said a new voice.
Then there was clapping. It came from a different direction—from a stairwell sheltered by the shadow of an awning. I was thrilled to see the face.
“No wonder!” Reginald exclaimed, approaching.
“You made it!”
“Lil late, but when I did come lookin’, it didn’t take long to find yew. Hard to miss a crowd of young’ns skateboardin’ with invisible boards.”
I laughed. He knows full well how that description gets to me. Ben and Aaron immediately recognized who the stranger was, eagerly introducing themselves and thanking him for his help inconspicuously, so as not to interest the newcomers.
Unfortunately he didn’t stay long, but before he left he told me quietly,
“I need to speak to yew for a bit,”
I told Aaron and Ben to help out the newly-inspired newbies and walked off with Reginald.
“What’s up?” I asked when we’d rounded the corner.
“I’d like yew to meet someone, Micah,” he said.
“Ok.”
The judge looked over his shoulder and motioned to a woman I hadn’t noticed waiting at a nearby table, sipping coffee. She was middle-aged, with graying blonde hair and a strict business sense about her.
“Pat Fletcher,” she said, shaking my hand firmly.
“Micah Jennings,” I returned.
The judge excused himself, wishing me the best and rushing off to an appointment across town. Pat offered to buy me a coffee, but instead I drank from my own bottle of water.
“Reg told me a lot about you, Micah.”
I couldn’t be sure what she was referencing, so I kept it general. “Yeah, we’re good friends.”
But she got right to it. “Really bailed you out, huh?”
“Uh. Yeah. He told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
I wondered what she was getting at, but soon the subject changed.
“You’ve got real talent with that sport of yours.”
“Oh, thanks. I’ve been doing it for awhile.”
“Watching you, I understand why you couldn’t be caught.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said finally, “but what is it, exactly, that you want?”
“Well…you.” She sipped from her latte and let me mull over the mystery. “I’ll get to the point. You’ve been under a microscope, Micah. I am part of a team that has been studying you, seeing if you’d be of use.”
“A ‘team’? What kind of ‘team’?”
“We’re government organized.”
“How long have you been watching me?”
“Not long. Less than a week. The local police were actually the ones to find you. Linked Reginald, too. That’s how we met.”
“They found me? Then why wasn’t I arrested?”
“You can thank me for that. It served several purposes. One, it was the easiest way to get your victims compensated, and would save us further trouble when, two, we wanted to observe you. They weren’t too happy with the exchange, but that’s the nice thing about being on this side of the badge.”
She pulled a card from her lapel pocket and slid it across the table. In blocky, black print read three letters.
“You’re with the C.I.A.?”
She nodded. “Basically, we operate by the motto, ‘if you can’t beat them, get them on your side.’ You fit the motto.”
“So…you’re saying…”
“Yeah, you just had a job interview.”
“You want me?”
“Don’t be fooled by the movies. The C.I.A. isn’t all burly all-American men with guns and cigarettes. We tend to go after the lithe, quick ones, like yourself. They’re much more useful for what we do.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“Generally, a bit of everything. Specifically, nothing I can talk about here.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Good. Keep the card, and call me when you’ve decided.”
“Ok.”
“And keep this to yourself, alright?”
“Wait. What happens if I don’t join?”
“Well, I hate to make this look like blackmail, but I’m only able to hold off the police until I have your answer. If you come with us, they’ve lost all power in the matter. Otherwise…you’re free game.”
“So I don’t really have a choice…”
“Would you need one?”
I didn’t respond.
“You don’t have to say yes or no right now. Like I said, you have my number.”
I nodded. She finished her coffee and walked off.

I returned to the group, blankly watching them enjoy the dying light, but my mind was elsewhere. At home Ben and Aaron continued to marvel at the day’s success, but I quietly parted for my room and closed the door. It will be a sleepless night for a certainty…

