“My life is like a speeding bullet that just hasn’t hit the target yet.”
They yelled, mocked, harassed, and altogether annoyed the ever-living shit out of me. I didn’t even know I was being watched while I slowly mopped the dayroom floor. After being in jail for only a few days, I still wasn’t aware that everything you do or say is judged by everyone else in there and any weaknesses observed are exposed for the sake of entertainment. It’s just how things are when you are incarcerated. Inmates are bored and new fish are easy targets.
So, I yelled back at them, shaming them for caring about why I was dragging the mop the way I did. Who cares if I was slow or plodding and probably not doing a very thorough job? The floors needed cleaning, it was my day to clean them, and I was in no hurry to complete the task. What else was there to do in this place anyhow? I had no idea anybody would be watching or maneuvering against me. I was new, and naïve, and I didn’t know how to handle the situation.
It ended up that I made things harder on myself by hollering at them. They laughed and increased their insulting with vigor and excitement. I had fallen into their trap—the new guy having a rough time adjusting to the cramped quarters. I got pissed, all up in my emotions, heavy air in my chest with the swirling of yellow in my head. Now my feelings were out on display for these guys to mimic and flaunt. I thought, “Crap, I’m in over my head, and this sucks horribly.”
Five seasoned inmates were gathered around driving me about my newness, my shoddy cleaning job, my shirt being compactly tucked in, and anything else that crossed their minds. It felt like high school, but these guys were serious and more convicted in their testing. My face felt red with embarrassment while my elbows began to quiver. While looking sideways I muttered to myself, “What the fuck is going on here?” Had I regressed into some primal ritual of hazing? Was I about to get my ass kicked? Should I take the beating or do the best I could to blast my way out of this escalating horror? I was confused by the terror of the unknown. Life in jail was getting off to a terrible start.
In an instant, one of the taller guys with a shaved head and swastika tattoo on his temple spun me around by my shoulder. He slapped me across the top of my head and stunned me with what he said next. “Let it wash over ya, man!” he blurted out. “Don’t fight it, you gotta be in here whether ya like it or not.” I stood there with a floppy look on my face as I realized what was going on. They were trying me out and, luckily, they took a liking to me. There weren’t very many white guys in our pod, so they wanted to see what I was made of. How I “represented” so to say.
So, it began, the first initiation into my new life. I wasn’t used to this sort of behavior and certainly wasn’t prepared for these guys to take me under their protection. But it happened there and so did the genesis of my schooling—how to handle myself around a bunch of guys who want to get underneath my skin.
I didn’t get bloodied that day, and I started to learn a lesson that was life-saving for me once I understood it years later. It had to do with taking your prison sentence like a man and keeping a sane mind in an insane existence. Letting the wave of your situation wash over you like the breakers of the ocean. Just let it happen and be strong.
I couldn’t fight my own presence in prison; I just had to be there, in it with everyone else. When these guys first started to bug me that day, I thought I could brush them off and keep to myself. But that wasn’t healthy, and they were only doing what they did every other day in that place. Once I understood these concepts, then I could cope with the reality of my situation. It didn’t happen quickly, but I worked on it and it helped. It helped me move on to the next thing.
Pulling into my neighbor’s driveway and parking behind her car didn’t seem like a problem that night. It was after ten in the evening, and I would be stopping home for only a few minutes. This would be enough time to gather the pills I needed for the next transaction. I had been on my usual route for a weekday, and it was now creeping into the evening hours. After dealing drugs for several years, I had established loyal customers, good soldiers that helped me move my product around the Kansas City metro area, and a comfortable turf that I could call my own. This was an area between The Country Club Plaza and downtown that was convenient for navigating and meeting people from all walks of life. I felt more like a salesman managing a territory than a person breaking the law on a daily basis. I went about my business in a lively manner without a care to the dangers looming around every corner.
I had even forged a friendship with my neighbor who was solid enough to let me use her driveway regularly, as long as my vehicle wasn’t parked behind hers when she had to leave for work first thing in the morning.
Stationed behind her car in the driveway, I sat doing the usual safety checks around my periphery while gathering my phone, bag, and other belongings. This had come to be a necessary practice after years of working in a black-market business. Basically, I had to make sure I wasn’t followed or about to get robbed.
