At 1:00 PM, I broke up with my girlfriend. By 6:00 PM, I was negotiating with a gang. And at 11:00 PM? I was preparing to flee the state. It was the most chaotic day of my life.
It all started when I was driving my ex to the Amtrak, blasting some amazing hits. We cycled through our songs—two years of love, soundtracked and playlisted. We finally got to the main event—that Cyndi Lauper spectacular. But then my ex made a shocking discovery: she messed up her departure time.
Honestly, not that surprising of a mistake, if you knew her. But one that came at an annoying time. We’d planned a whole elaborate goodbye for two weeks at this point. Don’t ask. Guess there was no time for “Time After Time.”
And so we raced to her train. There were just a few minutes before the engines would be blasting. Suddenly we were kissing, hugging, crying. It was very rom-com, but very much in line with that two-week vision. A win is a win.
We were saying that usual nonsense —“I’ll always love you.” Yada yada. Spoiler Alert: Always was a bold claim. At least for me. The train went whooshing off, leaving me in my newfound freedom. I just didn’t realize it yet.
I went to get cinnabons from Auntie Anne’s. That’s when she called. More romantic stuff—but I had loved that kind of crap. She said she didn’t want that to be our goodbye. Are you serious? I thought. That last scene could’ve been in a Hallmark movie.
Frankly, we weren’t going to do better.
* * *
And suddenly I flopped back on that air mattress at home, deflating. Munching on the last bits of that cinnamon bun, I felt satisfied. I’d been looking forward to being melodramatic.
Ah yes, much sadness. It was rising in me—but the good kind. The kind brimming just under the surface, just shy of crying. It felt amazing.
But then—I thought back to those crafty hands. No idea why. Maybe it was the way the air mattress was deflating, almost in sync with me. But maybe, just maybe, it was because I still needed to sell the rest of my furniture. Okay, that was probably it.
I’d been selling some furniture to an older Black man the day before. It was part of my elaborate plot to move away, after my breakup. The man lived in my building and saw me selling furniture to some college girls. Said he’d buy lots of my stuff if I helped him move it to his place.
It was a fine deal, I thought—though our actual deals were terrible. He wanted a bundle price for everything, nickel and dimed me for each item. Whatever. At least I was getting rid of my stuff.
He kind of creeped me out though, if I'm being honest. But I’m a progressive man. I challenge my subconscious biases. If that’s what it was. Surely there was nothing wrong with him.
He told me he’d been recently released, after decades in prison. Okay, bit of a red flag. Then he told me, “I was falsely convicted.” Phew. Irrefutable evidence.
He said he’d been on some podcasts, talking about his time in the slammer. Said he was part of the Bloods. Apparently, a few of them had been released, and they were setting up a new life together.
It was Boston. Not sure why an LA gang had a subdivision here, but I didn’t question it. They were surely all wrongly convicted.
But then, when we were moving my furniture—I saw it. Those crafty hands. The man moved one of my watches under a sheet while carrying out a chair. It was one of those sleight-of-hand tricks, the kind that gave you plausible deniability. The perfect kind for a thief.
* * *
I recognized it immediately. I used to shoplift when I was younger. Prolifically. When I was in high school, I read a handbook written by a former loss prevention specialist. He spilled all the secrets, and my teenage boy brain had to try them out.
Sometimes I stole things just to return them—and steal them again. I stole for the thrill—classic kleptomania. But I always had a moral code, mind you. Always steal from the big bad corporations. Never a person.
And so, even though I hadn’t stolen in years at this point—even though I’d done years of therapy—that sleight-of-hand trick still pissed me off. It invoked a moral code I didn’t know I still had.
But again, I’m a progressive. So when those feelings arose, I buried them. He did have plausible deniability. He apologized and returned my watch when it happened. I must’ve been imagining things.
All these thoughts flashed through my head while I lay on my air mattress, licking cinnamon off my fingertips. They were seriously ruining the breakup vibes.
