Shoplifting

It was a Friday. That was why he had to do it.

After work, when the traffic was not too bad and he could transfer between the bus and the metro (no construction that summer; rather odd), he would step into the mall, walk through a food court, the fashion district and toy departments to the escalators, head down to the second-hand department where you could pass by recycled items, small variety shops and tourist traps, and enter Dollarville. This was his routine. This is what he needed today.

The AC was on full blast, and he felt comforted by the noise. They usually had it running earlier in the year, but the sound was on his side. The rows of goods were tight and he knew what he wanted more than anything that day: pepperoni beef sticks. Something spicy and unhealthy would be just right for a day like this.

Now, Dollarville was a chain of stores that opened in his hometown over the last twenty years, killing a lot of competition and driving away many of the businesses and friends he had known for years. Working for a delivery company told him a lot about his town, the other cities and the region that wanted to stay out of whatever was considered convenient and modern. But then, there was Dollarville. He would soon be delivering packages to the management teams, offices and occasional owners in the new condos built near his apartment. He would keep his job. That was supposed to be a good thing.

“It is a good thing, isn’t it?”

To call Stevens his boss was as insulting as a day spent in his company. He was a perfect example of what the other staff called a “company man”: no one knew how he got to the job; he was introduced on a Monday after some long-term people were let go – they called it “a bifurcation of interests” at that morning’s meeting – and no one wanted to get on his bad side. He was a stickler for timesheets, strict hours for lunch and breaks, and even monitored how much time you took speaking to customers on the phone. The staff was demoralized, until Stevens announced that they would be expanding and pay raises were in the offing.

“It is a good thing, isn’t it?”

No, no, it wasn’t, he thought, as he walked down the hardware aisle. It was actually terrible. Money had to be distributed somehow, and what better way than to get rid of the people who “did not contribute to the community of Ship-R-Out”. Another meeting on a Friday; another set of sad and angry faces; and another lucky day for him. His skill in handling customers on the phone and in person impressed Stevens, so it impressed the upper echelon who knew nothing about it, so…

Aisle Four.

“We need more people like you. You got that thing that customers love and if you were gone, boy oh boy, we’d be in serious trouble at this branch. The others? Yeesh… They just had to go, okay? They’ll find something else…”

Stevens spilled some of his coffee on himself – lid was always improperly placed on his mug – and he tried not to laugh at this. At least he had something to laugh at as the fan hummed, the fluorescent lights buzzed and his friends were escorted out of the building.

There was a rearrangement of the food items this week.

Not a problem, he thought, as he looked past some crackers that were obviously brought in from Japan or China (or Taiwan?); some noodles and rice items that would cook automatically in his microwave; sauces that he did not need at the moment (soya, tomato, chicken tikka). These were just a distraction to what he knew was just a short jump or a skip to those pepperoni sticks.

But why were they sticking – ha, ha – in his head today? Usually, he could pick up a stray chocolate bar (some unknown brand that were sold in pairs), another pen (always loose in tubes and buckets near the pathway created for customers who could be tempted by some last-minute snacks), or some other item that was small enough to slip into his sleeve…or even sleeves (he felt daring tonight).

“It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

On the day when the kill went down – his crew was particularly small and nervous – he had one of the more special brands of meat stick in his hands. The pair of them were tapping out a beat on his ink blotter (the coffee stain was still raw and he sensed that some pain was being hidden in his manner).

“Sir?”

“We only have a few more packages to send out before the end of the day, so I get to talk about something that may be right up your street.”

There was a hum in the AC that he could not ignore. He felt it match his breathing and he stood quite still. Steven dropped the drum solo and leaned back, his grin catching tension in his cheeks.

“Promotion?”

“What…of…?”

“You, promotion. You have a crew of people you know how to push; you’ve got skills that we could all learn from. We need to have you handling more than just boxes and envelopes. So, what about working with more than just the one crew.”

He was walking fast down the aisle now as he thought about Stevens. The meat sticks were not on this side (always two rows for food, he remembered).

“You want me to…?”

“To be a boss; a co-manager. Whatever the fuck you wanna call it. This is not just me. They have been observing you for too long not to notice and you are ready for more.”

Spicy or Teriyaki?

“Can I think about…?”

“Yeah, yeah. Like I said, it’s a Friday thing, so you can take the weekend and spend a bit of time thinking about the money you’ll get. I won’t give a figure, but it is…sweeeet.” He picked up the meat sticks again. “Ta-dum…tiss!”

Definitely Spicy. And it would be a good idea to mix it up with a few other things.

The notebook, bottle of soap and garbage bags were enough. With the meat wrapped in its own plastic, it slid neatly into his coat sleeve as he turned to the counters.

A promotion… A real sure as hell promotion…

Was he smiling?

There were a few others in line; the usual housewives and last-minute shoppers who did not want to spend their weekends wondering if they needed Dollarville… He understood.

We all had our ways of dealing with things…

“Sir, would you please come with me?”

From his position in line, he did not see the security guard at the front entrance who was standing in front of a young boy in a parka. The other shoppers in line were completely focused on this. He tried to look away, but this was going to be a scene.

“Man, what?”

“Son, please come with me.” The guard was staring hard at the boy, towering over him by at least a foot. The boy looked cowed, but he did not want to give up yet.

“Look, I just…”

“You can empty your pockets here or in the back, but you are not leaving.”

They both froze. Even the clerks were not scanning the goods in front of them. And no one cared.

“Empty your pockets.”

The kid did not move. He noted that the boy’s hands were deep in his pockets. He was obviously carrying something that he did not want the guard to see.

A clerk spoke up.

“Son, just show us.”

The boy, his face red when noting their interest, looked over at the woman with hard brown pebbles in his eyes. He had something to say to all of us.

“Just bullshit.”

A chocolate bar fell out of his pocket.

The same brand that he would often swipe when he was having a bad day.

The guard took him by an arm, frogmarched him into the back, and no one said a word.

The three customers ahead of him wanted to chat to the clerk about the scene that just played out. He looked at the items in his hands and considered the fact that the guard was gone. What could they do now? What could he do with this?

He waited for a clerk to be free.