Prepared now to leave my vehicle and venture inside, I opened the driver’s side door and noticed a saucy moistness in the air. It was that fresh time of year, a moment of release from the chill of winter. When I was younger, I cherished early evenings like this, knowing that baseball and country cruising were on the horizon. But that wasn’t what was on my mind these days. I wasn’t considering the joy of the changing of seasons or gawking at girls outside the local Dairy Queen. With thousands of dollars in cash and often tens of thousands in drugs on me at any point in time, I was preoccupied and anxious. At this stage in my life, I was only concerned with moving product and funneling money to the right people. These concerns fueled my evenings of toil and torment. That night was a typical run through the Plaza route with some clowning around in between. “Sure,” I thought, “I’ll just block my neighbor’s car for a few minutes while I run inside my house to gather a few things.” Being a responsible salaried employee and law-abiding citizen, she was most likely asleep anyway. Soon I’d dash off again and be on to my next deal anyhow.
I rushed to the entrance of my house, slid in, and pulled the door shut behind me, locking it immediately of course. The house I lived in flaunted 20-foot ceilings that peaked in the center while having a series of ledges and overhangs that held large wine bottles and European-themed statues as decorations. This home had a cheesy remodel done in the 1980s and was often referred to by my friends as the Kung-Fu Porn studio because of the bamboo trim and large well-equipped bathroom just inside the back deck. The shower was large enough for several people, which I had experienced several times. A vacant spot where the once thriving hot tub lived was now occupied by a glass table that was prime for pushing around drugs. A large bamboo-framed mirror hung proudly over the extended sink area on the south wall, sentry and steady in the room. Certainly a poor man’s Boogie Nights since it lacked a pool and three-car garage.
Life didn’t seem strange to me at the time and so neither would the character of this place where I lived. There was a stairwell built in the center of the home that led up to a loft that I used as a bedroom and storage for my products. This loft peered out over the rest of my house and had a window directly over the front door that faced out into the front yard. It was a good observation point since it had an overlooking view of both the inside and outside of my house. I also had video equipment installed with monitors in the loft where I could watch the events around my property through eight cameras I had hidden. This was my command center and main base of operations.
After I entered my house and breezed upstairs, I rummaged through my stash of assorted pills needed for the next deal I’d set up. I counted out OxyContin, Adderall, Xanax, and Ecstasy, which were among the things that the most recent caller would probably be interested in. We didn’t discuss details over the phone, only if a meeting in the near future would be possible. I already had balls of white powder separated in little zip bags ready to unload, and I was aware that this customer was enamored with the varieties of pills that I could provide. I quickly counted the money I had with me and decided to hide most of it while keeping a few hundred on me to spend.
While I focused on the next several hours’ errands, I began to formulate a plan, a route, and to allow time for any other precautions that may be necessary. Like any other business, one learns from experience, and in the drug trade one usually does not get second chances. Lessons learned were often harsh and damaging, if not dangerous and altogether lethal. I was a bit hurried that evening, but at some point, I always was. It was nothing to be alarmed over, or so I thought.
Stuffing pills into various packages, I sat at my desk for a few minutes peeking at my monitors. My right knee was bouncing up and down with a nervous jaunt. The back deck was dark and quiet that evening. Every so often a raccoon would set off the sensors and the whole backyard would become bright as day. The greenhouse on the east side was quiet too. It would be nice to have some of my people over to spruce things up in there. I loved taking care of plants and was somewhat ashamed that I didn’t take the time to tend to them myself. Paying someone for every chore in my life had become the new normal. My job was to keep the drug users of KC fed while everything else took a backseat.
Then, like the subtle shock of watching those first films of the atomic bombs explode from a distance, I saw the main camera watching my front walkway burst with illumination. I wondered with gleeful awe if it was authentic and began to realize that my little urban compound was being invaded. Shocked, but not surprised, I watched a black van screech to a stop as armed men filed out to my front door. They were orderly, well-equipped, and certainly moved with a purpose. It was quite a rush just seeing it unfold, but that feeling quickly dissipated into anxiety and fear. The words that screamed over and over through my head were, “Well, here we go! Here we go!” and frustration began to taint my already toxic demeanor. This was the moment that I had tried to suppress but knew was an eventuality. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that I could live in the drug trade forever. There was no time to do anything substantial, although being on my second-floor loft allowed several extra key seconds to prepare myself to be handled. I could tell they were the authorities because they moved in a systematic fashion. I was frozen for a few seconds as I watched them on my monitors. It was like some strange interactive reality show where I was the target. Now that would be a fucked-up game, huh? To heck with these escape rooms that everyone loves these days. Can you imagine being in some sort of simulated activity where you paid to witness what it’s like to be involved in a home invasion?