So I had to check. My friend later told me, “God only gives you challenges you can overcome.”
One item flashed in my head. Another watch—the one my ex gave me for my birthday. The last present she ever gave me.
That concept carried a lot of weight at the time. It was in the room when the man bought my furniture. He had opportunity. Those crafty hands flashed. He had means.
I checked where I knew—absolutely knew—I left it.
It wasn’t there.
Chills.
Goddamn it. He really did steal it.
———————————————————————————————————————
“How dare he steal that watch?” Anger was spiking in me. “What about thieves’ honor?” I was fuming.
“Didn’t he know that was the last gift my ex gave me?” He couldn’t have.
Little did I know that months later, I’d be begging to remove her mementos. That plot point felt very real in the moment though.
I thought about pounding on his door. Shouting at him to give my watch back. But I remembered—he was a Blood. And he had a whole Boston division of cronies. Some of whom lived in my building.
The thought of confronting him terrified me. But I felt anger now. Mixed with sadness. Just one emotion, I could bear. But two? That was too complicated to deal with.
I picked up my phone. Whipped out his contact, hovering over the call button. Fuck, I couldn’t do it.
I changed his name to “Thief in Building.” Ha. That ought to show him. Then an impulse took over me. My fingers moved on their own.
“I know what you did,” I texted. Chills went through my spine. Then another impulse. “Give me back my watch, or I’ll send your ass to jail. I have it all recorded on camera.”
I didn’t have it on camera. Oh God, why did I say that? “What if he didn’t do it?” the progressive in me yammered. “He definitely did it!” the kleptomaniac shot back. Why did the kleptomaniac still have such a strong voice?
Then I got a call. Oh Fuck. “Thief in Building” was calling me. It was him. It was actually him.
Okay, breathe. Breathe. “What do I do?” My mind went racing, considering every scenario. I just hoped he’d deny the accusation. Nothing would be more inconvenient than having to do something about it.
And having two emotions really was that uncomfortable.
The phone stopped ringing. Oh my God, the overthinking. My beautiful OCD mind.
Then it came again. My phone was buzzing again. I wanted to cry. I dug deep into my memories. Tapped into anything that might help me survive this nightmare.
My mind went blank. Then he came to me. Jesse Pinkman. Breaking Bad. Okay. That could work. That would surely work.
I answered. “Yo what the fuck do you want, bitch?” I hollered, Jesse flowing through my veins.
“Yo man, I fucked up,” he replied, confessing. What? It was working—already?
“You bet your ass you did!” Jesse was flying off the handle. “Where’s my watch, bitch?”
“We can work this out,” he answered coldly.
“You better hope we can!”
“Let’s make a deal.”
“I’m sick of your shitty deals!”
I really was.
“This is how it’s gonna work. You slide the watch under my door when I’m not home. I don’t want to see you.”
“No,” he replied. “My boys need to see you when we do this. To know you won’t talk.” My heart stopped.
* * *
My mind reached for anything—anything I could use as a weapon. “If you don’t do this, I’ll file a police report. I’ll…”
I’m a lawyer. I knew police reports were useless. But. He lived in my building—no recent paystub, decades of jail time on his record? He must have been there on a government program.
A devil spoke—It must be hard for him to find a place to live.
“I’ll tell Leslie,” I smirked, Walter White taking over. “I’ll get you evicted,” I said coldly.
“Noooo,” he let out a blood-curdling scream. I listened, horrified. Voices in the background started rising.
“No Leslie,” his voice resonated powerfully.
I took a big gulp.
“No Leslie,” I replied, softly.
“You need to promise that to my boys! They’re listening.”
They answered the phone, menacingly.
Walter White came back more confident. “No Leslie,” I promised. “Just give me the watch.”
“Fine,” they replied. “But you’ll have to meet us.”
My brain scanned for more nuggets. For more lore. “Fine,” I continued. “We’ll meet at the plaza outside the building. It’s a public place. No funny business.”
