Well now what’s the use in dreaming
You got better things to do
Dreams never did work for me anyway
Even when they did come true

                      -Bob Dylan

Shortly after I found myself sitting at a local bar, one of my old stomping grounds, chatting away with a friend as if my life was completely normal; almost. After we had played catch up on our lives from the last time we had talked the reality of the present set in, and we began to discuss the last few days.

I told my friend about the incident at the office, and the events that had occurred that day at the apartment. I tried to shake the anger from my sentences, but that only frustrated me more. Every time I had to force her name from my mouth I felt the need to rinse it with a swig of my cocktail; (definitely not a dirty martini this time, you only have to fool me once!) It was like when your mother threatened to (or actually did) wash your mouth out with soap when you cursed in front of her. The alcohol did the same work as the soap and McCrabben was definitely a curse word in my new book.

As I dug deeper into the events from the apartment, I began to ask questions aloud; ones that I now know I should have kept inside my head. “What would really happen if we went there and broke in? Do you truly believe the police would arrest me, the grieving daughter for wanting to be inside her recently deceased father’s home?”

My friend starred at me for a moment, and then it became clear that she too had indulged in washing out her mouth. “Of course not! If you started to tell them even a little of what you have been going through they would have to understand!” Her words were empowering, they made me feel as if I could finally exert some control over all of the madness that had been spreading itself through my life. “So let’s do it” I said my voice full of aspirations for a new adventure. We polished off our drinks as we began to formulate a plan, you know, just “in case.” Or logic at the time was admittedly a bit skewed, but the liquid courage was a force to be reckoned with.

We decided that we could call her current boyfriend, who worked for FedEx at the time and ask him to sit watch for us in the driveway while we went to work going inside. Our plan was that he would pretend to be looking up an address if the police arrived because he was to deliver a package to my father’s house but it required a signature for delivery. Forget that it was now going on 11:00 pm and the holiday season was over. Never mind the idea that FedEx would not be delivering anything at that hour; and please don’t pay attention to the red Volkswagen Jetta he was in, FedEx always allowed their employee’s to deliver after hours in personal vehicles. Like I said; liquid courage.

My friend parked down the street from my father’s apartment and we walked the rest of the way; no need to draw attention just yet. Every step I took closer to the home made me feel more in control. It was the first time I had felt that there was something in this cluster-fuck of a situation that I could actually do; and was ready to do. McCrabben lived just across the street, I resisted the urge to let go of some liquid courage on her front step and continued on my mission.

We made it to the back entrance, so as to draw the least amount of attention possible; there were other tenants in this building. I managed the screen door without any trouble, push in and lift up, just like home. That brought us into the foyer. I looked around at the few decorations, umbrella and a few pairs of shoes. I fought the tears back with some difficulty when I eyed the brown loafers with the tassel on the top. These had been like Dad’s go to shoes since I was a kid. Truthfully, I would have made fun of anyone else I saw wearing them, but he just always made it work, even without socks! Those shoes had walked so many steps, walked with me so many times before; and yet there they sat, never to go on another journey again. My friend’s voice snapped me back to attention and I quickly grabbed onto the shoes. They were not going to be left here to end up in the trash; not after all of the moments of my life they had walked through.

My friend eyed me funny as she saw me holding the old beat up pair of loafers. “They just… well they are just the essence of him. I need to have them.” I tried desperately to find the words that would not make me look like a crazy person with a shoe fetish. She nodded in response as if she understood completely what I was saying.

We started to examine the lock on the back door, handle would be easy but there was no way of telling if the deadbolt was turned as well. I had watched Nick do the one on the front door earlier in the day, but I wondered if he had thought to check this one as well. The handle to the door was for a key which I clearly did not have. I did however have a friend with very long hair and a bobby pin holding up her half ponytail Snookie inspired poof on her head. She gave me the tool and I went to work on the lock. Not that I was a professional or anything, but I had been a very forgetful teenager who locked herself out of the house on many occasions. In just a few moments the door knob turned in my hand as smooth as butter. I let go immediately, wanting to plan out the rest of this mission first. I was scared to push the door, scared I would be met with the deadbolt and another dead end. I wasn’t sure I had the gall to Van Damme the door in just yet. I studied the lock for a moment, trying with my eyes to will the deadbolt to be out of place; this was my only chance. As I reached a shaky hand for the knob again my friend phone let off some cray ass ringtone that sounded a lot like Jennifer Lopez circa 2001. I was so startled that I lost my footing and slipped against the coat rack next to the door. It came crashing down against the glass frame window drawing even more attention to our small scale crime.

My friend answered her phone knowing (apparently by the ringtone) that it was her boyfriend aka, our “lookout.” He said a midnight blue Honda had pulled up to the front of the house and was sitting idle on the street. “Blue Honda,” my friend repeated to me, “know anyone with one of those?”

“McCrabben!” I hissed at saying her name and the thought of her ruining my opportunity again. This girl as like a fucking boil on my ass that wouldn’t go away. I started for the door with every intention of confronting her in the street, I had just about enough of her bullshit. She apparently thought this was a game and I needed to show her that I didn’t loose.

My friend, who was now taking on the role of my chauffeur, therapist and conscious grabbed my shoulder pulling me back. “You can’t go out there!” her tone was firm and serious. “You already know she had an injunction placed on entry of the house, you can’t serve her up a reason to attack you on a silver fucking platter. We have to play smart, not hard.” Her words were falling on deaf ears, I couldn’t take this girl trying to insert herself in my life where she didn’t fucking belong. I struggled against her grip, my eyes wide with intent and my skin hot with rage. A new hat for my friend to try, (she was just racking these up); security. I felt her other hand come out of nowhere and land hard on my free shoulder. She spun me around and pressed her forehead to mine.

“I know you are hurting and I don’t blame you for what you want to do, but I am not going to let you hand this bitch any ammunition. ”

I stared hard into her eyes for a few moments and then I felt my shoulders begin to relax. She was right, as painful as it was to admit and even more so to adhere to. I shook my head in agreement, I was still too enraged to speak. Just as we were about to make a break for the “getaway” car my friend phone buzzed. Thank goodness for text messages set to vibrate. It read: She has two other people with her, it’s time to get out of here. I’ll drive around the block and park behind your car. Go through the back lot, less attention; NOW.

I grabbed my brown loafers (my claim to fame and trophy for the current mission) and followed my friend out the back door. We set the lock on the screen, but didn’t bother to waste time with the handle. At very least someone would believe they forgot to lock only the handle as not exterior door was left open.

Quick on our feet we made it back to my friends car without seeing another human being anywhere. Her boyfriend flashed his lights behind us to let us know he was there and we drove off. From the window I watched the tires plowing through the wet snow and slush that now filled the streets; pushing it aside as if it was nothing at all. I felt like slush. I felt like dirty wet precipitation that had once been beautiful, light snow; but was now discarded on the road as a wet pile that would soon turn into water and be washed away. I was the slush; and McCrabben was driving the car.