I felt a lump in my throat the size of a fist. It was the first time I’d ever questioned myself so rigorously, and it seemed as if the questions were being articulated by someone older than myself.

I continued to speak out loud: “People trust too much in themselves. What they take for truth, they let rule their lives, and if I set out to find a way to live so I will be in control of my life, then I actually lose control, because the thing I have decided on, my truth, becomes the ruler and I become its servant. And how can I be free to evolve if I’m submitting myself to a ruler, any ruler, even if that ruler is me?”

I was scared by my own words, because their implications were beginning to sink in. “Lawlessness, aimlessness, chaos, confusion, contusion,” I said to no one, to the night. I was talking myself in circles. My head throbbed. I was thinking the kind of thoughts that caused throbbing.

All of a sudden, with blinding clarity, I knew that Harry was a genius. A prophet, maybe even a martyr- that would be decided later, depending on the nature of his death. He was innovating. That’s why Harry chose me to bring his asinine tablets down from the mountain. He was showing me the way. By example, he was showing me that it doesn’t take a god to innovate, create, invert, destroy, crush, and inspire; a man can do the job just as well, and in his own good time. Not in six days, like You-Know-Who. It needn’t be a rush job. And even if, at the end of my toils, I wound up inspiring only hatred or indifference, I knew then and there it was my duty to try, because this was my awakening, and that’s what an awakening is all about: getting up. There’s no use having an awakening and then hitting the snooze button and going back to sleep.

These were big thoughts, really obese. I found a half-smoked cigarette on the ground. I picked it up. It felt strong in my hand, like an Olympic torch. I lit it and walked around town. It was cold. I stamped my feet and held my hands under my armpits to keep warm. This book of Harry’s was the first small step in a nameless revolution that was taking place, and I had been chosen because of the excellence of my mind. I wanted to praise myself without guilt. I wanted to kiss my own brain. I felt thousands of years old. I felt older than soil. I was overcome with the strength and power of words and ideas. I thought about my first father, father number one, back in Poland, and I thought about his insanity: dying for a god. What a stupid reason to die: for a god, a lousy god! I shouted loudly to a tree, “I want to die because I am a creature with a sell-by date! I want to die because I am a man and that’s what men do; they crumble, decay, disappear!” I walked on, cursing my father’s blind stupidity. I screamed, “To die for an idea! To take a bullet for a deity! What an idiot!”

Our town had streetlamps only on the main street- the roads leading into and out of it were left to the mercy of the moon and the stars, and when there were neither it was black through and through. The trees rattled in the wind that blew from the west. I walked to a house and sat on the veranda and waited. For what? Not what: who. I was at Caroline’s house. I realized suddenly that romantics are dickheads. There’s nothing wonderful or interesting about unrequited love. I think it’s shitty, just plain shitty. To love someone who doesn’t return your affections might be exciting in books, but in life it’s unbearably boring. I’ll tell you what’s exciting: sweaty, passionate nights. But sitting on the veranda outside the home of a sleeping woman who isn’t dreaming about you is slow moving and just plain sad.

I waited for Caroline to awaken and come out onto the veranda and wrap her arms around me. I thought the power of my mind was so strong I could will her from her slumber and draw her to the window. I would tell her my ideas and she would finally know who I was. I thought I was as good as my mind and she would be bowled over by both; I forgot entirely about my body and my face, which were not so hot. I stepped up to the front window and saw my reflection and changed my mind. I stepped away and walked back home. This was my awakening, Jasper! Harry, poor Harry, he was enormously important for me: an unfettered mind. Up until I met him, all the minds I knew were fettered, shockingly fettered. The freedom of Harry’s mind was exhilarating. It was a mind absolutely true to itself, that ran on its own steam. I’d never before encountered a timeless mind, impervious to the influence of its surroundings.

I went home and sifted through Harry’s notes some more. They were impossibly silly! This book, his handbook for criminals, it was an aberration. It shouldn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. That’s why I had to help him bring it to life. I had to! I divided the book into two major sections: Crime and Punishment. Then within these sections I made chapters, an index, and added footnotes, just like in a real textbook. I was completely faithful to Harry’s notes. Every now and then as I typed I’d come across a passage and I’d laugh out loud, a huge belly laugh. It was wonderful! His words were stupendous! They bored right into my brain.

On Home Break-ins

Once inside, be fast and methodical. Wear gloves and keep them on. Never take them off under any circumstances. You’d be surprised at how many burglars remove their gloves in order to pick their nose. I cannot stress this strongly enough: Don’t leave fingerprints anywhere! Not even in your nose!

I typed it all up, word for word. I didn’t leave anything out. I did the whole thing without sleep. There was electricity running through me. I couldn’t turn it off. Here’s another one I remember:

On Bribery

When bribing officers of the law, a common technique is to drop the money on the floor in front of the officer in question and say in a casual voice, “Did you drop that?” This is risky because of the possibility of the officer saying, “Yes I did. Cheers,” and arresting you after he’s pocketed the money. While no bribery ploy is guaranteed, I recommend just coming out and saying, “So. You take bribes or what?” This way, if he doesn’t, and charges you with attempting to bribe an officer, you can defend yourself by explaining that you never actually offered a bribe, which you didn’t; you were inquiring about the honesty of the person arresting you and were simply on the lookout for hypocrisy.

His logic was infallible. Even the chapter headings made me whirl with joy:

Motiveless Crimes: Why?

Armed Robbery: Laughing All the Way from the Bank

Crime and Fashion: Balaclavas Are Always In

The Police and You: How to Spot a Crooked Cop by His Shoes

The chapter titled “Pickpocketing: An Intimate Crime” had a line in it that said, “If you have to unzip it, it’s not a pocket. Remove your hand immediately!” Can you argue with that? No, you can’t. I can remember some of the other chapter headings. There was

Assault: Bruising Your Enemies

Blame: Framing Your Friends

Manslaughter: Oops!

Escaping Custody: Walk, Don’t Run

Love: The Real Informer

Crimes of Passion: Hot-Headed Murder

Crimes of Perversion: For Lovers Only

It was an exhaustive tome. He’d left nothing out. No crime was too small, as was covered in Chapter 13: “Misdemeanors and Other Nonprofit Crimes: Jaywalking, Loitering, Graffiti, Littering, Joyriding, and Public Nudity.” When Harry said this was to be the definitive work, he wasn’t kidding!

I left the house at dawn, buzzing with speculation. Would Harry ever get this crazy book published? Who would publish it? How would the public react?

When I stepped outside, I noticed a campfire smoking in the cold morning and, beside it, four sleeping reporters camped out under the trees. When did they get there? A shiver ran through me. Their presence meant one of only three things: either Terry had committed another crime or he’d been arrested or he was dead. I wanted to shake them awake and ask them which it was, but I didn’t dare, not when I was on my way over to Harry’s- a lesser fugitive, sure, but a fugitive all the same. I let the reporters have their sleep, wished them all nightmares, and walked to the bus stop.