The Key To Being a Kleptomaniac

     The Interesting Life Of Henry Walton Caines.

“Has anyone seen my keys?” said a woman as she frantically searched the couch cushions.

     “No, I haven’t… what did you do with them when we got here?” asked her boyfriend.

     “Well, I thought I put them on the table when we walked in, but they’re not there.”

     “So you don’t even know where you put them, perfect.”

     “Babe, would you just shut up for a minute, please, you’re really not helping the situation.”

     “You’re always losing your shit, it’s not like this is the first time. This happens constantly.”

Henry Walton Caines stood against the wall watching the chaos he created unfold.  His lips curled up into a smug shit-eating grin. Henry knew exactly where the keys were and it brought him great pleasure. For Henry had a secret that nobody knew. A dark, twisted, sick addiction. He was a kleptomaniac, and had been for most of his life. But Henry didn't just go around stealing anything that caught his eye; he had a particular obsession with stealing keys. Henry Walton Caines was a serial key stealer. When he spotted a set of keys, just sitting there, all by their lonesome, he couldn't resist, he had to have them. Often Henry would attend parties for the sole purpose of stealing keys. People were always so careless at parties, they just toss their keys on the table and don't give them any thought until the moment they're leaving. 

Henry had a meticulous system for abducting keys. He didn't just grab and pocket them without any thought. He takes his time and plans his attack. At the first opportunity he strikes like a shark on an unsuspecting swimmer. Henry had almost been caught a few times, but he always managed to talk his way out of the situation. Picking up someone else’s keys was an honest mistake. All keys look the same, right? Once Henry gets a hold of a fresh set of keys, he plants himself and waits. He waits for the owner of his newly acquired gem to come searching. To Henry this was the greatest entertainment in the world. He could hardly contain himself most of the time. Sometimes he would even offer to help look. Just to rub salt into the wounds.

Henry had been stealing keys since he was 11 years old. It started off around the house, he would steal his father’s car keys and hide them in his bed room. He quickly graduated to stealing keys from complete strangers. At coffee shops, school, stores and his favourite, parties. Henry’s key collection grew at an alarming rate. He had shoe box upon shoe box filled with keys in his closet. No one ever suspected the short curly haired kid was a thief of an unusual breed.  

At one particular party Henry came across a set of keys that were made for a king. Each key was engraved with an intricate design. The moment Henry laid his eyes on the keys he knew he had to have them. He was so excited to steal this particular set of keys that he didn't even wait; he didn't plan and plot his next move. He swiveled his head scanning the room for nosey bystanders. No one was looking, he was in the clear. He hurried towards the kitchen table. The keys were sitting there, just staring at Henry. He snatched them up quickly and left the room. Henry had gotten away with another successful seizure. He had got what he came for, he no longer had any reason to stay. Henry always felt out of place at parties, considering most people were there to have fun and socialize. 

     “You’re leaving already?” asked Arthur.

     “Yes, I have to be going. I had a great time though, thank you for having me,” said Henry.

     “Well, I’m glad to hear. To be honest, it always looks like you’re having a shitty time.”

     “I don’t exactly fit in with this crowd, Arthur. Or any crowd as a matter of fact. I rather enjoy my own company,” said Henry.

     “Why do you even bother coming then bro. I mean, I invite you over and over again and you always come and pull the same shit.”

     “I don’t understand. What are you getting at?” Henry fidgeted with his collar nervously. 

     “At every party, you stand in the corner all alone, staring into space.

     “I don’t feel the need to speak with your ‘friends’, what could they possible offer to someone like me?”

     Arthur was silent for a moment. He just stared at Henry with a stern loathsome look. 

     “You’re unbelievable man. You know how many times I’ve stuck up for you. I thought you were my friend. But, the truth is, you’re really just an asshole, Henry.”

     “Thanks again for having me. Always nice chatting, Arthur.” 

Henry made his way towards the large mahogany doors and out into the cold night. As he walked he heard the keys jingling in his pocket, it reminded Henry of his gift. Henry walked down Fisher Street. It was filled with bars, taverns, and plenty of drunks. Henry wasn't one to go into these places, but, today was different. He felt like celebrating his new acquisition. He continued to walk until he came across a small quiet tavern. 