They snickered, agreeing.
“You can’t all come,” I added. “Just one friend.”
“Fine.”
But part of me felt something off. Like I was being set up. It all felt too clean.
Heisenberg popped in. “You better not try anything,” I threatened. “Because if you do, deal’s off. I’ve told my friends. If they don’t hear from me by a certain time, cops will be called. And Leslie.”
They were quiet now, breathing loudly.
“And if I get a whiff of anything—anything—I’ll come after you.” Heisenberg had fully taken the wheel. “I’ll kill you. All of you.”
Silence.
Oh God. Why did I say that? I’d gone too far.
I hung up.
Did I seriously tell a gang—an actual gang—that I was going to kill them? What the fuck was I doing?
Whatever. I was in too deep. I’d just have to roll with it.
* * *
I called my closest friends immediately—Rian, David, Neel, Eric. My dad. Told them I was alone. Terrified. The ones who answered comforted me, as good friends do. But none were in Boston. None could help.
Then I called the two friends I trusted in Boston—Elliot and Theo. Said I needed backup.
Theo flat-out refused, as nicely as he could. He didn’t want to die—and honestly, I respected that. Elliot said he’d come, but he lived far away. And traffic was bad. Goddamn Boston.
I was out of options. Panicking, floundering. The lawyer in me reassured me: “They don’t want this to escalate either—it’s too much of a risk.” I know. That’s true. But I literally threatened to kill them. That’s too much of a risk.
The possibility of things going south was starting to feel more like a probability. Especially if I’d pissed them off too much. They knew where I lived.
If something happened, I needed a witness. Someone who’d know useful information. Unfortunately, the only good one… was my ex.
Until just a few hours ago, we were together nearly 24/7. I’d even told her how this man had creeped me. And—she’d bought the watch. The watch that I was apparently willing to die over.
I called her up. To be fair—she did say she didn’t want the Hallmark scene to be our goodbye. Welp, I thought. Time to give her a hit of the crazy.
* * *
She answered the phone, still on the Amtrak. Her voice cracked—happy to hear me. So very happy.
My heart twinged a bit.
Before I could tell her what was going on, she blurted something out. Something that made my heart listen, even in the chaos.
“I’m sorry, Sanum.” She started crying. “For everything.”
I was listening. This really wasn’t the time, but I was listening.
She went on. She admitted she hadn’t been a great girlfriend. That she should’ve treated me better.
Oh pshhhh. Really? My heart fluttered. I knew times were dire, but I couldn’t help the indulgence.
She kept going. She said she knew I’d put more effort into the relationship. That she’d “parentified” me. That I deserved more love. More understanding.
Part of me had been waiting for this moment. For weeks. Months. For her to finally see my value. My worth.
And now in the middle of the Cuban missile crisis, I was just getting it for free?
She admitted that she could be cruel to me. She said “shouldn’t have talked to me” the way she did. She shouldn’t have humiliated me, the way she could.
I was floored. But I loved every second of it. I felt so seen. So very seen. Like this inner boy in me—that was begging for her to just love me right—was finally being validated.
But at the same time, something else bubbled up.
An unpleasant feeling.
I felt angry. So very angry.
Surely, I was just mad at the man who stole my watch. He’d ruined my day. He’d ruined my cinnabon roll.
No the anger blared back. It was her. And I knew it.
While she blabbed on, the anger took voice inside. Took form:
—Wasn’t it convenient? For her to admit all this, to confess it after the relationship? When there was no pressure to change?
—Wasn’t it selfish? To abandon the relationship, when she knew she put me through hell? When she knew she could do better?
—Wasn’t it manipulative? To say this all now. To make my heart flutter with apologies. When what she was doing, what she was really doing, was calming her own guilt?
* * *
“I’m sorry. I have to go soon,” I interrupted.
“Huh?” she replied.
“I have a meeting with the Bloods,” I grinned. “They stole the watch you gave me.”
