1996 PART THREE: "Been Caught Stealin'..."

When I was four years old, I stole a pack of Watermelon Bubblicious from a Super Valu store. It was a very liberating experience. I had figured it all out. I realized that if I wanted something, I could just take it. No need to bother Mommy and Daddy about money, just grab it and it’s yours. I giggled and showed Mommy when we got out to the car, proud of myself and my new discovery. She was not amused. She marched me right back into the store and asked for the manager. After a hurried and private conversation with him, the man came storming over to me. He looked about 75 feet tall.

“Do you realize you can go to JAIL for doing what you did, young man? The police will come and take you away and you will never see your mommy or daddy ever again.”

Panic-stricken, I cried and pleaded and eventually apologized under Mommy's instructions. I was bad and naughty and wrong and bad things happen to bad little boys. I was so ashamed. I vowed to never, never steal again because it was a naughty, disgusting crime that only very, very bad boys committed.

Sixteen Years Later...
The best way to shoplift at Wal-Mart is to do it right in front of someone, preferably someone who works there. A part of their brain will not register the fact that you just stole something. This time at the Wal-Mart in Friendley is no exception. I have a jean jacket with big sleeves and enormous inside pockets which is also a requirement. I head back to the video department and quickly and masterfully slide a recent children’s movie up my sleeve. Before I leave the aisle I grab “Jumanji“ off the shelf.

I walk out the front door without incident. Having worked at a Wal-Mart in the electronics department I know the alarm won’t go off as I stroll through the door. I dump the goods in Brutus, my ancient and beloved Oldsmobile Delta 88, my crash-pad on wheels. I’ve been sleeping in Brutus for a few months since my mom kicked me out of the house.

I go back into the store to look for my friend Vogl. He is elsewhere in the store, looking around, unsure that I will actually go through with it. As an afterthought I walk past the cigarettes and pocket a pack of Marlboro Mediums off the rack. The cartons are wisely locked up at this Wal-Mart. On my way back to the Lawn & Garden area I notice I am being followed by some not-too-oblivious store detectives. I casually nod at Vogl when I pass him saying I will meet him at the car. He looks up, stunned, and watches me stroll past, the store detectives in hot pursuit.

They nab me outside and very politely ask me to take a walk back inside. They shut me in a room with some 14 year old cart-boy as my guard. I stare him down and try to look every bit like the homeless, druggie, unemployed and slightly-off-balance freak I am. He isn’t intimidated.

They call the cops, snap my Polaroid and listen to me babble about how I just got off crutches from being shot and that I am used to just shoving things in my pocket because I can’t push a cart. They are less doubtful when I pull up the leg of my dirty jeans and show them the bandage above my right knee. They give me a warning and tell me I am never allowed at that particular Wal-Mart again. If they see me, they will arrest me immediately. I’m glad they don’t call my bluff when I tell them I had the money to pay for the cigarettes all along because I don’t have a cent on me. Earlier that day, Vogl and I ran out of gas literally RIGHT at the pump the second we pulled up. I put every cent I had into gas for the car.

When I get back out to the parking lot I see that Vogl and a crowd of people are hovering around my car. I shoo them away when I breeze up with the keys. Vogl says he was sure they were coming back to search my car and he purchased a package of hangers to pop the lock so he could get the movies out of the backseat and get rid of them. What a great accomplice.

We drive directly from the Wal-Mart in Friendly to the one we both used to work at. We return the children’s movie for full price and take the money to our dealer. Later that night I park down the block and we pop the screen at my mom’s place and creep inside. It’s the weekend so she’s up north with her boyfriend. We kick back on the couch, stoned, and giggle at “Jumanji“.

Vogl crashes on the couch, and I sleep in my own bed for the first time in months.