I remember thinking I wish I were more prepared and organized for their arrival. I had illicit items stretched all over the loft and no time to dispose of any of them. Inching over to the window that overlooked my front yard, I saw what I assumed was the SWAT team solidify and burst through my front door. None of them remained stationed in the front yard. So, without thinking, I opened the window and jumped out with no plan, only chemical-fueled ambition to prolong this dangerous fantasy life I’d been thriving in for far too long.
My whole life up through my teens was somewhat privileged, my father a surgeon and my mother running the daily routines. It was a quintessential rural, white, all-American upbringing. There were little league games and ice cream socials at church in the summertime. Festivals and school plays reminded me of my winters. A loving family and active neighborhood were common throughout our town and it was hard to go anywhere without running into someone who knew you by name. Comfortable if not quaint.
We took family vacations throughout the United States. There were numerous jaunts to Europe, Canada, and Mexico. I especially liked learning Spanish with my father on our trips south of the border. He would make us kids speak to the waiter in Spanish at any restaurant we went to. It helped us understand social awareness at a young age. Our trips to Canada were mostly camping adventures that in my adolescent mind rivaled any Lewis and Clark expedition. My parents instilled in us the appreciation of nature, culture, and the state of all humankind. I probably didn’t thank them enough growing up.
High school was the same. I dated pretty girls and we would cruise around our small town in my 1969 Barracuda. My pals and I would swill beers on country roads and take midnight swims in our friend’s pool. I excelled at baseball, football, and basketball enough to letter and consider pursuing sports in college. My parents taught the importance of good morals and yet were lenient enough to let us be kids and enjoy ourselves. John Mellencamp would have been proud.
I left this small community for the nearby University of Kansas in Lawrence. Attending there wasn’t with aspirations to start a drug empire or make money illegally. I worked for the college newspaper, the University Daily Kansan, where I stored up knowledge about journalism, advertising, and sales. I got As and Bs while learning how to work hard and play hard at the same time. I knew graduating from college would bring on responsibility, and I was excited to start making real-world money. In the meantime, I made sure I enjoyed myself as much as possible while continuing to educate, enlighten, and encourage others around me with as much positivity as I could muster. Every day was happy, healthy, and free. An American dream, if I do say so myself. It’s such a shame how this charming life did not foreshadow the reality I would live years later.
Repetitive wrong choices and continual lies are what got me from there to here—lies to myself, the only person that it should be impossible to lie to. It’s a metamorphosis that occurred very carefully, methodically and over the course of some wild years. This is the contrast that is simply crazy to me now.
Staring back into history I saw my life’s timeline that went from so pampered and good to so shocking and unraveled. Supplementing this strange separation, there were no disasters or daunting events that swayed my behavior. I wasn’t treated badly as a kid. There was no abuse or learning disabilities to deal with. No major life changes that would make growing into a man difficult. Only, I did have a feeling of always trying to live up to my successful father’s expectations. Today though, bad judgement on my part got way out of control and led to throwing myself out of a window to avoid a SWAT invasion.
Life has a funny way of flushing things out into the open to be dealt with one way or another. A person never really believes that a ride in the fast lane will end, especially suddenly and certainly like this. If you’re clever enough to get away with living by the hustle for years, then it becomes part of you and mainstream life seems like it’s for suckers or people who don’t think big enough. Maybe this was some sort of compensation or shortcut to success so I could impress my pops.
Well, God has a way of taking out the trash and shaking things up enough to humble a person to his core to remind him of whose plan is really in play in this universe. Hint: It’s not us humans. I now accept that this April evening was not like the others. My biggest concern wasn’t if I was going to be ripped off or noticed by some of the people in the real world. No, those were small beans compared to the federal authorities, and I realized now that my suppressed fears were true. I was being watched, set up, and the years of counting stacks of money in my living room were a thing of folklore now.
