A construction worker, walking past a skyscraper, can say to himself, "Hey, I built that." An obstetrician, lamenting the endless escalation of his malpractice insurance premiums, can console himself with the thought of all the children he brought into the world. A chef, a hooker, a bartender, even a drug dealer, can rejoice at the day's end with the thought that any number of people feel better for having been his or her customers that day.

And what can a burglar tell himself? "Hey, see that house? I broke into that house, robbed ' em blind. Stole everything but the paint off the walls. Made out like a bandit. And that's just one of my houses…"

Great. And that's not the worst of it, either.

Because here's the thing: you can get caught. And, if they catch you, they'll throw you in prison.

For all I know, you may have romantic ideas about prison. Maybe you figure you'll finally get to read Proust. Maybe you watchedOz, overlooked the less savory aspects, and decided it would be neat to be a part of all that high drama and snappy dialogue. Well, put those notions right out of your head. I've been there-just once, and just briefly, thank God and St. Dismas-and I have to say I learned my lesson.

Because it's really horrible inside. All the freedom that makes burglary attractive is taken away from you, and people are forever telling you what to do. The guards are unpleasant, and your fellow prisoners are no bargain, either. I mean, consider what they did to get locked up there. All in all, I have to say you meet a better class of people on the D train.

And you won't read Proust, either, orWar and Peace, or any of the worthy works you've promised yourself you'd get around to if you only had the time. You'll have plenty of time, but it's noisy inside, noisy all the time, with people yelling and banging things and doors slamming. IfOz had shown that aspect of prison life realistically, nobody could have heard the snappy dialogue. The background roar would have drowned it out.

The right or wrong of it aside, burglary just doesn't make sense. I know I should give it up, and believe me, I've tried. I couldn't tell you how many times I've sworn off. Once I actually managed to stay away from it for a couple of years, and then I knocked off an apartment, and I was hooked again. It's an addiction, a compulsion, and so far I haven't found a 12-Step program that addresses it. I suppose I could start up a chapter of Burglars Anonymous, and we wouldn't even have to find a church willing to rent us a meeting place. We could just break into a loft somewhere.

Until then, the best I can do is remember the lesson I learned in prison. It wasn't the one they hoped to teach me-Thou Shalt Not Steal-but a pragmatic variation thereof-Don't Get Caught.

The way to avoid getting caught is to keep risk to a minimum, and the way to manage that is to size up each potential job in advance and do as much planning and preparation as possible. Consider the Mapes house, if you will. I'd been provided in advance with some useful information about Mapes-the location of his safe, the likelihood that it would contain cash, and the happy knowledge that it was cash he hadn't reported to the government, which meant he might very well choose not to report the burglary to the authorities. I'd established who lived in the house-just Mapes and his wife, his kids were grown and had long since moved away-and learned that Mr. and Mrs. Mapes had season tickets to the Met, and that's where they'd be come Friday night. I'd dropped by Lincoln Center -it's just five minutes from my apartment-and determined that the opera they were seeing would keep them in their seats until close to midnight.

And then, two nights before the event, I'd gone up for a look-see. I'd assessed the locks and the alarm system, probed the defenses, and kept at it until I saw a way through them. Then I'd gone home, prepared to devote another two days to refining my plan and working out the details.

That didn't mean nothing could go wrong. Here's another maxim:Something can always go wrong. Either of the Mapeses could come down with a migraine and decide that it was no night for Mozart. Mapes's daughter-in-law could have kicked her spouse out of the house-if he was a shitheel like his father, God knows she'd have ample cause-prompting the junior Mapes to come home with his tail, among other things, between his legs, ready to hole up in his old room until his wife came to her senses. I could let myself in and find him there, a former college athlete who still worked out regularly at the gym, and who'd lately added a course in martial arts, all the better to defend the family home against a hapless burglar.

I could go on, but you get the point. Something can always go wrong, but that doesn't mean you just plunge blindly ahead, kicking in the first door you come to.

And here I was, on the prowl. Walking the darkened streets, gloves in one pocket, tools in another, risking life and liberty for no good reason. I knew what I was doing, and I damn well should have known better.

I was acting out, that's what I was doing. I felt crummy because I didn't have a girlfriend and I was leading a purposeless existence, and I wanted to do something to change my mood, and I didn't have the urge to get drunk or chase women, somehow knowing that neither would do me any good.

I caught a cab, had the driver drop me at the corner of Park Avenue and 38th Street. I walked the streets of Murray Hill, knowing I was making a big mistake, knowing nothing good could come of this, knowing I was courting disaster.

And here's the worst part of all: It felt wonderful.

The first place that looked good to me was a house on the south side of 39th Street a little ways east of Park. I studied it from across the street and decided nobody who lived there had to worry where his next meal was coming from. I crossed the street for a closer look and spotted a plaque that identified the place as the Williams Club. (That meant that the members had all attended Williams College, not that they were all guys named Bill.)

For a moment or two I found myself thinking it over. On the plus side, I could pretty much take it for granted that the place would be empty. They'd shut down for the night, and there was no nonsense about leaving a light on to ward off intruders. The windows on all four floors were dark as a burglar's conscience. Some clubs, I knew, had sleeping rooms they kept available for out-of-town members, or local members with marital problems, but any such residents would be lodged on the top floor, and they'd never hear me moving around below, or do anything about it if they did.

Nor did I expect to encounter a state-of-the-art security system. As far as I knew, there had never been a break-in at a private club in New York, so why spend a few thousand dollars of membership funds to prevent something that wasn't going to happen? There'd be a lock on the door, and I was sure it would be a good one, but so what? The better the lock, the greater the satisfaction when the tumblers tumble. Where's the fun if they leave the door wide open for you? Where's the sense of accomplishment?

But it's not enough to get in. You have to get out, too, and with something to show for your efforts. I was fairly sure they had a decent wine cellar, and a cozy billiard room, and a welcoming bar, but I couldn't see myself waltzing out of there with a couple of bottles in hand, however splendid the vintage.

There wouldn't be any cash. You don't part with cash at a private club. You don't even need plastic, you just sign for everything, and write a check once a month. There'd be paintings on the walls, no doubt in elaborately carved and gilded frames, but they'd likely be portraits of whatever Williams had founded the school, along with various college presidents, distinguished alumni, and star athletes. If you wanted to turn them into cash, you'd have to cut them out of their frames-and then sell the frames, because no one would give you anything for the portraits.