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Robert Jones
Short Story/ 2019
FIRST THEFT AT AGE 8, 1947
I headed for the 'Five and Dime’ store 3 blocks from my house with one desire in mind, a Hersey Chocolate Bar.
Entering the store, I searched different isle-ways for Irene remembering what Mike had said, “Just because you don’t see her doesn’t mean she isn’t in the store. She’s sneaky and might be on lurking duty behind some counter or fixture, in the bathroom on pee duty or ordering new stock in the backroom to restock store shelves.”
It’s a lesson Mike, fifteen years old, head hoodlum and thief of our neighborhood had shared with me weeks earlier at the Salvation Army Center playing basketball. Thievery is an act he took pride and pleasure in calling a “Five finger discount.”
He also warned me, “If Irene is at the cash register or restocking shelves and counters in the store, it’s best to leave the store if you are there to take and not pay. She has mirrors located in spots along the walls and ceiling in the store to watch customers she doesn’t trust. If she catches you stealing, she’ll call your parents to come get you, then ban you from the store.”
No Irene in sight when entering the store, I made a beeline for my favorite counter having been there many times before with the taste of chocolate on my mind and coin jingling at the bottom of my pants pocket after collecting my twenty-five cent allowance. This time was different having already spent my allowance with no hope of borrowing money from my stingy sister or older, secretive brother, not having paid them back as promised in the past. With no money and no one to borrow from, my siblings refusing to loan me the few pennies needed for that chocolate bar I felt I needed, wanted and couldn’t do without, I was left looking at what I wanted but couldn’t have and was unable to pay for.
Not able to borrow 5-cents from my sister or brother before going to the dime store, I had checked mom’s coat pockets in the closet knowing she always had small change after paying bus fare to and from work every day. One of two pockets had a wrinkled hankie and wadded tissues she used for her hay fever and runny nose, the other nothing but tiny balls of lint and a wrapper from a York Mint, no change, not even a few pennies.
With no money to purchase what I wanted, a line of chocolate bars staring back, mouth watering for a taste of bittersweet chocolate, I considered what Mike had said when he told me how easy it is to steal from a store. Why couldn’t I take what I wanted without paying? Irene wouldn’t recognize me as a friend of Mike, he and his brothers not wanting to be associated with whiny, younger children on the block they considered idiots when in public. Only when Mike wasn’t around his brothers and buddies would he act friendly and converse with me, usually at the Salvation Army center or waiting in line to pay for the Saturday movie matinee.
Standing next to the candy counter, anxious, a bit jittery, I readied for my first attempt of taking and not paying for what I wanted, desired to have and feast upon before licking residuals from my lips afterwards. A Hershey Bar wrapped in a dark brown wrapper, inner foil showing at the ends of the bar waited for me to take it from the display of a variety of candies, gums and individually wrapped soft and hard candies. My fingers touched the wrapped chocolate bar as saliva glands begin that silent urge of, “You need it now. You want it now. Take it now.”
“What if I’m caught,” I asked myself, pulling my hand back thinking what mom might do and say after a receiving a call from Irene to come and get me from the store after stealing without paying. I demanded courage of myself to take, not retreat, of what I wanted. It’s what Mike would do. Nervously scanning the store left to right, behind me and the different mirrors for Irene’s probing eyes, a second search of the store followed, making sure she wouldn’t suddenly appear. Storefront clerk, with her back to me, was ringing up purchased goods.
Fingering one chocolate bar, I asked myself, “Why not two?”
I quickly moved both chocolate bars into my coat pocket, remembering Mike saying, “Make sure the clerk is busy with a customer before walking out the store. If she isn’t, never be in a hurry and buy some penny candies for distraction if you want to keep what you stole. When leaving the store keep your hands in sight, not in your pocket, whether you purchase something or not. If she looks your way, smile and say something nice on the way out of the store so she doesn’t expect anything.”
Still not seeing Irene around the store and the clerk busy giving the customer her change and bagging the merchandize, I casually walked out the door, hands at my side, not in my pocket to draw suspicion. Once outside, congratulating myself on my first-ever theft of taking not one but two Hershey bars, I considered asking Mike if he would let me join his gang. Walking past other storefronts, I quickly followed another of Mike’s suggestions of getting out of sight from probing eyes and loud voice commands as soon as possible before enjoying the merchandize. Turning the corner, I took one of two Hershey Bars from my pocket before slowly peeling paper cover and foil back, savoring a deep chocolate aroma – “Ambrosia,” mom would say -- taste yet to come.
