Jumping off a bridge. You in?

Plenty of good reasons to do bad things...if you try hard enough.

Now…there are plenty of good reasons to do bad things.

But this wasn’t one of them. Not as far as I could see.

It was Beak’s idea, but that’s not why I didn’t like it.

It was just a bad idea.

Dave was all in right away. I mean, lightning fast.

You could see it take hold in his head while Beak laid it out like Boing, Dave’s eyes lit up, and it just fell together for him like it was already done. Like he was already getting high and spending the cash. His devlish smile said it all.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Everyone else was there, too. Like everyone, and there’s Beak just spillin’ the beans to the whole crew, like, what’s the matter with you, dude? Have you lost your rabid-ass mind?

Way too many people, dude. Way too many people here.

Not me, no sir. I kept my mouth shut.

Half hoping they’d all forget about it when the blow, beers, and Beam ran dry, but they wouldn’t let it go, no they wouldn’t. All night nonsense.

See, Beak’s girl was a stripper, not that it’s important, but he thought it was.

I don’t even remember the girl’s name now, which is probably best. I do remember her hair, though, the color of beer, thick and frothy, and I remember the way it tumbled down her shoulders, cascading down the center of her lithe, slithery spine.

Frame? Man, she was a stack-a-heart attacks, Jack. We’re talkin’ Bang! but her connection was this guy with an airstrip in his backyard. That’s where she scored her dope, or so she said.

Actually, that’s what Beak said she said.

Stripper Chick wasn’t with us that night, thank God. I mean, she was hot and fun to look at, but trouble through and through, grinding up on guys, flirting with their girls, a pool hall fistfight in an alley full of broken glass, that girl.

Sounds like the movies, right? Like Miami Vice. Airstrips and strippers, dope dealers, and smugglers…

Now add yourself a bunch of laid-off construction workers looking for an easy score, and you got yourself a super bad idea.

But it’s true, every bit of it.

And I knew it was true because I knew the area. Dirt roads and corn fields as far as the eye could see. A guy could mow down his cornfield, let the wild grass come up, and he’d have himself a regulation airstrip, no sweat. Totally plausible.

Plus, you had Detroit Metro to the east, Willow Run to the west, and Mettetal just north of there too. All kinds of air traffic coming and going, passenger, freight, crop dusters…wouldn’t be no thing to land a single prop in your mowed down cornfield.

Totally plausible.

I didn’t know the guy, Airstrip Guy, but I knew Beak, and I knew Stripper Chick flipped a lot of dope at the club, or that’s what everyone said, and if Stripper Chick was getting her supply from Airstrip Guy, well, then so be it…

But it was still a bad idea.

I sat there, silent, watching Beak lay out long fat lines and talk his shit.

The more Beak talked, the less he had to say. Everyone sitting in a cloud, hunkered around Dave’s kitchen table, adding their two cents, like how we’d break in and who was going to drive and which route to take and where we’d go right after to split up the loot, and how we’d sell the dope or even if we should sell the dope and what if they come looking for us, it was comical.

Tragic, really.

Caper by committee.

But then I got to thinking…

Wait…why’s Beak bringing this up in the first place?

Look at him there. Legs crossed, leaned back, all cool against the marble kitchen countertop, frizzy hair and his crispy Tigers ball cap casting shadows down his narrow-weasel freckled face, long nose, thin wet lips, and gold tooth smile. Black biker leather, peg-legged Jordache tucked into white socks, and his signature classic checkerboard Vans.

Like Eddie Van Halen and Joey Ramone had a love child, this guy.

Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, barely does blow…but he’s always got it.

Dude’s got it made, man, Stripper Chick, a slick-ass ‘70 Nova with Mickey Thompson’s all around, a beater winter ride for fucking around, a good job…hell, he’s one of the few who even have a job right now, him and Dave.

And Dave…why’s Dave so gung-ho?

Buff-ass Dave, with ink-black wavy curls framing his tanned gladiator face, boulder shoulders stretching his long-sleeve thermal pushed up around his muscled forearms roped with veins.

Don’t make sense. Dave’s the guy with three kids, a pregnant wife, and a full-time salary. His father-in-law hired him. Let’s him do whatever he wants, whenever he feels like it. Dude’s got it made.

This is a BIG step for Dave, man.

Hell, dude wouldn’t so much as swipe a candy bar when we were kids. He ain’t never done anything even remotely close to this. Him or his brother, Dink.

And Dink….man, Dink, you know your girl is a non-stop claptrap, always running her mouth. I mean, look at her…she’s doing all the talkin’ now, and about what? She don’t know!

24/7 loudest bitch in the bar, in the car, at the crib…it don’t matter, man, your bitch is ALWAYS jabbin’ her jibs, bouncin’ her gums, flippin’ her lips, and talkin’ her trash.

I’m sorry Dink dude, but your bitch’ll get us killed, caught, or worse—and I mean quick, fast, and in a hurry.

“Hey! Hey, Darc!” It was Dave, arms signaling overhead from across the room.

“Hey man,” Dave calls…

Blurry-eyed, slack-jawed conspirators circled around the kitchen table. All turned their attention on me, leaned back in Dave’s recliner, just a smoky tens steps away.

“You’re awfully quiet over there, man,” he says.

Dave flashes a wide toothy grin. “So?” he says. “What do you think?”

“You in, or what?” Dave wants to know.

I fold my arms across my chest, slide down into the soft tan leather in Dave’s front room…look around…

Beak leans to his right, peering around the bookshelf that separates the kitchen from the living room.

“C’mon, man,” I scoff.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I think,” I say.

I sit up, clap my meaty hands… “There’s no way,” I say.

They look. Stonefaced.

“No way I’m lettin’ you goofs get my share,” I say. “Hell yeah, I’m in! You got anything left of that package, Beak? Break that shit out, man, let’s go!”

Like I said…a ton of good reasons to do bad things.

…this better be one of them.

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Thanks for reading,

Hey, I’d love to know what you think.

Are there good reasons to do bad things?

Some say never.

Some say…sometimes.

What do YOU say? 🧐

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I love you guys! ☺️

-Paul