Things Stolen From Me

The last place I had on Louisiana Avenue near the Irish Channel was a front studio apartment in an old Victorian. The two front windows were so large that you could push them all the way up and walk out on the front porch. There were screens that were two little doors on the bottom half that sort of latched. On the side wall there were these great bay windows. It used to be the front parlor of the original house. Other than a little tiny kitchen and a little tiny bathroom, that was the apartment. It was like living in a fishbowl. I had curtains you could close. The apartment windows had all been painted shut and had never been opened for years, which I immediately corrected. My homemade desk was set up facing out on the street and I would sit at night and write with all the windows open and I could go out and sit on the bench on the front porch if I wanted. Generally, I'd just draw the curtains and go to sleep.

One morning I awoke to a knock on my door and a house painter had found my wallet and ID down the street. Someone had come in through the screen door while I was asleep and took the wallet out of my pants that were draped over the chair.

I started being more careful, but it didn't stop them from coming in the windows while I was gone. Luckily I had very little and there was little to steal. I realized you could hide anything in a hollowed out book and it would never be found. I had lots of books. The books were never taken. I was robbed a couple of more times while I lived there. The last time, they took a shirt

  and some thrift store silverware because there was nothing left