With the first square of chocolate bar broken off with its Hershey logo stamped on it, I begin anticipating its taste for that first delicious, bittersweet flavor of dark chocolate. Placing it on my tongue, warm digestive juices softening it, taste buds dancing in delight, I pushed it against the roof of my mouth to smash, squish and spread mushy residuals over my tongue and palate for a second pleasurable joy of chocolate. The chocolate bar slowly disappeared square-by-square duplicating melt, taste and squish for each until the last of eight squares disappeared half a block from home. Licking lips and tonguing upper roof of my mouth for delightful residuals followed before wadding the wrapper and putting it in a sidewalk trashcan, not on the ground as Mom had taught her children to do. I decided to keep the second Hershey bar for the next day, maybe give it to Mike to show him how successful I had been. He might let me hangout with him, his brothers and join their gang for such a daring theft of not one, but two chocolate bars.
Careful not to let Mom see the second Hershey Bar, I pushed it deeper into my coat pocket before tonguing my teeth and lips repeatedly to rid of any residual sight of color or scent of chocolate left behind. Pulling up my coat sleeve, I took my shirtsleeve and wiped repeatedly for the smallest residual left behind knowing Mom might notice I had no appetite for dinner.
Satisfied with success, I remembered Mike saying, “Don’t go back to soon to the same store. Use a bigger grocery store… like Safeway.”
Home with a smile of satisfaction, I closed the front door as mom met me at the door with a loving smile, saying, “Dinner’s ready." Bending down to give me her usual homecoming hug and kiss on my forehead, she paused, sniffing, nostrils flaring as she turned my chin side to side, asking, "Where did you get the chocolate? I thought you had spent your allowance and promised me you wouldn’t borrow any more money from your sister or brother until you paid them back."
How does she know? I had sleeved wiped my mouth repeatedly and tongued my teeth clean several times of residuals.
Rising to full height, hands on her hips, frowning, sternly asking, "Where did you get the chocolate candy!"
I shrunk from the truth, taking a step back.
"Last time I'll ask!” she said, her steely-eyes burning a hole in my soul. “Where did you get the candy if you already spent your allowance?"
"The woman at the store gave it to me,” I said, thinking what Mike had said about keeping with one story.
"The truth!"
"Honest mom. The woman gave it to me, said I could pay her back next Saturday when I get my allowance.”
“The truth!”
Mom knew the truth, just not the details of the theft.
“Where did you get it?” she asked, lowering her voice, eyebrows furrowing, crow feet wrinkles deepening, determined to get the truth, not my version of what she knew was a theft.
“Mike gave it to me,” I said, not being a quick thinker and Mike being the wrong person to use for an excuse.
“Two lies,” Mom said. “Wanna try for a third.”
She knew Mike by sight and reputation and that he and his brothers were the neighborhood hoodlums. As well, the influence Mike and his brothers had on a number of the younger, neighborhood boys.
I backed up a bit more, mom closing the distance forward for every step I had taken backward, getting-in-my face while towering over me. I knew she wouldn’t back down until she got the complete truth to every question she asked.
“Where!” she repeated.
I didn’t know what to say having told my story two different ways.
“Did you take it from the Dime Store?”
My face began heating up, cheeks flushing, starting my motorboat excuses, “But… but… but.”
Mom cutting me short, stating, “Empty your pockets on the table.”
"Mom!” I said in sheepish voice.
Mom took a few steps back, firmly saying, “Empty your pockets.”
What could I do? I had to do something.
“Now!” Mom’s voice rose, in anger, “I’m not in the mood for another lie.”
“Mom!”
“Now or you won’t get your allowance on Saturday or go to the afternoon movies this Saturday or the next. Start with emptying your coat pockets, then pant pockets,” she said, lowering her voice. “Do you want your dad to do it for you?”
“N… no,” I said, unzipping my coat, taking it off, letting it drop to the floor, chocolate bar sliding partway out of the pocket, my head dropping, shoulders rounding, looking at the floor.
“Look at me, not the floor. Did you take it without paying?”
She knew I had taken it without paying, but wanted me to admit I was a thief without hearing a third lie.
I sheepishly looked up not wanting to admit to what I had done when seeing my sister out of the corner of my eye standing at the doorway smirking, having heard the commotion, knowing I was in trouble.
“Did you take it without paying?”
Again, I said nothing.
“I want to hear you say what you did? It’ll remind you not to do it again.”
“Ye… yes.”
“I want you to repeat it, adding where you took it from,” Mom repeated.
“Mom!”
Mom said nothing, not moving from her stance in front of me, taking a quick glance at the candy bar sticking partway out of my coat pocket.
“I… I took it from the Dime store,” I stammered. “I promise I won’t do it again.”
“How many?” she demanded.