She was so confused. She had no idea what I was talking about.
You see, for her, the breakup was the main event. A reasonable state of affairs, to be sure. But for me? It was quickly becoming the subplot.
She couldn’t have possibly grasped how far off the rails things had gone, and how fast.
I started laughing. I realized, in some sick, twisted way, I was enjoying this. I was terrified, yes. But for the first time in two years, I felt alive.
I hung up, laughing hysterically now. The old Sanum had been in crazy situations like this before. The old Sanum—wild, sharp, untamed—the one I’d buried to make the relationship work.
He was clawing his way back up. I just had to let him.
And before I hung up? I told her I loved her. Because of course I did. Because it was still the truth. But I knew the more important truth—I didn’t want her back. Not the version of her that I had.
I wanted me back.
And so I dropped the acts. I dropped Jesse. I dropped Walter. I dropped Breaking Bad.
I channeled me. The old me. The one who was happy. The one who could charm his way out of any situation.
I felt my confidence flickering back up, like a match that had long since gone out.
I was ready. I was ready to take on the Bloods.
———————————————————————————————————————
Old power surging through my veins, I made the next logical move—snitch. Of course I was going to snitch.
“No Leslie,” I’d promised. Yeah, well, Leslie was being told, whether she liked it or not.
I wasn’t actually part of that life. I was done playing gangster, and my strategic mind was working properly again.
In the leasing office, I told her everything. I made her promise not to do anything—until I fled the state. Or unless things went south.
I pointed out which cameras she needed to keep on and operational. Politely asked her to keep an eye on them, just in case. Then I was gone—walking out as she was gasping.
“Risin’ up, back on the street”—“Eye of the Tiger” was blaring in my mind.
I got to the plaza an hour early.
“Did my time, took my chances.”
Paced the perimeter. Marked every camera. Mapped every blind spot.
“Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet.”
Cross-referenced Leslie’s view. Marked the angles. Planned the exits.
“Just a man and his will to survive!”
I picked my perch. And waited!
* * *
I was in the plaza now. Nodding like a lunatic to myself:
“It's the Eye of the Tiger, it's the thrill”—
I noticed a man staring at me from across the plaza.
Oh Shit. Was that a Blood? No, I shouldn’t assume. How do you recognize a Blood anyway?
He was wearing a thick hooded jacket. His hands bulged out in his pockets, like he was concealing something. Multiple somethings.
Ah ok. That’s how you know.
Suddenly, our legs started walking to each other. Our heads were nodding, subtly but distinctly. And covertly, I speed-dialed my dad in my pocket.
I knew he wasn’t alone. But he was the only one I could see. The rest had to be lurking somewhere. Maybe even the one who’d actually stolen from me.
“Yo,” he nodded, standing in front of me.
“Yo man,” I answered back, standing my ground.
“I got your stuff.” He was rummaging in his pocket. His eyes motioned towards an alley, “Come with me and I’ll give it to you.”
Chills went down my spine. “Show me it.”
“Not out here,” he continued. His eyes went back to the alley, nodding towards it. “We need privacy. Come.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” I shot back.
He stood, recalibrating. He’d probably expected the lunatic who said he'd kill him.
“No,” I said powerfully. “I’m staying here. Where there are cameras.”
I took a step forward. “Here, here, and here.” I pointed out at all the cameras I had surveyed.
“Cameras?” he blurted, taking a step back.
I took another step forward, “Yeah, that one is watching you right now.” I pointed at Leslie’s camera.
His eyes widened.
“Told you not to try anything,” I continued. “Don’t make me call the cops …or Leslie.”
“I don’t want any trouble, man.”
“Just give me my stuff.” I demanded.
“Yeah man, I gotchu,” he bumbled. He dumped everything—like a kid caught stealing from the corner store.
It turns out, they had stolen a few things from me. They were all gifts my ex had given me or items associated with her. One of them was even the Apple watch she’d given me for my previous birthday.