     “I’ll take a beer, please. Preferably a lager, if you have.” 

     “We only got one type of beer here buddy, it’s a home-brew,” said the barkeep.

     “A home-brew hardly sounds legal, but how quaint. Yes, I’ll try one of your ‘home-brews.’”

klepto2.jpg

Henry sat in a booth, fiddling with the keys in his pocket. Every couple of minutes, he took them out and examined them. There was a small brass tag on them that read, 334 Weller St. Suite 5. Henry noticed this from the very first moment. In fact it was the glare off the shiny brass tag that initially  caught Henry’s eye. At this point, Henry was on his second beer. He finished off the last sip of his “home-brew” and threw a dollar on the table. He then headed back out into the night. He stumbled to his front step and struggled to open his door. Once inside his key-infested apartment, Henry emptied his pockets and jumped into bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow. A gust of wind blew through an open window, rattling the thousands of keys proudly displayed on the walls. 

In the middle of the night Henry awoke to a loud bang. He turned on his light and peered through his window. It was just his neighbors’ Chevy backfiring, again. Henry stumbled to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His eyes were half closed, his mind still dazed from the home-brew. A street light flickered on and off, casting a stream of light that fell on top of Henry's nightstand. The brass tag caught the light, flickering in the darkness. Henry paid it no mind, he was too tired to give it any thought.
                                                                  *
Morning quickly came.  Henry woke up, showered, and brushed his teeth. He made his way down to the cafe below his apartment. Every morning Henry ate the same thing. Two poached eggs, one piece of brown toast, slightly burnt and a glass of chocolate milk. Henry had been going to this cafe for the last five years. From the time he entered the cafe to the time he left the only words he uttered were “Can I get some more jam, please.” 

After breakfast Henry sat in the park reading the Sunday paper as he always did. He was a man of strict regiment, or at least he liked to think that. In reality Henry was a shell of a man trying to fill a void with material objects. Well one particular material object, keys. Stealing keys was the only thing that brought him any joy.  He didn't know why, but, it just did. He simply couldn't resist. He wasn't stealing for financial or personal gain. It’s was an impulse, an addiction, an uncontrollable urge to steal.  As he stood up from the park bench, the keys fell from his pocket. Henry was positive he had left them on the nightstand. But then again, he wasn't in the clearest state of mind this morning. Henry picked up the keys and stared at them. Weller St. was in the old part of town, it was filled with old dilapidated buildings and forgotten streets. Plenty of history, but, no one to remember it. 

Henry decided to go for a little stroll. It was such a gorgeous day it would be a shame to just sit in his apartment. Henry started walking towards the old part of town, he wasn't exactly sure where Weller St. was but he knew he would find it eventually.  After about forty minutes of walking Henry’s feet started to ache. He was wearing his new leather dress shoes. They looked great, but did they ever hurt his feet. To Henry, pain was a small price to pay to look good. He was rather vain in that respect. Henry sat down on the first stoop he saw. He laid down a handkerchief to protect his new slacks from the alarming amount of dirt. After ten minutes Henry regained his composure and stood up. As he turned around he was stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the building in disbelief, 334. Weller Street. The building was five stories tall and looked like it was about to fall down. All the windows were still intact, but, it didn't look like anyone had been inside in quite some time. Henry couldn't make sense of it, but, the building looked oddly familiar. He felt as if he had been here before.  

Henry mustered up the courage to walk up to the front door.  The windows were covered in a thick dust. Henry peered through them, all he could see was a wooden chair and an old stair case. He jiggled the doorknob and to his surprise the door was already unlocked. He opened the door and slowly crept inside. The floorboards creaked with every step. The smell of mothballs and dust filled the air, making it difficult to breathe. Henry carefully walked up the stairs until he reached the 5th floor. Written on the door, in faint letters, the words “Michael Smerle M.D.” Henry stared at the door for several seconds before he finally put the key in the lock. It was a little tough putting it in, the door clearly hadn't been opened in many years. Henry turned the knob and opened it. Everything seemed so familiar. He walked around, poking his head in every room. Every office was empty, expect for one. In it sat a large oak desk with a brown leather chair behind it. The thing looked like it weighed about 500 pounds. Henry walked around the desk and pulled out the chair. He dusted it off and sat down.