She wasn’t about to fall for the quick apology having been raised with five brothers in Kellogg/Wallace/Mullan area of hard rock mining towns in Idaho during the depression; her younger brother serving a second stent in Walla Walla State Prison for writing bad checks. She knew it had to be more than one chocolate bar, having eaten one, the other slightly spilling from my coat pocket.
“Two,” I admitted.
“Only two?”
I motioned a yes with my head.
“You need to say how many you took,” she emphasized.
“T… two.”
“What do you think your punishment should be?”
“Take it back?” I barely uttered, hoping for the end of the confrontation with no further punishment for admitting my crime.
“That and say you’re sorry and pay for both.”
I could return the candy bar but I didn’t have the ten cents to pay for the Hersey bars, allowance spent and siblings not willing to loan me money.
“You won’t borrow the money from your sister or brother, I will give you the ten cents for both candy bars and you will give back the remaining candy bar with the dime to Irene. I will deduct the ten cents from your allowance to pay me back and you will pay your sister and brother when you get your allowance."
"Mom... I...."
"I'm not done. Not only will you pay everything back with your allowance, you will do the dishes for two weeks without complaint. You will not go to any movies for two Saturdays and will help your dad in the yard and do Mr. Might’s lawn while he’s on vacation for no pay, then the Coffee’s the following week.”ance to pay me back and you will pay your sister and brother back when you get your allowance.” I.”
“But…”
“No buts, the dime store is open until eight. I will drive you down there and wait in the car while you tell Irene what you did, return the candy bar then pay her for what you took. Pick up your coat and go to the car.”
I didn’t want to get in the car, go back to the store or admit and apologize to Irene I had stolen two Hersey bars. Yet, I knew better than to challenge mom when this mad and frustrated with me, let alone what she had in mind for punishment.
“I’m going to call Irene and tell her we are on our way there,” Mom added.
I sheepishly picked up my coat holding the candy bar as mom called Irene and explained the theft, then got her purse, coat, car keys and a dime from her purse, saying no more until we got to the store.
“Irene is waiting at the front entrance,” Mom said.
Getting out of the car, seeing Irene, arms folded, not looking to happy waiting at the door with the clerk. I turned to see mom looking at me, saying nothing before turning away, looking out the windshield as if ashamed of me and might not talk to me for some time.
Head hanging low, shoulders hunched I slowly walked toward the door seeing Irene glowering at me. She opened the door saying nothing as I handed her the candy bar and dime, then did as mom had told me, saying, “I took two Hersey Bars. I’m sorry. Promise I won’t do it again.”
She took the dime and candy bar, tossing the chocolate bar in the trashcan next to the door after putting the dime in her apron pocket, stating, “Why would I want something back stolen from me.”
I looked for sympathy for doing the right thing, getting none.
“I don’t want to see you in the store again,” she stated before turning around and going back into the store, then pausing, turning and saying, “Your mother is a wonderful woman and you do this to her.”
I returned to the car, mom saying, “Don’t you feel better now that you did something honest.”
I shook my head in a yes manner even though I didn’t feel relief from what I had done, confessed to, returning the chocolate bar and paid Irene as mom drove home, making me go to bed without dinner or listen to my favorite radio programs. Weeks passed slowly as a smirking sister had her silent ways of reminding me what she thought of me, both siblings getting their loans paid back in full from my allowance in front of mom. I paid mom back, did the dishes for two weeks, helped dad with yard work – dad never once shaming me over the theft -- and did the neighbors lawns free. Mom eventually let me go to the movies again without knowing I sat next to Mike during intermission bragging of stealing two Hersey Bars.
“Maybe three next time?” Mike hinted.
Every time I looked at a Hershey bar, I thought about Irene throwing away that Hersey Bar I paid for with my allowance and punishment.
A few months passed without incident after my punishment, I begin going to the Salvation Army to play basketball, make things for my parents and brother, never my whiny, snoopy, tattle tailing sister except on her birthday and Christmas, trying my best be a good boy. It’s where I heard about Mike’s new adventures into the realm of thieving and profit making, wanting to join them for the money in my pocket to buy what I wanted, when I wanted but couldn’t afford. Mom’s wisdom – remembering dad’s version of wisdom, intuition -- soon figured what I was thinking, threatening me with having me admitted to an institution for juvenile criminals if caught stealing again.
Mom knew better than to trust what I promised, no doubt remembering what her brothers had done when growing up during the depression. She checked on where I was going, whom I with, what time I’d be home and, most important, a phone number if possible where to reach me. If I wasn’t home at a certain time or called her telling her when I would be home, she or my older brother, a chore he found unpleasant, would coming looking for me. One time Mom called the police to pick me up as a reminder of what she was capable of doing. She drove me nuts keeping me away from the likes of Mike or any of his brothers, never giving me a chance to join his gang.