I started laughing in disbelief. It was almost like they had x-ray lenses, just for things touched by her. Like they had some personal vendetta against her.
One might even think that they were looking out for me, in some weird, cosmic way.
That was until the guy continued, “so like, you heading out soon?”
My god. His attempts to jump me were so clearly telegraphed, it was almost comical.
“Nope,” I smiled. “Don’t wait on me or anything.”
“Bet.” He responded.
* * *
After standing in the plaza for a bit, my legs got kind of tired. I got a seat, and started watching Youtube. Had some time to kill.
I can only imagine how much this pissed them off. I knew I was being watched. They were still lurking—behind alleys, bushes, maybe parked cars. I didn’t see them, but I knew.
Of course, this creeped me out. But I’d already planned it all out, knowing this might happen.
You see—I’d set a trap. A safeguard, more like.
In an hour, the plaza would be full of strangers from Facebook Marketplace. Never underestimate people’s desire for a bargain. I still had plenty of furniture I needed to get rid of. And well, the Bloods were no longer viable customers.
Safety in numbers, and all.
But after just thirty minutes, they came out of hiding, clearly annoyed. I was still watching Youtube.
It was the man who’d actually stolen from me. And the kid from earlier.
The man was wearing a funny red suit, like he’d just come from the strip club. He held his hand out to me, and I shook it, maintaining eye contact.
“I’m sorry man,” he muttered, almost sheepishly.
I didn’t know what game this was, so I remained still and watched.
“I did you wrong,” he continued.
“I know.”
“You were just trying to help a brother out. Just trying to help set up my new crib.”
“Yep,” I replied. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry man, like genuine.” He moved his hands to his chest. “Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I just see something nice and I feel the urge you know—”
“Kleptomania,” I interrupted.
“Yeah. Had that all my life.”
“I have it too,” I stated calmly. “I understand.”
“Grab a seat,” I motioned to the chairs next to me.
The older Blood and the younger one—two peas in a pod—sat beside me. The others were probably watching. But hey, at least they were honoring my “one friend at a time” policy.
* * *
Our meeting was surprisingly heartfelt, at least at first.
I looked at the older Blood and told him straight up. “It’s fine to have kleptomania, man. But you gotta do therapy for it.”
“I know,” he said. “Couldn’t get that in prison.”
“I know,” I responded. “But you’re out in the free world now. And I don’t want you going back to prison, you know?”
I looked at the younger Blood, who was looking awkwardly into the ground.
“Hey man, I know you care for him. That’s why you’re here with him. He’ll go to jail if he continues this. You know that right?”
“Yeah,” he responded. “I don’t want that.”
“Stealing from someone in the same building, man? That was not careful planning.” I go on. “You’re just begging to be caught.”
The younger Blood interjected, “I ain’t letting you do this stuff anymore cuz. He’s right. You got a record.”
“I know man, I know.” the older Blood continued. “Been barely out for a few weeks now. My brain just messed up.”
“He needs your help,” I motion to the younger Blood. He nodded, looking down.
“Can you forgive me man?” the older Blood continued.
“I’m sorry, man, I gotta be honest,” I reply. “I don’t think I can. I let you into my home. Gave you good deals. Tried to help you out. And you took advantage of that.”
He nodded.
“I do want the best for you though.” But looking at the younger Blood, I go on. “But you. I can trust you. You’ve been respectful to me.”
His eyes softened. “I just need to make sure we’re good.”
“Yeah man, we’re good.”
The older Blood cut in—said they wanted to give me some money, to help me “forget” the situation.
Huh? I was about to let you off for free man. Hush money? Okay—actually? That's kind of badass.
They ruffled through their wallets and handed me about fifty bucks—all in singles.
Yeah, they’d definitely just come from the strip club.
I reached out to the younger Blood. He shook my hand, steady eye contact the whole time.
Phew. That ended better than I thought. But right before the younger Blood left—he came back.
“We good right?” His eyes sharpened. His whole energy shifted.