The moment Henry sat in the chair he was overwhelmed with painful memories from his childhood. He was 10 years old again, sitting in a cold leather chair. His arms and legs strapped down. Waves of pain radiated through his body over and over again. A man in a white coat stood over Henry, he couldn't make out what he was saying, everything was muffled. His vision was blurred and distorted. A bright light blinded him from above. Henry quickly snapped back into reality. He was breathing heavy and sweating profusely. Henry now realized why this office looked so familiar. This was the very place he received shock treatment as a child. It was extremely difficult for Henry to cope. He had never confronted his past, or forgiven his mother. How could he, she allowed it to happen. How could they do that to a child? Henry was just a helpless boy.

Henry was in disbelief, this couldn't be happening, it was too surreal. How is it that these keys lead him here? What was the reason for this? These strange set of events brought him to the very place that caused him so much pain and suffering. This was too much for Henry. He began to get dizzy and lose his balance, sharp pains radiated through his body.  He rose from the chair and lunged for a closed window. He finally pried it open as he gasped for air. He caught his breathe and leaned against the decrepit wall. Henry needed to leave immediately, he could no longer be here. He took the keys out of his pocket and stared at them for a moment. The shimmer was gone; it was replaced with a dull scratched surface that offered nothing more than confusion and disappointment. Henry opened the desk drawer, placed them in the very back and closed it. 

The keys no longer had a hold on Henry. They were left for dead in a dark place, forever forgotten. If only he could leave his memories behind as well. This was one set of keys that Henry Walton Caines didn't need.  


The End

 

dill.jpg

Dillon Meilleur

Dillon Meilleur is currently in his second year of Professional Writing at Algonquin College. Dillon is a friendly, outgoing person with a big heart and even bigger dreams.  He hopes to one day become a respected published writer. Dillon has experience is many aspects of writing; short stories, scripts, advertisements, PR releases, narratives, satire and much more. In his spare time he enjoys working out, riding his bike and hanging with his friends. 

  

Facebook  Twitter  Tips

When Height Is Hell

When Tall Is Too Much.

Being a big tall guy is great. I love it, but I’m only 6’2". I’m just between being normal height and being overly tall. Like I've said in my previous posts, there are many advantages as well as disadvantages to being a tall man. It’s one thing to be my height, which I’m pretty happy with. If I could be maybe one or two inches taller I would, but let’s not get greedy. I’m happy to be at least 6 feet tall. I have a friend who is 5’11" and he always says “Why the hell couldn't I just get that extra inch.” He tries to say he’s 5’11" and ¾, but no matter what he knows he’s only 5’11". 

I have a friend who is 6’8". Every time I ask him how tall he is, he seems to grow an inch. For a while he was even telling people he’s 6’9" because being 6’8" isn't tall enough. We've both gone through similar experiences with our friends and their Napoleon complexes. People think he’s a big tall, bad man, bad man. In reality he’s just a really nice guy who happens to be freakishly tall. One time at the casino my friend was throwing around a bunch of newly acquired money. The bartender asked my friend if he played for the NBA. He smiled and replied, "Yes, I do." When you get to a certain height, let’s say 7 feet tall, life becomes extremely difficult. Unless you play for the NBA or get into the Guinness World Book of Records. You can't fit into a normal car, clothes, shoes, doorways, chairs... the list goes on.

One time at the casino my friend was throwing around a bunch of newly acquired money. The bartender asked my friend if he played for the NBA. He smiled and replied, "Yes, I do." When you get to a certain height, let’s say 7 feet tall, life becomes extremely difficult. Unless you play for the NBA or get into the Guinness World Book of Records. You can't fit into a normal car, clothes, shoes, doorways, chairs... the list goes on.

