I broke into a house once. I don’t know exactly how old I was but I was still living on Hawthorne and going to John Prichard elementary. I guess I was around 8. My friend Christopher and I were riding our bikes around the neighborhood on a weekend. The house that attracted our attention was almost built, but the outside was still under construction. There were no stairs on the outside and the yard was just dirt.
Chris and I climbed up to the back patio door and jimmied the lock. To our surprise, the lock clicked and the door slid open. Two 8 year old boys had just committed a crime. How cool was that. Our hearts were racing. We walked in and started to explore. It was a lot of fun. We were just looking around. We were not going to take anything and we were not going to add any additional art work.
Then it happened, 10 minutes into our exploration we heard voices. I was upstairs so I hid in a closet. My friend hid in the kitchen. Of course the home owner and the building planner would come straight upstairs and into the bedroom that I was hiding in. I was scared out of my mind so as soon as they came in, I ran. I got chased a little but they did not follow me down. Thankfully we did not damage anything or I may have one of those sealed juvie records in a police file somewhere.
This is just one of those stories about my life that I want to remember. It was a time of change, crossing over that line that divides the innocence of my youth into the realm of mischief.
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