I was frantic as I jumped out of my second story window and landed in my front yard. I considered my options but quickly decided to dart out into the road and up to the intersection of Corbin Terrace (yes, I lived on a street bearing my first name) and Summit Street. This quiet neighborhood a few blocks north of the Country Club Plaza was now ground zero in my life’s biggest turning point to date. I ran with fury, not for a second thinking I would get away from this situation unharmed. It wasn’t hard to notice there were several government vehicles angled in at the corner and numerous official looking people milling about waiting for the Special Weapons and Tactics team to pull me out of my house. Here is the only part of this memory that still makes me giggle a little bit when I recall these events. In all my blazing glory, I ran toward them and saw the astonished looks on their faces as they watched me wiggle past and jet south toward the Plaza. I temporarily got away and would later be informed by KCMO PD that they were very pissed off because of my escape. I know I sounded like a crazy man saying out loud as I ran past them, “…WHAT THE!” It didn’t make any sense to me either, only that those are the thoughts that were running through my head. It’s not too clever to mock one’s pursuers, especially when they are part of the largest tactical force in the nation.
Running away from my house and the shadows of authority figures, my mind was frenzied and free. My thoughts drifted to a time years before when I would play backyard football with my buddies. Crispy autumn air always had me smiling, and the scratch of stray crunchy leaves under my feet was the only setting for a pick-up game—shifting away from would-be tacklers and running toward open space in my neighbor’s yard, the end zone in sight again.
This present moment brought on the same emotions. Football was fun and rowdy, but I hated getting tackled, so I learned to run like the wind. My dad always reminded me that, “… if I weren’t the biggest guy on the field, then I had better be one of the fastest.” Those words stuck with me throughout all my high school sports. Speed was my biggest asset. My pops with the sound advice and my mother with the ever-loving encouragement. They were both supportive in all my endeavors.
But tonight was different. I had nobody to cheer me on, only the fanfare in my head and fear in my heart. The words, “What the …” that came out of my mouth were not for me. It was my mocking impression of the cops waiting for me at the end of the block. In my attempted escape from this harrowing situation, I hurried past my abductors. Looking them in the eyes, I was saying out loud what they surely must be thinking at this very moment. I had smoked meth that night, probably did some coke too. I had burned some pot to calm me down and, at some point, even taken some Xanax, just for fun of course. My brain was confounded and the adrenaline coursing through my nervous system spiked as my eyes were splayed wide open.
The memories as a speedster from my younger days were jumbled with sarcastic parody as I passed the authorities at the end of my street. My actions that night have stamped out that incident in the history of Corbin Terrace forever. This small, quiet neighborhood just north of the Plaza wasn’t ready for such an event, yet there I loped through the streets like a madman, operating on childhood memories and drug induced ambition. Certainly not a combination that I had considered before nor practiced ever since.
It was like a movie scene—ducking through yards, going in and out of buildings, and using all the verve a human body can muster. The streets and surroundings were stretches of light across my sight, and my legs resembled Charlie Chaplin scurrying down a stairway in an old black and white film. I knew it was all over and I somewhat expected to be shot in the back or tripped from behind, but I continued on while a muddled plan came to mind. My girlfriend lived only a few blocks from me, so I headed toward the Brentwood Condominiums on Jefferson. This was just up the hill from Tomfooleries on 47th Street and only two blocks to the south of my house. I made my way through her pool area and began a hurried banging on her door. Boy, this was going to stir up a commotion among her neighbors. They were good, quiet people and in no way could have been prepared for the upheaval about to occur.
Additionally, my girlfriend didn’t approve of my nefarious activities. Day after day she would try to get me to spend time with her doing “couple stuff.” She supportively counseled me to cease the shady dealings and pursue one of the many other careers I was qualified to do. She was a gem and was about to be one of the many things that would soon crumble around me in the years to come. This night, though, I arrived at her place with crazy eyes and a slew of agents in tow. The priority now was to see her just so I could hug her one last time before breaking her heart. There was no getting away from this heat.
She answered the door and looked at me as if I were Sasquatch—bewildered, scared, and sad because she realized what was going on and knew that trouble in the form of the authorities had caught up to me in a big way. Immediately crying, she let me in and we fled to the bedroom where I hugged her tightly and then laid down on her waterbed to catch my breath … I could hardly breathe, see, or feel anymore. There was banging and yelling from the other side of the wall, and then a heavy smash as they busted the door in off its hinges. I heard the pounding of feet heading into the back room to arrest me.