Goddamn. Guess the hint of violence can never fully leave this world.
Whatever. This had been wholesome enough.
“We good.” I shook his hands more menacingly, eyeing him down, giving him that gangster send-off that he so clearly wanted.
———————————————————————————————————————
I was drinking at the bar with Elliot and Theo, later that night. The adrenaline had finally worn off and thoughts of the breakup finally started to creep in. I’d been on edge all day. Mostly, I just wanted to sleep.
But getting drunk and getting Taco Bell was a fine alternative. I wasn’t complaining.
I gloated about my “great victory” against the Bloods—got all my stuff back, and even got hush money. They were floored. We talked for a while, animated and buzzing with laughter.
They apologized for not being there. But I didn’t blame them. If anything, I was thankful. Maybe I needed to go through it alone.
Then the question inevitably came. “How are you handling your breakup?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. The anger from earlier crept back in, and I had no idea what to do with it.
They said “It will be good for you bro,” and “I’m here for you.”
It was enough to make a grown man cry.
But I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to let it out. Didn’t even know what I needed to let out.
Casually complaining about my ex—or even my partner—was new to me. The words had trouble flowing at first.
You see, my ex had always told me that loyalty was important to her. That she would never speak ill of me. So I should do the same.
I understood the sentiment. And honestly, I still agree with it. At least, partially.
But she must’ve had a much easier time with that rule—because I hadn’t mistreated her.
The worst ways I hurt her? In her words, it was always when I called her out. Usually while crying. Begging her to stop. After hours of being berated.
She’d say I was the mean one. That I was just making issues. One negative word was worth more than a thousand of hers.
She’d say I was transactional. That it didn’t matter how well I treated her—she wasn’t obligated to do the same.
She’d say, if I really felt that way about her, I should just leave her.
Maybe I should have.
Instead, I kept silent. For two years. I whispered barely a peep to my friends, my family. Even myself. Except the couple moments it came bursting out—when old Sanum tried to save me.
But I buried him too.
I numbed myself to my pain. To my life. I let my needs fade into the void.
I became a shell of myself.
And so, this “win” against the Bloods? I needed it. I desperately needed it. It was the first sign that I’d be okay. The first sign I hadn’t killed myself entirely.
That I was still alive after all. That I still had blood flowing in my veins.
* * *
I was in Theo’s guest bedroom now, curling my feet as I melted into the bed. His pitbull guarded the door—tail thumping into the wall, mouth biting into a ball—protecting me from those nasty Bloods.
My friends had insisted I stay with them. Even if things were “resolved,” the Bloods still knew where I lived. Better to play it safe.
I agreed with them, of course. But honestly I was just glad that they were there.
I did end up sharing some of my feelings with them. About the breakup.
“She was impulsive!” I had cried.
“She was unstable! Always made me carry the relationship.” I’d squeaked.
I was right, of course. But I was only just scratching the surface. Still, it was a start. And after two years? A damn good one.
It would be months until I’d fully process it. Months until I’d understand the full extent of the damage. Months until I could lie in bed with a woman and feel safe. Actually safe.
Leslie emailed me, saying she was sorry for the whole situation. Management was giving me more time to move out.
I thanked her—it gave me more time to flee the state. Elliot would help me grab a few things in the morning. And then I’d bounce.
“The Outcast of Massachusetts,” I mused.
Next stop was New York. Had a wedding there. Then maybe Pennsylvania. Had a sister there.
Who knew where I’d go next? I was an outlaw now. I smiled.
And when I popped back into Boston? That’s when I’d finally move out.
I lay in bed, relishing the moment. Anticipating the future. Not as heavy as it used to seem. Maybe even—a little exciting.
The world still felt big, wild and uncertain. Scary.
But it also felt vibrant with possibility. Like color was flickering back on.
My hands felt warm, back in control. Just barely.
But sometimes, barely is enough.
Sometimes, just getting to barely is the whole bloody fight.
