Dickin’
Rob J was a likable kid and a total derelict, throwing rocks at the Christmas Boat Parade and shooting bottle rockets at the ice cream truck. When he got older, he used to steal beer out of garage refrigerators, targeting houses where people kept their bay doors up during the day. He called this dickin’.
I knew him before he moved to the neighborhood and we were friendly and one day he rode by on his bike. I still remember the conversation.
ROB J: Hey, wanna go dickin’?
ME: What’s dickin’?
ROB J: Stealing beer from garages.
ME: Why don’t you call it garagin’?
ROB J: (Pause) I just dicked that house.
ME: That’s my house.
ROB J: I was just kidding.
ME: Is that my dad’s beer?
Dickin’ exists in the adult world all the same, on varying levels:
Hot Spotting equals dickin’.
Bringing a GPS on a guided trip, dickin’.
Using someone else’s words or photos without permission, dickin’.
Trying to raise the striped bass commercial quota, dickin’.
Absolving your corporation of blame in an oil disaster, big time dickin’.
Demanding to drill again to pay for the damages to a region you fucked up by this drilling disaster, one of the biggest examples of corporate dickin’ of all time.