***

February 13, 2005
The End


The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Hello, this is Pat,”
“It’s Micah.”
“Good to hear from you. Come to a decision?
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And…I’m interested, but.”
“You’re declining… You know this means prison, right?”
“No, I know…I just need more information. To be honest, the government and I haven’t always been on best terms…I just don’t know if I can say yes yet.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it works. You say yes, you get your assignment. You say no, we disappear.”
“I understand, I just feel… trapped. It wouldn’t be right going around assassinating people and making it look like an accident, if that’s what you do…”
“…Yes or no?”
I weighed the choices in my mind. On one hand, I had felt prison on its way for some time, and was even ready to accept the idea. And, as I’d said, joining a government agency wasn’t at all appealing. But on the other hand, it would give me a purpose that I seemed to be yearning for in life. Ben has been right—I never did things unless as a means to an end. Plus, it would help to pay off my debt, whereas prison…
“Ok,” I said finally.
“Ok?”
“I’m in.”
“Alright. I’m glad you’ve decided that way. If you’d said no…well, there are police throughout your building.”
It was good to know. Could I run for it? I knew our rooftop well. It was a split level leading to other buildings on each side. If I went East, I’d have to do an eleven-foot gap to the next roof. I doubt I’d be followed. But Pat interrupted my plan.
“Now I can give you some general info on your assignment,” she said.
“Ok.”
“We’re flying you to Virginia. There you’ll meet up with Lieutenant Barkley, who’ll be working with you on a new project.”
“A ‘new project’?”
“Yes. We’re developing a training program for our men. It’s still in the early stages, and it might fall through, but we’re very interested in trying it out.”
“Trying what out, exactly?”
“Elements of your sport.”
“You want me…to teach the C.I.A. parkour?” I almost laughed.
“More or less. Some of the movements, obviously, won’t be needed. But the majority of it—precise jumping and landing, sliding through small spaces, climbing, and so on—will be implemented.”
“Are you serious? You don’t have someone already teaching that?”
“We’ve got tumbling instructors, but there’re limits to what they can teach. They’ve seen your video, and frankly, are expecting to pack their bags.”
“So this isn’t about killing…”
“No. We’re not drafting you. We’ve got plenty of soldiers. We just need you to make them better.”
“And what would the pay be like for this?” I asked daringly.
“It varies, but you should be able to pay back the judge before summer.”
After a few mental calculations I gasped at the figure, but was careful to sound unaffected.
“So, when do I start?”
“Pack what you need in one suitcase. A cab will be waiting outside at 3:00 this afternoon to take you to the airport. From there you’ll be escorted to one of our jets and flown straight to Virginia. You start now.”
I was apprehensive and she sensed it.
“If you get time, take a nap. It’ll clear your mind and prepare you. In any case, it must feel good not to be on the run anymore.”
I agreed, thanked her, and hung up.

It took no longer than ten minutes to get my essentials together. I packed only a few items of clothing, as I suspect they’ll issue me what I wear. Sneakers went in too, along with a baggie of toiletries—basic stuff.
But when I came to more personal items, I was forced to slow down. For some time, a dusty, framed photograph lay cradled in my hands. I was six again. Mom and I went to the park and climbed on the jungle gym. We raced across the playground and played on the swings. I sat on her lap as we swung high into the air, feeling the exhilarating wind push at the corners of our smiling faces. At the peak of our arc, she held a camera at arm’s length and snapped this photograph.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I began to cry. With deep, painful, sobs I realized the wounds that I carry within. I could not bring myself to call her. I couldn’t face her again. It would only have hurt us both. Instead, I phoned Reginald.
As the only person I could talk to about the latest stage of my life, we spoke of my decision and reminisced over our time together.
“Reginald,” I said seriously. “I want to thank you.”
“Well what on earth for?”
“What for?! Aside from supplying over $26,000 of your own money? Well, for one, you set me straight. You taught me to look beyond the surface… You saved me, Reginald.”
“Sure, I dipped into my pocket for yew boy, but yew must realize that yo the one who made the changes…”
“That may be true, but still! Without you.”
“Micah, here’s my last piece of advice for yew.”
I waited eagerly, having learned to treasure each bit of wisdom he had to offer.
“Never assume yo dependency. I may have been there to encourage yew along the way, but…yew were the one to climb down the tree.”
Again, I was flooded with admiration for the man.
“Thank you. Again. I will never forget what you’ve done, and paying you back is my first priority.”
As we talked I noticed the hands of the clock beating on, and knew that it was time to say goodbye. He ordered me to keep in contact, and I gladly complied.
Obviously, my roommates were shocked at the news of my departure.
“You’re moving out?” Ben asked.
“Today?” Followed Aaron.
“Something has come up. A job offer.”
“What about the police?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“So they let you off the hook?”
“Yeah,” I said, truthfully enough.
And although I couldn’t give them specifics, I saw that they understood I was moving on. Without a hint of doubt, they accepted it, and accepted me. I said I’d continue to send them money for my share of the rent if they’d keep a room for me, and they willingly agreed. I continue to reflect on what outstanding people they are.
It’s 2:54 and in a few moments I expect to see a yellow taxi waiting beside the sidewalk below my window. My palms are sweaty just contemplating what the next few days will be like. I’m nervous, but immeasurably excited about the job. In a way, it’s what so many have dreamed of doing—making a living out of parkour. But at the same time, it occupies a level of its own.
And so I complete this journal, finding it difficult to believe that so much has happened within the last month. I’ve experienced the extremes of joy and sorrow. I’ve gained friends and lost family. I’ve learned the truth, cleaned my conscience, and found a purpose. Incredible…

The cab is here!!!

-Micah K. Jennings


***


Author’s Notes:

Well it’s finally all over, and what an experience! I don’t know how I’ll deal with not having to write daily installments any longer…I think it’s actually going to be quite an adjustment! It’s weird too, that today’s date, 2/13/2005, marks the exact one-year anniversary of the completion of La Liberte.
I’ve just finished the last entry, and thought it might be interesting to include some of the ‘work in progress’ notes. Basically, I wanted to record my thoughts along the way and how the story developed over time.
Firstly, I think it’s important to note that I had never intended for the journal to be a daily event, nor had I planned to add so much to it. In the beginning, I’d meant it to be a community-inspired story. I thought people would enjoy throwing in their ideas and seeing them come to fruition. But it didn’t quite work out that way. A reader and fellow traceur told me at a jam,

“Dude, just write your own story.”

