Susan Pfeffer: This World We Live In

This is the kind of discussion you have outside, where Mom can’t hear you.

We each took a trash bag, which seemed optimistic to me. Then again, I expected to find some half-full detergent containers, and they’re pretty bulky.

We told Mom we’d be back by 4:00, but we didn’t explain to her that we’d be going separately. You can never tell what’s going to set Mom off. She might have thought we’d be safer together, but then again, together we might run into a guy with a semiautomatic who’d take us all out—although my guess is the guys with the semiautomatics left a long time ago.

It’s hard to say what my favorite part of breaking and entering is. I love the adrenaline rush. Will there be someone in the house? Will I get caught? I never used to shoplift, but now I understand why some kids did it. When everything else is boring, there’s something to be said for risk.

But exciting as that is, it’s nothing compared to finding treasures. Bottles of shampoo, one of them almost completely full. Partly used bars of soap. Lots of detergent—so much I ended up pouring it all into an almost empty 150-ounce container. Fabric softener sheets, a luxury I’d forgotten existed.

And the toothpaste! A half-used tube here, a quarter-used tube there. Two completely untouched containers of fluoride rinse. One linen closet I ransacked had a half dozen brand-new toothbrushes. We might starve to death, but at least we’ll have good teeth.

Of course I checked the kitchen cabinets first, but I only found one thing there: a box of rice pilaf that had been lodged in a corner and gone undiscovered until me.

Most of my time I spent upstairs, going through bedrooms and bathrooms. It took me four houses before I remembered cosmetic bags, but once I began searching for them, I found lots of things. Travel-sized containers of shampoo and toothpaste. Hotel bars of soap, mostly untouched. Tissue packets.

I would have loved to find six-packs of toilet paper, but no such luck. Still, every house I broke into had a partly used roll in each bathroom, and I took all of them. I pulled out all the tissues from their boxes and shoved them into one of the empty cosmetic bags.

One house had a shelf filled with paperback mysteries. Another had an unused book of crossword puzzles.

Hidden in the back of one linen closet was a twelve-pack of batteries. A bottle of aspirin sat waiting for me in a medicine cabinet. There were two cans of shaving cream I took for Matt.

So much stuff. It’s amazing how much stuff people used to have.

After you’ve looted strangers’ medicine cabinets, you don’t feel much guilt when you go through their chests of drawers. I only took socks. I could have taken underwear, but the idea of wearing someone else’s disgusted me. Socks, though, were a whole other matter. If nothing else, Matt and Jon were going to need a lot of them.

The Shirley Court people didn’t seem to be too outdoorsy. No rods or reels or wading boots. I found a couple of ski masks, though, so I threw them in for Matt and Jon to use if they slept outdoors.

Every house I went into had a bucket, and I took a couple of them and put one on each handlebar. I filled them with the smaller things, figuring after we emptied them, we could use them to hold rainwater.

I know I found more stuff, but it’s hard to remember. Every thing was a treasure waiting to be discovered.

There is nothing more beautiful than half a roll of toilet paper.

The best thing about my brand-new career as a burglar was being alone. For eight glorious hours I spoke to no one. I bumped into no one. I looked at no one. And no one spoke to me or bumped into me or looked at me.

I couldn’t wait to show everybody all my loot. It was like trick-or-treating only a thousand times better. Even so, there was a part of me that was sad at the thought of giving up the quiet, unshared space.

But after eight hours I was cold, hungry, and tired. I made sure everything was securely in place and began the bike ride home.

Matt, Jon, and I had agreed to meet by the mailbox so Mom would think we’d stayed together. Matt was already there when I got back, and Jon showed up a couple of minutes later. All our bikes were loaded.

Mom tried to look disapproving, but I could see her eyes light up as we brought in our loot. After a while she got into the whole Christmasy feel.

“My brand of shampoo,” she said. “Oh, and look at this. I haven’t had a crossword puzzle to do in months!”

Of course we oohed and aahed over the rods and reels and flies and nets and wading boots and salt containers. Matt had also found an unopened bag of cat food for Horton and a cordless power saw that still had some power to it.

Neither one of them had thought to take the toilet paper or soap or any of the useful stuff I’d located. But I can always go back to the houses they went through.

As far as I was concerned, though, Jon found the absolute best thing. He was positively giddy when he handed a box to me. “I tried two of them,” he said. “They both worked, so I bet they all do.”

It wasn’t a big box, but I was so excited about what I’d find, my hands shook as I opened it. In the box were twenty-four flashlight pens, all neatly inscribed “Walter’s Realty Your Home Is Our Business.”

I flicked one on and sure enough it worked.

“Now you can write in your journal without using a flashlight,” Jon said.

I could have kissed him. In fact, I’m writing this entry after everyone else has gone to sleep, thanks to Walter’s Realty. If I ever buy a house, I’ll give them my business.

Mom wouldn’t let us go through any more houses. “You’ve found enough,” she said. “Stealing isn’t a game.”

“We’re not stealing,” Matt said.

“Taking things without permission,” Mom said. “It’s as good as stealing.”

But I didn’t notice her hesitating to do one of the crossword puzzles.

Matt and Jon went to town to pick up our food, and I was too jumpy to stay in the house.

“I’m going to Mrs. Nesbitt’s,” I said, and I was pleased Mom didn’t make a fuss about stealing.

The first thing I located was a manual can opener, for Matt and Jon. None of us had thought to pick one up on Saturday. I never thought of Mrs. Nesbitt as one to travel, but sure enough, she had a cosmetic bag hidden away, with a tissue packet, a little bar of soap, and three packets of hand sanitizer. She’d left a quarter roll of toilet paper as well.

But the most interesting thing I found was a small electric heater. By the time she’d died, electricity was a thing of the past, so no one had bothered taking it.

But now, at least sometimes, we have electricity. I lugged the heater back to the house, along with whatever else I could find.

“We can use it in the kitchen,” I told Mom. “Or turn it on anyplace whenever we have power.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mom said. “We could put it in the sunroom and cut down on the firewood.”

Of course when you want electricity is exactly when you don’t get it. We haven’t had any since those fabulous four hours a few days ago.

Mom and I then had a lengthy discussion about the causes of World War One so she could feel like we got something done. It seems like a pretty dumb war to me, but most wars seem pretty dumb to me, given how things worked out.

She had just finished telling me how the Russian royal family had all been murdered but some people thought Anastasia had survived, when Matt and Jon returned. They brought the same four bags, but there was more food in each. I knew I should feel bad about that, but I couldn’t make myself.

If Mom noticed the extra two cans in each bag, she didn’t say so. Instead she asked how the roads were.