Wetness for the Prosecution

Although I have done my share of things I regret, sometimes my misdeeds have brought their own penalty. Two of those occasions involved the theft of books, which, at the time, I justified to myself because, being a poor college student, I couldn’t always buy the books I wanted.

One episode took place in the mid-1950s, in what was then the small college town of Claremont, California. I was there on a meager scholarship, which covered my tuition, but little else. On my first visit to the campus bookstore, I noticed one large window open. Outside, shrubbery came up against the wall. The store had one book that I particularly needed, but could hardly afford. Without much hesitation, I took a copy of the book, and dropped it out of the window – intending, of course, to retrieve it later.

This proved more difficult than I’d hoped. Returning after dark, with a flashlight, I could see that the book was still there, on the ground. Reaching it was a struggle in itself, but then came quite a shock. Apparently, an automatic sprinkler system had come on, and what I retrieved was no longer the pristine volume I had dropped – but a soggy mass. Every page was soaked. It was hardly holdable, let alone readable.

Still, I brought this evidence of my crime back to my room and, in the following days, carefully took it apart laying all the pages out on every available surface, to dry. Eventually it was readable – and I still have it, held together by rubber bands. (Of course, I no longer steal books – or anything else – and have never revealed this incident before.) I regard it as one souvenir of youthful folly. But hold on – there’s another one coming.

Seven years later, I was again a graduate student, this time at Berkeley. I was living in a large old house on Dwight Way which had been divided into separate rooms and apartments for several students. We each had our own locked mailbox near the entrance; but anything that wouldn’t fit into one of these boxes was left on an open table in the hall. 

Several of the magazines then circulating carried advertisements for books, which usually included order-coupons that you could tear out, fill in with your name and address, and mail in. The books would then arrive, together with a bill. I realized that, in my current situation, I could send in orders giving my genuine address, but a fake name. When the packages arrived for that non-existent person, I could simply appropriate them.

This larcenous scheme, did indeed bring me several parcels of desirable books. But I soon discontinued the venture, fearing I could too easily be discovered. I sold the books I didn’t want to local dealers. The rest, I had with me in the next and final chapter of this soggy saga. After acquiring my doctorate, I was in my first full-time college teaching job, in another very small town – Bend, Oregon. From the three job offers that all my applications had brought, I had chosen this one because the region’s climate, though not ideal, appeared less objectionable than that of the others.

And indeed, life was not unpleasant for the first few weeks. I was actually so happy with my situation that I was thinking of buying the small house I had rented. But then came winter, and weather more cold than I had ever experienced before. The only heating in the house was from one wood-burning stove, which I did not know how to keep going all night. I woke one morning to find the sink clogged, and the toilet not working. The warmest place in the house was inside the refrigerator.

It was the Christmas holiday season. Since my car wouldn’t start, I hitch-hiked the 800 miles down to warm, sunny Los Angeles and took refuge with my parents. But, at my house in Bend, a traumatic surprise was waiting for me. No one had warned me about the danger of leaving pipes full in freezing weather. The water had frozen, expanded, and cracked the pipes. When the thaw came, it all leaked out. The house was flooded! All the boxes on the floor were soaked. And what were those boxes full of? Of course – all those books I had successfully purloined back in Berkeley.

To quote one of my own epigrams: 

Justice will triumph in the end –

That’s why I’m so worried.