I’d thought it seemed conceded at the time, but as I began forming the plot in my head, I quickly saw that he was right. Although I find it fun to do compilation writing (as in The Future of Parkour), I felt that my storyline for Micah was sufficient, and the suggestions from the readers, while often good, simply didn’t fit with what I was trying to accomplish. So, in the end, I did my own thing.
I’d also initially meant for the journal to be a sporadic thing—one entry here, another a few days later, etc. But then I began thinking about my other blog, which I rarely updated since there was no schedule to be kept. So, not wanting Micah to be forgotten between intermittent entries, I committed, albeit nervously, to making it a daily event.
And, somehow, I kept to it! It was a struggle in the first week, though. I’d come home late at night from working (I’m a waiter) and want simply to go to bed. But, knowing that there were people waiting to read what would happen next, I would sit, brooding, in front of my monitor, trying to come up with the day’s events. I’m not sure if it’s blatantly obvious in the first few posts, but I hadn’t given them much forethought. I sat down and came up with the story, then and there.
Later on I realized it would likely read better if I gave each entry more consideration. This is when I made a habit of thinking about Micah each day. Sometimes ideas would spring from what was actually happening. This was the case for one of the first entries, which mentions a “CSI” show featuring parkour, which actually aired that night. Another instance of this is when Micah refers to all the Jump London/Britain newbies. Later, after a long day of having to moderate forums littered with useless newbie posts, I wrote this into Aaron’s character, who complained about having to “mop” the boards.
A lot of times the story took on the face of my own life. If I’d had a bad day, try as I would, it would often show in Micah’s entry. I realize now how hard it is to separate myself from my writing, although I’m left wondering if this is such a bad thing.
All in all, this project has been an enormous experience, and I’m glad I stuck it through. I think I actually got better at writing in general as the days went by, so I’ve gone through the entire story again, polishing up various phrases and trying to make the piece more fluid and unified.
That said, I hope you have enjoyed sharing this journey with me, and hope it has inspired something in you as well, in whichever form inspiration may take.

Thanks for reading!

-Eric Jonathan Kiyoshi Terry

***

Writing Tips

In writing the story, I learned and realized some useful things, and thought I’d take the time to jot them down, as I know there are many of you who enjoy writing as well.

-Obviously, practice is key
Write daily if possible. I keep a daily journal, and find this to be a huge help in learning to write quickly, effectively, and regularly.

-Write about what you know
My dad also enjoys writing, and swears by this guideline. I went out on a limb with my story—writing about court proceedings, the government, and even the CIA, but generally it’s a bad idea. Even as I was writing, I would think to myself, Would this really happen? I had no idea. A lot of it is faked, or so vague that it can’t be refuted. You can get away with this to a point, but the more savvy readers will pick up on these quirks and often stop reading. I was most comfortable writing about parkour!

-Think of your characters as real people
Before you even begin to write, establish the personalities of your characters. A safe thing to do is to model your characters after people you know well. If you simply insert existing people into your story, you will find that they solve problems themselves.

-Never write the first phrase that comes to mind
This is a big one, and is an ongoing battle for many writers. Know your word whiskers and your favorite phrases, and then never use them. Reject clichés and common metaphors unless used in dialogue by your characters.

-Re-vision
An important part of writing is going back and cleaning it all up. When you first write, don’t worry about the details and the fancy language. Just get it out. Once you’ve got the skeleton, go back and fill in the blanks. Then do it again, with the intent of trimming it back. Ask yourself, “Does this really need to be said? Can the reader figure it out if it isn’t mentioned?” A big problem I have is giving too much information. I’ve been working on it, in one way, by deleting big chunks of sentences and paragraphs, especially in dialogue.
For example, when I first wrote the final entry about Micah speaking with Pat on the phone, it read something like:

I finally decided to call this morning. I picked up the receiver and dialed the numbers from the back of her card. The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Hello, this is Pat,” came the voice on the other end.
“It’s Micah,” I said.

When I went back and analyzed these few lines, I realized how much didn’t need to be said. Although it works ok, it reads with far more interest when cut.

The phone rang twice before she answered.
“Hello, this is Pat.”
“It’s Micah.”

And we haven’t lost anything. It’s obvious he’s on the phone, and Pat has answered. There’s no need to give these details.

So those are a few things I’ve found helpful in my writing. It’s far from professional quality and I currently view it more as a hobby, but it’s still neat to work at it, get better, and see what I’ve learned. And who knows, maybe they’ll save you some trouble in your own writing.

posted by Mr. Linty @ 5:14 PM