I was flailing about trying to fight being apprehended when I was thrown on the floor and felt the pain of a man standing on my neck holding a pistol to my temple. They thought I had a weapon, so they were using precaution, but I began to black out. The events over the next 15 minutes are somewhat hazy. An ambulance was called, I was carried outside, and Jenny cried hysterically. She looked so beautiful that night in her above the knee nighty wrapped tightly around her freshly showered body. Most anything else in her condo that night is a blur except the memory of her kneeling on the floor sobbing and pleading with the men taking me away.
The images of my life flashed through my head like you imagine they do when you die. I even questioned if my body had perished and began thinking about all the things I would regret or what I would be missing out on. Why wasn’t I spending time with her tonight? Who convinced me to chase a career in which no one can ever truly succeed? How come I hadn’t seen or spoken with my family in months? Life might have been beautiful if I had made some different choices, but now everything was dark and confusing.
During the blackout, my mind drifted to peaceful places, like some sort of protection from the shock. I had long desired to cease my operations. Moving the drugs, doing the drugs and being around the people were devastating to my soul. I felt stuck in the world I had created and all the while sinking deeper into the swamp. There was a monster in my life. Greed and the guilt brought on by the pursuit of it. My shortcuts never brought me within reach of the success I sought, and shame would soon replace the politeness of my guilt.
Jenny was still on my unconscious mind, recalling all of her recent efforts to help me stop my drug use. The blackout evoked memories from just 30 days prior of her constructing a little leather binder to carry in my pocket. It had pretty little paisleys stenciled on the cover and thick grey pages bound together with days of the week printed on each one. In this pocketbook I was to keep track of the times of each day that I would use drugs and the amounts. This was an effort to curb my consumption. If it was apparent to me how much and when I was using drugs, then maybe I would work toward getting away from the sickening activities.
I cried when she first handed it to me. We were alone in her condo and she had serious, sorrowful eyes. Her explanation began simply. “Let’s try something. I made this for you to help us get better. You are a different person than you’re supposed to be. This might help you get off drugs.” She cared, wanted to help, and labored to do so. Something I wouldn’t even do for myself.
This little pocketbook helped temporarily. After two weeks of keeping track of my drug usage, my consumption had decreased dramatically. Staring myself in the face every time I thought about using and actually taking the time to keep track of it was genius on her part. I could see myself moving in the right direction and gave her all the credit for my progress. In about two weeks’ time I went from smoking about five grams of crack a day to about one gram. This was still a significant amount, but not debilitating.
My problem involved more than me, though. People were contacting me every day about drugs, and I couldn’t stay away from the money. I had positioned myself in too many different facets of the distribution chain. Besides moving large amounts of cocaine, I would also do side deals and obtain pills and pot to personalize my deals for each customer. Whether it was keeping my distributors stocked up or procuring Xanax to trade for more coke, I was a jester juggling too much stress for a healthy life.
For the two weeks of progress from the “pocketbook plan” I congratulated myself with 96 hours of wide-awake indulging. Things were now right back to where they were before, and probably worse.
I had numerous bouts with recovery and sobriety, but it was Jenny’s pocketbook challenge that swam through my mind now. Just one last reminder of her attempts to love me and now, how much I would miss her for the years to come. This knocked-out dream was the closest I had come to a clear mind in years, and I relished every deep-seated moment.
It was Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” that began to serenade me as my consciousness was sucked back into the world of the living.
I woke up in the hospital to members of the SWAT team hovering just outside my room. Yes, they looked pissed. Yes, I was alive, but the outlook was certainly bleak for starters. It was somewhat comforting to be on a hospital cot knowing that this was probably the most comfortable bed I would be on for a while. I was certain they had enough to lock me up for a few years at least. I was caught red-handed with product and money. Things did not look good, but I thought I would always get a second chance. Right? I mean, I was no Larry Hoover, just a guy who got in a little too deep. I would just calmly apologize for my misdoings and gladly cease my dealings of hard, illicit, illegal substances. There, problem solved.
Suddenly the SWAT commander entered the room with the rest of his crew close behind. Things got a lot more serious, and he began to go over the situation with me. “Are you Mr. Corbin Bosl..vaco..lac? Do you reside at 724 Corbin Terrace?”
Curtly, I replied, “Yes … and yes.”
