6 DAYS TIL SUNDAY

Invincibility is the cloak that hides immaturity in most fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys, and it proved to be no different for me. Ideas and decisions that showed little or no respect for others and defied any reasonable logic seemed to be my playground. The world was mine and it was ripe for picking. I did anything I wanted, and the word "consequences" didn't find its way into my vocabulary until much later in life. In fact, it would prove to be the defining point of my very existence. I was wild, and the course I charted for myself was one of pleasurable destruction. I stole, lied, and cheated.

I remember vividly my first encounter with the opposite of right. I stole a watch from my friend Ray and, even when he suspected me, I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "It wasn't me." I said it in a manner so matter of fact, as if I were telling the truth. That was just the beginning for me, perfecting the skills I used for a long, long time. At even a younger age, I remember my mom preaching to my siblings and me: "If you cheat, you will lie; and if you lie, you will steal; and if you steal, you will kill." I stopped short of killing, but she was spot on with the rest.

My mother dropped out of school in the seventh grade to get a job so she could help her mother support the family. Her limited education was supplemented by her experience and wisdom. I had no intention of living my life not knowing where my next meal was coming from. I grew up eating ketchup sandwiches and wearing hand-me-downs; I did what I needed to do to make certain I left poverty in my rear-view mirror, metaphorically speaking of course. My mother did everything she could to provide us with the best life possible. She often worked two and three jobs and sometimes that wasn't even enough. The harder she worked to try to change our fortune, the more things stayed the same.

I became opportunistic, seizing every situation that could feed my selfishness. I remember overhearing two guys from my neighborhood talking about a bicycle one day. Within seconds of hearing that conversation, I had a plan. I waited until dark and went across town to a neighborhood and found a wealthy family that seemed to have much more than they needed. Noticing three bicycles in the backyard, I jumped the fence and took one. The next day I brought the bicycle to the boy's house and offered it to his mother for $30. It wasn't the $30 that was most beneficial. It was the ability to quickly recognize an opportunity and pounce on it like a rabid dog.

Lies rolled off my tongue like water. I lied for any reason or for none. It didn't matter the circumstance because lying came as easy as breathing. I had once heard a saying: "It's easier to tell the truth than to tell a lie because a lie is much harder to remember." For me, it didn't matter — if I couldn't remember an old lie, I simply told a new one. The way I saw it, a lie was the twin brother of deception.

Deceitfulness was my true calling, and I used it like I owned it, like I'd been born with it. As life went on, it was obvious that women took the brunt of my lying ways. I was like an artist, and I used women as my canvas. The brushes I used were manipulation and opportunity. It helped that I was an outstanding athlete. I played basketball and baseball for my high school and my coaches referred to me as someone with natural ability. I was a 6'2" slender young man with a light pecan tan complexion and curly hair. My eyes were a combination of green and gray and my mom said I had a smile that was irresistible. I was a quick-witted smooth talker, handsome and as slick as oil.

My name: Dillon Maxwell McCray. I remember the first time my combination of good looks, lies and opportunistic ways met with success. I was fifteen years old, in the tenth grade, and success meant I'd have sex for the first time. Her name was Lenora Bradford — and I'll just say less than attractive. She wasn't fat, but she was a large girl. She had the type of hair that couldn't go one day past four weeks without a relaxer and her teeth were crooked. She walked funny, too; and for some reason or another she seemed to always smell like eggs. But I did it anyway. Not just once, but multiple times.