I have a hard enough time finding clothes and shoes that fit me. I couldn't imagine how tough it is for people that are 7 feet tall with size 20 feet. Mr. Big and Tall wouldn't know what to do. You would need to find a Mr. Extremely Big and Abnormally Tall store. Then there is the other side of the spectrum. Some people are incredibly short due to genetics, culture, and disorders. The smallest man in the world is 1’9". Could you imagine him side by side with the world's tallest man. There are many villages in Africa where the average height of the villagers is 4’11". Someone my size would be a giant in comparison. People come in all shapes and sizes. Some tall, some short, but in the end we’re all the same. Physical appearances can be very misleading. 

Meet Mr. Big and Tall.

Myths about height

Life is too short
     

dill.jpg

DILLON MEILLEUR

Dillon Meilleur is currently in his second year of Professional Writing at Algonquin College. Dillon is a friendly, outgoing person with a big heart and even bigger dreams.  He hopes to one day become a respected published writer. Dillon has experience is many aspects of writing; short stories, scripts, advertisements, PR releases, narratives, satire and much more. In his spare time he enjoys working out, riding his bike and hanging with his friends.   

Facebook  Twitter  Tips

 

You Know What They Say About Big Feet Right?

The Ups And Downs Of Growing Up Tall.

 To purchase this book go to Amazon.com

To purchase this book go to Amazon.com

There are many pros and cons about being a big guy.  As a big man, I naturally have big feet: Size 13.5 to be exact. When I go to Footlocker or Champs, I can’t just pick out any shoe that I like and buy it. I have to find a shoe that I like, see if they have my size and then hope they fit. When I ask for size 13.5 or even 14, they usually give me a weird look and say they’ll have to go check in the back. It’s always the same thing: the guy comes back empty-handed or with a size 12 saying, “Sorry man, this is the biggest size we have.” I can’t tell you how many times I've heard those exact words. I usually have to order my shoes online if I want to get a pair I really like. Damn these big feet: they make it hard to find socks too. One time my big feet even screwed me out of wake-boarding. I couldn't fit my feet in the foot holsters that were made for a baby's pinky toe. I was told that if I ever wanted to go wake-boarding, I would have to buy an extra-large board. Awesome. Another pet peeve of mine is hitting my head. I hit my head all the time: I’m surprised I haven’t gotten a concussion yet. 

Despite the negatives, being a big guy does come in handy. I always get the best view at concerts and movies. Sometimes girls want to get on your shoulders, but I've learned to make the most of that. When I play basketball, I just stand under the net and wait for the ball. I always got to stand in the top row in class pictures, which seemed really awesome at the time. Height and stature command respect, even if you don’t intend it.

I always got to sit at the back of the class because I could see over everyone. This was known as the “cool” row, at least in my mind. I can also drink much more than the average human, but that’s up for debate. Drunk Dillon and hung-over Dillon have been fighting about this for years. In the end I’m glad I’m a big guy. I wouldn't want it any other way. Except my feet -- if I could be a size 10.5 that would be awesome!

 

This guy knows how I feel. Click Here 

Here's some tips for guys with big feet!

Tall people unite! Click Here

 

                            

dill.jpg

  DILLON MEILLEUR

Dillon Meilleur is currently in his second year of Professional Writing at Algonquin College. Dillon is a friendly, outgoing person with a big heart and even bigger dreams.  He hopes to one day become a respected published writer. Dillon has experience is many aspects of writing; short stories, scripts, advertisements, PR releases, narratives, satire and much more. In his spare time he enjoys working out, riding his bike and hanging with his friends.   

Facebook  Twitter  Tips

 

 

 

It Runs In The Family

Like Father Like Son. 

I Hope my last post got rid of any preconceived notions you yourself have had about “big” guys. The stereotype that we are all quarterback-sacking, fist-throwing, beer-drinking tough guys goes back to the beginning of time. I’m not going to go that far back; I’ll just start with my dad.