I tried and was successful at minor theft while Mike and his group were always doing something exciting, bragging to others how they got away with theft and what they did with the profits. Each of their thefts became more brazen and violent using fist, foot, baseball bat, threat of a knife and eventually guns until he and his younger brother spent time in a juvenile institution, eventually both sent to Monroe Prison when adults; Mikes oldest brother was given life at Walla Walla in my junior year of high school.
Because of mom being nosy with my life and her belief in making me a better son and citizen by getting in my face if she thought I was breaking rules or the law, much as her mother had done for her five sons, one dying young, three becoming husbands and fathers with good jobs. The fifth and youngest going to Walla Walla prison for writing bad checks long after mom’s mom died shortly after WW II, spending half his life in Walla Walla behind bars.
Because of mom’s intrusive ways, I was careful to stay away from Mike and his gang. If I stole, I did it with reasoning, planning and always alone never telling anyone, not even my brother or neighborhood friends knowing bragging and spending freely are two indications of thievery. If I went to the store for mom, I would always take a different route to the store and another home keeping thefts small and for my own personal use. Most important, I never returned home with a cocky-attitude or merchandize such as food, clothing, electronics, knives or tools I didn’t pay for, always bringing home a receipt for what I bought and she might want to know about.
When making a trip to the store for mom, out of allowance and in the need of money, knowing better than to borrow from my tattletale sister or my secretive brother, I would go down the alley to the Feed Store on Delridge Way. Getting between the Delicatessen and Feed Store I’d search for a stack of empty gunnysacks. Finding the stack of sacks, I would pull two or three of the better gunnysacks through the link fence before taking down the street to the hardware store, getting five for each, the owner never knowing they were stolen. If not stealing from the Feed Store I would go down another alley and take already returned pop bottles for deposit; an easy take being all returned bottles were stored in the back in a storage area. I would fill a gunnysack, making it look like I was bringing them from home before taking them to a different store, using the front door, down the block for a recycle refund. Any extra money above allowance, presents and job earnings I hid in a coffee can in a hole under the garage.
Keeping my thieving minor, I got through grade school, junior and high school by seventeen because of mom keeping tags on me and away from the likes of Mike as best she could. She was my mom, my keeper, my truant officer and tutor for school subjects and her love for me, and siblings, and reason I graduated from high school, got decent grades, had part-time jobs, joined the Army and finished college with her hard work, keeping track of me when possible and helping with tuition, books and room and board when needed. I paid my own way when working toward a Law Degree.
Mom got shorter and thinner over the years but her determination still strong. I think she understood the truth of, “Once a thief, always a thief."
Did I stop thieving after joining the Army, spending a year in Viet Nam before given an Honorable Discharge? Hell no! Being a low ranking officer has its advantages as a good source of extra money selling whatever I could get from the supply depot and medical aids from on-base dispensaries with small bribes of goods or cash. Mustered out of the Army, I begin practicing law, eventually becoming a local, then state politician keeping my thieving low profile legal by taking small bribes of stuffed envelopes, free dinners and tickets to stadium games. Theft it is, but I prefer to call it expenses for favors or gratuities for putting up with arrogant lobbyists and business owners. Another easy source of money is using campaign funds in small amounts then padding the account anyway possible with receipts, not necessarily mine.
I’m not sure when Mom begin thinking I was a good son and was pound I had never served time in juvenile detention or prison? She won the battle to save me from jail, but lost the war never knowing of my small thefts when younger or my illegal thefts of campaign money. My time in the Army and college, Mom, as a reminder, sent me newspapers articles on Mike and his brothers. Mike’s oldest brother, Tommy was still serving life in Walla Walla for robbery and murder. Second oldest brother, Pat, got out of prison and moved to New Orleans when finishing his parole; rumor had him working as a musician, possibly a pimp. Mike died in a cheap hotel on Market Street in San Francisco from cirrhosis of the liver.
As for my sister, she’s still a pain in the ass and whiny as hell on her fourth husband, no children. My brother and I often kid one another of those times growing up in White Center, him reminding me – calling me MKA (Mommy kiss-ass) – he never was caught for what he stole and how he did a better job of staying out of mom’s radar intuition. He also kids me about how I might run for mayor, governor or become a lobbyist; that’s where the easy money is, usually coming from greedy lobbyist, developer, contractor, lawyer and doctor who needs to break the law.
“Once a thief, always a thief,” I admit. Even I have to admit, to be a good thief one must be a liar, cheat, sneak and thief.