“Where were you running off to this evening?” I could sense some sarcasm, but it wasn’t to his benefit.
A target is not supposed to get away. That’s the one reason they showed up to my house that night, to apprehend me and take me into custody. They finally got me after a nice little chase, but their superior, as I was told later by a KCPD officer, reprimanded them in front of all their peers. I’ll assume that this does not go over well in a fraternity of guys such as this. He explained that I was under arrest for the distribution of narcotics and that they were serving a no-knock warrant. This meant that a judge approved the authorities to legally enter my residence by force and without warning. He was presented enough evidence to brand me a nuisance to society.
The SWAT commander continued, “We entered the domicile looking for marijuana and cocaine. How long have you been distributing cocaine? Do you manufacture amphetamines? Who else is involved?” I was in no mood for conversation, so I acknowledged that I wasn’t talking to him. He had me sign the warrant and explained I was in custody and would be transferred to a nearby correctional institution as soon as I was released by the hospital. Yes, this would definitely be the most comfortable bed I would have for a while.
Then the healthcare staff entered the room with a flurry of different questions all pertaining to my health and well-being. The nurses all said I looked like hell run over and wanted a list of all the different drugs I was on. Alcohol was not on the list, but anything that could be burned or snorted was. The attendants were actually friendly and took care of me as if I had genuine needs and a future ahead of me. Didn’t they understand it was over with? All of it. The game was up. The only relief was that I wasn’t running anymore. Not tonight from the cops. Not tomorrow from reality. Not in life toward the monster.
As I breathed fresh oxygen from the mask they had given me, I began to calm down in the moment but felt ambiguity when envisioning my future. How would I adjust to being in institutions? It would be prison, the crazy house, or wherever they decided I would properly reside. Was this what was best for me? Sure it was. It was a relief, and I now had an unmistakable excuse to pull out of the life I had been living in recent years, a life that was breaking me down. An existence that was opposed to my upbringing and beliefs. Somehow, I knew that the decisions I made going forward would define me for the rest of my life. This incident was the shock I needed to start taking one right step after another. This arrest was not going to be the end of me.
Hours later, I was transferred from St. Luke’s Hospital in Westport to the Kansas City, Missouri city jail. The drive there was sad for me. I couldn’t really see outside of the vehicle, but I imagined what part of the city we were moving through, wondering when I would see these streets again. My head swarmed with silent goodbyes to people I may not see for a while like my friends Autumn and Cristian, my brother Tyler, and my mother. “Oh mom, I’m so terribly sorry. This is not how life is supposed to go.”
I even offered farewells to McCoy’s and Harry’s, two establishments in Westport that were on my mind that evening. I was suddenly plucked out of the world, my whereabouts out of my control. When would I be on the streets again? This was a symbolic funeral procession and I was entombed in this metal casket rolling through the roadways of my favorite city.
Intake into the jail downtown was even worse. This was the start of living behind locked doors and concrete walls, oppression, and depression. After giving up my wallet, belt, shoelaces, and watch, I was plunked down inside a holding cell with a few benches and toilets. Everyone in there was pissed and looking to take out their frustrations on someone. I assumed it would probably be the newest guy just because I was the person with freedom most recently in his rearview. I kept quiet and crouched on the floor near an open corner, hoping it wasn’t already spoken for. There were only a few things I understood about jail at this point in my life. Real estate was at a premium, and Darwin’s maxim “survival of the fittest” was law above all others.
Crouched down in a grubby corner, I attempted to appear sturdy and in control. I paid close attention to my surroundings without looking up, face forward, but not at any person in particular. My hands clenched my shoulders from the chill while my mouth smacked with the taste of muddy paint. Not an ounce of hope stemmed from any soul in this holding cell. Speaking didn’t cross my mind, and thinking was like trying to fit a baseball in my ear. The bleak surroundings made my chest grow heavier with every breath, and it was all I could do not to freak out.
But I could not freak out, no way. I closed my eyes and with extreme effort I gathered my wits to assess my situation. Something stuck with me sharply that night. It was strange why this was my biggest concern at this particular time. After all that had occurred, the foot chase, Jenny crying, being hospitalized, and knowing that my house would be ransacked, I recalled that my Mercedes was still parked behind my neighbor’s car in her driveway. How pissed was she going to be when she tried to go to work the next morning and saw my car blocking her in.