Shoplifting

When I was very young, say around 

seven or eight years old, 

my mother, my father and 

myself would drive from our house 

in Upstate Kent New York 

to various other places, 

hamlets, mostly, I don't 

think we'd ever go farther than 

Fishkill or maybe Pleasant Valley 

to go shopping at whatever outlet 

or plaza or stri(p) mall 

to walk around and maybe 

buy a few things. I liked 

Ames a lot. You could walk 

from one end of the store 

and the electronics end 

was like the equivalent of 

a city block away--

passed the Health & Beauty Aid section 

that smelled like flowers 

to my little nose, and then there 

was the area where 

the registers were located, 

maybe ten total, giant block 

affairs just begging to be 

climbed on. 

Across from those the watch & jewelry section 

sparkled & glittered & blew 

like a bank heist that was all 

dynamite. 

I'd look at the action-figures for a while 

before going to where the electronics were 

and then whatever toy I had 

I'd sit with and watch the little wall 

of t.v.'s living with whatever was 

popular that week, and just stay 

there until one of my parents found me 

and told me it was time to go. 

(No one ever tried to steal me if you're wondering.) 

Sometimes, when I was in 6th and 7th Grade, 

I started to steal things. 

The first time it was an accident: 

I was playing with some other children 

I'd met in the Ames that day, and we 

were using the guns that they 

left open on the shelf so you could try 

them before you bought 

them.  -- That's the day I left 

with something in my pocket. 

And it was mine and I started 

thinking about this strategically. 

One day, at an Odd Lots, though, I got caught. 

It was so dumb. I had asked my 

parents if I could have a small toy car 

that you could flip over and it was 

a different car: An exciting proposition 

to someone of my height... Well, you 

can guess the answer: I had asked one 

of my parents and they said no and then 

I asked the other and they said no, too. 

"No, not today," were there words. 

I went to return the toy to the shelf. 

I was terribly crestfallen. 

I stood there holding it in my hand, turning 

it around, and I checked both ends of the aisle 

where I didn't see anyone so I put the thing 

in my little boy's pocket. (I had it.) 

My parents rounded me up as one does 
and we paid for everything else and then 
started pushing the cart outside. I don't know why 
I did what I did. I thought I could pretend to 
see something in the parking lot filled with autos 
and that my double-sided Matchbox was somehow 
between them... I made my move. 
I returned with the car. 
They figured it out immediately. 

Neither of my parents ever passed for clever 

but I guess there were certain rules for their willful ignorance. 

They made me return it and after that, I think, is when my 
hot little hands were constantly sweaty. Maybe that's when 
my father started growing increasingly angry over the years. 
He used to tell me to sit on my hands in the car all the time. 
Now I realize it was the pheromones. 

He wasn't a bad man. He was just confused. 

****