 To purchase this book visit Amazon.com

To purchase this book visit Amazon.com

When he was growing up my dad was about the same height and size as me. I might be a bit bigger, but you get the idea. He was 6’2 and weighed 240 when he was my age. And when my dad went out with his buddies he always had the thought in the back of his head, “I hope these guys don’t start any fights tonight.” Which they often did. My godfather Gary and my dad knew each other since they were teens. He was a small guy with a huge mouth, especially after a few drinks. Gary would start a fight expecting my dad to back him up. He had a slight Napoleon complex. They thought just because they were with a big guy they could be an assholes and start fights.  But, my dad was the same way as me.  He didn't want to fight anybody he just wanted to have a few drinks and have some fun. 

I have the same problem with my friends; whenever we go out there's always someone that one of my friends wants to fight. Once the trouble starts, they expect me to save their ass. What the hell am I supposed to do? They make a mess and expect me to clean it up. Don’t get me wrong. I’m always willing to help a friend in need, but you have to draw the line somewhere. 

Many times at parties complete strangers have said to me “Oh we’ll be fine, we got this guy if anything pops off.“ I usually just laugh about. I never take them serious. Considering they are usually just a drunk stranger.  What am I, a bouncer, or a referee? I’m going to get all the big guys to rise up and go on strike. Let your big-mouthed friends fight their own battles.

For more information on this blog click here

Looks can be deceiving, click here for more information. 

Need a laugh, click here for a chuckle.  

 

 

dill.jpg

DILLON MEILLEUR

Dillon Meilleur is currently in his second year of Professional Writing at Algonquin College. Dillon is a friendly, outgoing person with a big heart and even bigger dreams.  He hopes to one day become a respected published writer. Dillon has experience is many aspects of writing; short stories, scripts, advertisements, PR releases, narratives, satire and much more. In his spare time he enjoys working out, riding his bike and hanging with his friends.   

Facebook  Twitter  Tips

 

Big Expectations

See The World Through The Eyes Of A "Big Guy."

 Photograph courtesy of www.sxc.hu

Photograph courtesy of www.sxc.hu

In  Grade 7, my very first homeroom was in the gym. Good Ol’ Catholic school board. There was a guy in the class named Tom. The first time we met me he said to his buddy Kyle, “Look at the big guy with the high voice.” Kyle responded, “You better shut up man, he’s going to kick your ass.” They were both terrified of me from then on. Neither Tom nor Kyle knew me at all, they just assumed that since I was a big guy I was a bully, or some sort of tough guy. It wasn't till years later when we became buddies, that Tom told me the story. I laughed my ass off when I heard it. I couldn't believe he thought I was going to beat him up, it was so ridiculous.

My whole life I've been told that I should play football or rugby. Or a sport that involved smashing my body into someone else’s. They would ask me why I never played football (any full-contact sport) and I always gave them the same answer. “I don’t know, I guess I was just never that into it.” To be honest, I never gave it a fair shot. I probably would have enjoyed it, but it’s a little too late now. Unless I get picked up by some college football team. But, I highly doubt that, considering most of my football experience comes from throwing around a ball at lunch. Now that I think about it, it would have been a great way to get rid of pent-up frustration. Not to say I was an angry kid, but I had my moments, more than most.

My point is that when you're a big guy, people makes certain assumptions. They think you’re a tough guy that drinks beer and get into fights. Well, the beer aspect is accurate, but -- I’m the opposite of what most people would expect. I’m a very approachable, friendly and cheerful. I've been told by many people that before they met me they thought I was an intimidating dude. Which always seemed so absurd. They just need to get to know me.

 

For  here to learn more.

The trouble with being tall.

Height equals health!

 

 

 

dill.jpg

DILLON MEILLEUR

Dillon Meilleur is currently in his second year of Professional Writing at Algonquin College. Dillon is a friendly, outgoing person with a big heart and even bigger dreams.  He hopes to one day become a respected published writer. Dillon has experience is many aspects of writing; short stories, scripts, advertisements, PR releases, narratives, satire and much more. In his spare time he enjoys working out, riding his bike and hanging with his friends.   

Facebook  Twitter  Tips