It had only been one moment, and just this one time. A “crime of opportunity,” they call it, and I suppose that’s exactly what it was. I’m not a thief. I never meant to take it. I’m not that person. I have watched over laptops, phones, purses, car keys that have been left on coffee shop tables for full hours, oftentimes when I have not been asked. Supervising these personal objects of complete strangers, just to make sure they were safe from greedy fingers. Surely no one would dare when I was on the defensive, not while I was the private detective working on behalf of Good Citizens Anonymous. I believe in a sort of mutual morality… responsibility, even, between men. If someone drops a dollar, you pick it up and give it back. If someone leaves their headlights on after parking their car, you tell them. And if someone temporarily leaves a possession behind at a neighboring table as they order a drink or use the restroom at a coffee shop, you watch it for them until they return.

I’m not a criminal. But the “opportunity” was there, and I blame that chance itself for what happened. I’m no thief.

But here I am, typing away, on a laptop that is not mine. One with pictures of someone else, with music belonging to someone else, with emails all intended for someone else. And with a research project aimed for someone else.

The topic: cancer. Five Internet tabs all point to the same kind. A roughly typed cheat sheet is open, with information compiled from various sources.

“General facts about ACC,” reads one section.

“General info about stages and diagnoses,” states another.

“To look up further,” leads still another.

Then there is a list of questions, perhaps for the student to ask his teacher? Or to ask an expert? Perhaps an interview-based report….

But then, there is another section, and this one throws me off. A list of clinical trials, all numbered out, each with numerous bullet points beneath it, randomly stating this or that: qualifications, procedures, doses, drugs, biological requirements. Perhaps the research project was about existing cancer treatments and methods more in their experimental phase? But stranger still, next to each title exists a set of parentheses that somehow only serve to further emphasize the words between them: DO NOT QUALIFY for some. QUESTIONABLE QUALIFICATION for a couple others. Each trial is being compared against something specific… Or rather, a specific subject. Or – I take a deep breath, staring at the stolen screen in front of me – at the project that, through a fateful plot twist in life, has now become mine… at the research intended not to inform but to save someone specific.

And here I am, alternating between typing on the laptop and reading through a research project that was never academic to begin with. It was personal.

I’m not a criminal. I didn’t ask for the opportunity to present itself. I’ve never taken anything before. But somehow… somehow it seems I’ve taken not someone’s item, not someone’s $800 piece of technology. But someone’s information – hope perhaps or – chance?

I continue to type because thought without some tangible evidence of the process is too muddled now, too confusing. I must continue to press fingers to keys on this stolen laptop. Within a digital document that, with a simple click of the button, I can maximize to cover up the research “project” behind it. But then a moment seeps into my fingers, making them realize every now and then, making – them – pause…. Depressing my WPM to something even my 1^st grade teacher would have been embarrassed by.

I wonder if the moment – the realization of what has been taken – is more painful to me, here, in the safety of my parked car, outside the shop, or more painful to the guy who surely has returned to his coffee table and discovered something missing.

The person who perhaps was just at that coffee shop needing a space in which to think. Someone wanting to escape from whatever reality in which he lived and went to the coffee shop for a few minutes. Not to be by himself and oriented to his own desires. But to be in a thinking environment apart from his school life, where he could focus all of his intentions on a research project that could save a life – a life he knew. Or lived? And now the research is here, in front of me. Or rather, just beyond this digital document, kept safe and most importantly: hidden now from my eyes.

His crime? Choosing my favorite coffee shop at which to escape.

My crime?

 

I cannot be a criminal. I have never stolen before. I am too moral to be a thief. If anything, it was a “crime” of fate. And yet, the unwarranted punishment, guilt, already seems to be imposing itself upon my thoughts.

 

Perhaps I will finish the research project. I will log onto his Facebook, which surely is just a click away, password stored in Google’s memory. I will become motivated by guilt and will finish the research project, as best I can, add to its contents, and then notify the laptop owner anonymously. I could do it – leave a message from his own Facebook account on his own Facebook wall. And leave the stolen device somewhere for him to find. I could do that.

But that would be an act of good will rooted in guilt, and guilt is punishment for a crime I did not commit, and I cannot accept punishment when I am not at fault. For someone else, that would be a good answer: research, notify the owner, leave the laptop. But for me, with no intention of stealing in my life, with a life built around and committed to morality, I cannot be at fault. I am no criminal. So I must not punish myself by finishing the project. I must not accept the guilt when fate claimed the laptop for me through presenting the opportunity. I did not commit the crime. I – am – no – criminal.

So I will minimize this digital document on which I am typing. Just for a moment. I will close out of the academic research project. I will pull up Facebook and log out of his account and into mine.

I just need – one moment – to ensure my reality stays intact. To define these past few moments with another.

One moment.

…

“Refurbished laptop for sale – IM for details!”

Done.

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