Little Shoplift of Horrors

My dad once said that we’ve all got a bit of cocker spaniel in us. At first, I was disturbed to think that there was a dark chapter in our family tree somewhere, but what he meant was that everyone, whether we admit it or not, has a yearning for recognition, for stroking, for approval.

So, at ten years old, it must have been that inner mutt that had me circling around a small group of delinquent teenage boys hanging out in front of the local convenience store one aimless Saturday. They all had long hair, wore scuffed jean jackets, smoked cigarettes, and spoke in monosyllables. I instinctively knew they were the most powerful beings on earth.

“Hey,” said one of them. I had been noticed. A nervous thrill skittered down my spine like a rat across a rope. “Did your mom buy you that Incredible Hulk shirt?” The others snickered.  My stupid mom—why didn’t she buy me a Black Sabbath shirt, or one with a skull on it and some rebellious message like “DEATH TO EVERYTHING”?

“I found it in an alley,” I lied.  This was said to convey the impression that I somehow lived on the streets, scrounging for survival, eating stray cats. What could be cooler than that?

For a moment we all just looked at each other. Then I summoned the courage to ask, “Do you ever let anyone else into your gang?” The boys exchanged amused expressions, and then one of them said, “Sure. But, y’know, there’s, like, a test of loyalty every member has to take. It’s not for sissies like you.”

I was prepared to do anything to de-sissify myself. “What’s the test?”

“You really want to be in our gang?”

More than I wanted a Six Million Dollar Man action figure with bionic grip and bicep microchip. “Yes.”

“Then here’s what you have to do…”

A moment later I walked into the convenience store. A fifty-ish woman was clerking behind the counter, restocking a bucket of Slim Jims. There was no one else in the store. I spent perhaps five minutes nonchalantly perusing the spinner rack of comic books, keeping a furtive eye on the clerk. She didn’t seem very interested in me. So far, so good.

My next move was to stroll down the aisle past the frozen food bins. When I reached the back of the store, I was facing the glass-doored reach-in dairy and beverage coolers. I spent some time pretending to consider the relative merits of purchasing a Mountain Dew or a Dr. Pepper, in the end choosing neither. Now I ambled up the central aisle, coming to a stop in front of the vast array of candy bars. Here was ground zero of my mission. The assigned task: to steal a chocolate bar. Get it out of the store and I was into the gang.

While the clerk was preoccupied with a display of butane lighters, I slipped a Milky Way bar into my back pocket. I was now one brief, casual saunter from the front door, freedom, and the coveted admiration of some teenage boys whose names I didn’t know.

“Excuse me, young man,” said a voice that chilled me to the bone. “Where do you think you’re going with that chocolate bar?” Clearly this store hired clerks with six million-dollar bionic eyes. 

“I bought this at another place,” I answered, in the hopes she was a complete idiot.

“No, you didn’t. I saw you take it. Come here behind the counter.” My life was over. I would spend the rest of my days in solitary confinement in a maximum security prison. Bitter and hopeless, I would get a “DEATH TO EVERYTHING” tattoo.

Opening the counter leaf, the woman motioned for me to enter her lair and sit on a stool. I looked out the window. The boys, like nutrients in a Twinkie, were nowhere to be found. I handed over the chocolate bar.

“I’m not going to call the police,” she said. “I’m going to let your parents deal with this. I’m sure they’ll be extremely disappointed in you.” I was greatly relieved. No jail, just the grounding of my life. She extracted my phone number from me, called home, and after a brief exchange, ordered me to head straight there. “And I don’t want to see you in here for a very long time.”

I ran like the wind, humiliated and full of self-loathing. Taking a shortcut through a neighbor’s backyard, I stopped. Reaching under my shirt, I pulled out…yes, dear reader…  three comic books I also happened to steal from the store. I rolled them up and shoved them into a woodpile. There’d be no coming back for them later. Even if no one else knew I swiped them, I knew God knew, and that dreadful fact would prevent me from enjoying them. It’s my earliest recollection of being aware of God’s omniscience.

As I dashed the rest of the way home, I prayed to Him for forgiveness. I also prayed that He would send the Incredible Hulk to give those boys wedgies they’d never forget.