"Hubris or Hope?"

Hubris or hope? This question often came to the man in black, who at this exact moment was ruffling through papers on the large mahogany desk in front of him. The desk was not his, nor were the papers. In fact, the office, a darkly warm room lined with mahogany stained bookshelves to match the desk and whose every chair was a deep, lustrous black leather, was not his, though the glow in the fireplace certainly seemed to invite the confidence of strangers.

And as such, the man in black was aptly suited to taking advantage of its hospitality, for he was a perpetual stranger. Everywhere he went he was a stranger, and he was almost universally feared, where he was not universally forgotten. And that's what always prompted the question. Hubris or hope?

The fire gave off a ruddy light that showed the room well, and indeed had its opportunity as no other lights were on. Too much light bothered the man in black. For the man in black, as you've likely guessed, is what those in polite society call a burglar, and this night he was burgling a house on a hill, a beautiful old place, of which the welcoming office was merely one room, though one in which he expected to find a safe with an even more welcome abundance. But he paused for a moment and, with an almost arrogant ease, settled himself into the comfortable chair behind the desk. The man didn't know the owner of this house, he preferred the challenge of robbing with a handicap. Besides, it could make for messy situations, those who you knew, you tended to predict, but people so often did the seemingly unpredictable (which was really just the predictable things you were blind to because you thought you knew them). And the seemingly unpredictable was hard on a burglar's health.

Regardless, this house that had been invaded by a stranger was owned by a stranger, but settled in the chair behind the desk and before the fire, the man in black almost felt he knew its true occupant. Separated from the ego of the person, a man's belongings tell a lot about him. This room, and the whole of the burgled house, gave off the feel of a fatherly figure, an older man with silvering hair and a silver headed cane, a man who exudes wealth and class, even in the onset of infirmity. The books, the man in black was sure, would reveal a man with classic tastes, just as the brandy sitting in a half-empty decanter on on shelf revealed a man with a small vice, one small indulgence (and having already sampled the contents, an indulgence of a rather expensive sort). Indeed, he even reminded the man in black somewhat of his own father, though that memory was ruthlessly suppressed. He'd left the old man behind in his youth, and never looked back. Or at least had only done so rarely. After all, how could you apologize for robbing your own father, for stealing his treasured collection and selling them and running away to escape his wrath? His regrets were for the cold, dark times, not now, not here before the fire and the brandy.

Leaning back in the chair and swirling his brandy, the man in black pondered. Yes, was it hubris, or was it hope, that caused even those who should best keep vigilant to forget about him, the stranger, the thief in the night. Expecting to find a complex alarm system, guard dogs, a host of security cameras and all the other trappings and array of paraphernalia designed to keep strangers out of the homes of the rich and indulgent, he had been shocked to find nothing of the sort. In fact, the locks on the doors were not even fastened, entering the house of a stranger had been easier than walking into his own. So was it hubris? Were those who lived here so daringly confident that they didn't even lock their doors at night or when they went away (and the man in black was reasonably sure that both were true in this instance)? What kind of mad arrogance would prompt a man with so much to lose to tempt fate into taking it. Who could possibly believe himself immune to tragedy?

The man in black let his eyes and his mind wander over the room. It was true that in some neighborhoods, where crime was rarer and bonds between neighbors tighter, you could find nine out of ten houses with unlocked doors and entries. But those places generally had fewer goods worth stealing, and a lot more risk of being caught and recognized as a stranger doing what strangers were most feared of doing. Big houses on big hills, like this one, had no close neighbors. The owners of such places, almost as a rule, had friends and compatriots, and even family, but they were rarely close enough to be a bother for the likes of him. Could it be simple pride, or some karmic beauty that brought him to such a place as this?

Eyes alighting on an old fashioned record player, he stood and wandered over to it, mulling over the records lying nearby. Old, but in excellent repair, each one well taken care of, and hearkening back to the jazz of a previous age. Selecting an old favorite, one learned in the depths of childhood, he set it in the player and let the needle catch. Soft, syncopated melodies simpered through the room, mixing well with the smells of wood burning and the aromas of brandy. It was a heady bouquet, not lessened by the addictive thrill of stepping into another man's life, stealing his most valuable belongings, and waltzing out again, insolent as a boy stealing pies out of windows.

Settling back into the chair, he returned his mind to the question at hand, mulling over the opposing possibility. Could it be hope? In the man in black's experience, hope was an even greater delusion than hubris. Pride could at least be deserved, but hope never was. No one who hoped got what they hoped for, though those who worked sometimes got what they worked for. Smiling to himself, he allowed the slight tangential thought of those who stole always got what they wanted without working to skip through his thoughts.

Hope? What of hope. Who with so much money would be so delusional as to hope that no one would ever steal it?! Why, it must tempt every man who walked down the street, that big house on the big hill, with its reek of old money and luxurious pomp. Or maybe it was hope in some higher nature of Man, some better part that would keep men from the invitation of that unlocked door... A derisive laugh followed this thought, the man in black reflected that if that were true, he'd starve to death rather quickly!

Sipping the brandy, he thought more and more, but could arrive at no answer. He couldn't imagine it was hope, that possibility was simply too crazy, too mad to be truly countenanced. But the trappings of the stranger who owned the house didn't speak of pride. There had been no fancy car in the garage, there was no massive TV in the sitting room, no entertainment room in the whole place. This was the abode of a man who loved his simple things. His books. His brandy, his roaring fire. And of course, his jazz. He murmured and muttered, "Hubris or hope?"

Then the lights flared, bright and hot, or at least hot to the man in black, who suddenly felt coated in sweat. To his dark adjusted eyes, the few lamps of the room, which had just burst into seemingly scintillating brightness, hurt, and he had to squeeze them shut for a few moments. When he opened them, he started up out of the chair in shock, dropping the brandy snifter onto the floor with a muted thud and staining the carpet.

Before him, in the doorway, stood a man, regarding him calmly as he swore and tried to get out from behind the desk. The man in black knew better than to speak, all he had to do was bind the man and he could be about his business and on his way. Stupid, he cursed himself, stupid! Sitting around thinking with a job to do, stupider than he had been since he was a boy.

"John?" came the voice, and the man started again, eyes widening.

"Is that you?" No more than a whisper now, there was no way it could compete with the blood pounding in the man in black's ears. Yet it did. For all the sibilant jazz, for all the roar of the fire, for all the hammering in his own ears, the man called John heard. And tried to bolt, but there was nowhere to run. The room had one exit, and the stranger who wasn't a stranger, no not a stranger at all, still stood there, staring, the strangest expression on his face.

His eyes darting futilely, John considered how to escape, when the man in the door spoke again.

"It was hope."

"What?" Mind on the verge of panic, John didn't truly comprehend. It seemed as if the words came from another dimension, another universe even, not across the room. Not from the one person he had not at all meant to see, not at all expected to see again in his life. It was all he could do to ask that single question.

"Hope. You kept asking, 'Hubris or hope?' Well, it was hope. Ever since the day you left, no matter where I've been, I've always left the door open. I've never given up hope that one day you'd come home, son. I've been robbed 15 times because of that hope, and each time I counted it a fair trade. I never treasured anything the way I loved you."

John only realized that the stranger who wasn't a stranger had crossed the room when his arms wrapped around him in a warm hug. And through his sobs he heard his father say,

"Welcome home, son. I forgive you."