Been Caught Stealing
Brandon Howard
Mom got pinched while shoplifting at a Publix down in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.1 This is what happened. Her plan was simple enough: Walk into the store and head directly towards whatever it is you’re there for. Don’t waste a lot of time playacting like you’ve come on a lazy Sunday afternoon to casually peruse the store’s various assortments of rice cakes and tampons. Nobody needs the backstory from you, Norman Mailer. Just go grab whatever it is you want and tuck it, stuff it, palm it, whatever you got to do to make it disappear. And then without drawing too much attention to yourself move like you got that Jesus fire in your feet and get your ass on out of Dodge. Easy, right?
Should’ve been.
And it almost was too, right up until Mom made to leave. That’s when things went sideways.2
1. Before we even dive into this thing, can we take a moment to appreciate how wild this sentence is? I mean come on. My mom, right? She got hemmed up while shoplifting, at 53 years of age. The idea, to me at least, is surreal. Heartbreaking. And sure, some might read this and say: ‘Man, that ain’t shit my mom used to knock over banks all the time back in the day.’ Fair enough, some moms just go hard in the paint. But for the more general reader, you get me.
2. Mom laid this story on me while we were talking over the phone. I was living in Virginia then but we spoke usually around two, three times a week. Most times she didn’t have any good news to report, though. The woman
as the store’s office for quality control: you might know it as the security room. Once inside Boss Man took a seat at a heavy steel desk and had Mom do the same. The hired hands stood impassive as terracotta warriors, maintaining their position at the office door in case she grew legs. That’s when Boss Man rolled the footage on one of the numerous small black and white TVs for Mom. Come to find out she wasn’t as slick as she liked to believe. Her moves were slow, telegraphed. The only way it could’ve been worse is if she had looked up into the camera and displayed the merchandise, Dian Parkinson style. Mom was then asked to open her purse to which she complied. What else could she do? They had her dead to rights and she wasn’t even trying to make things worse. Another wise move, putting her at two for two on the day. On the verge of tears Mom reached inside her bag and produced two large bottles of Tylenol.3 Boss Man took the pills from her trembling hands and shook his head tsk-tsk. The goons simultaneously tightened up their faces. The watery eyes, the shakes: it was like they’d seen it all before.
So with the evidence against Mom laid out in literal black and white on a 10-inch screen, and the highly coveted merchandise now safely back in the store’s possession, Boss Man found himself in a real bind. Up until then he’d never been in a situation like
3. Apparently this was Mom’s racket and by the time she got nabbed she’d been at it for a minute. She explained that the big bottles of Tylenol gave her more bang for her buck. Coming in at over 10 dollars a pop, she’d lift two of them, three or possibly four if she could manage to fit them in her purse without too much trouble, and exchange them a couple days later for either cash or store credit. Then with the funds in hand she’d do some light shopping, go home and cool it for a bit till she needed something else, rinse and repeat. From what she said it had been working out all right for her. She wasn’t living, but surviving. And that’s something I guess. Of course Publix wasn’t the only store she was hitting up in the area either. Walmart, Target, Albertsons: She was making the rounds on the regular. ‘I was careful,’ she said, and I suppose she had been up until she got caught.
this. He didn’t appear to like it, at all. Send a lady up or cut a now known shoplifter loose.4 What to do? Truth is he liked to consider himself a law-abiding man with a chivalrous bend. So given the two options neither seemed too appealing. He relayed all this to Mom while eyeing the two white plastic bottles like they were the personal effects of Marie Curie. Still, despite all the wrongs that had been perpetrated against him, Boss Man did Mom a solid and mulled the situation over for a time. The room grew quiet in dramatic fashion, while ole boy got busy fiddling with his Windsor knot as he turned the screws. Mom, for her part at least, grew increasingly nervous as the jury of one deliberated. She just knew things were about to get real bad for her. Experience had taught her if something could go wrong, it would. Sadly, throughout her lifetime the logic had held consistent as gravity.
After carefully weighing his options Boss Man returned with his verdict. To Mom’s complete surprise he had sentenced her to a stern talking to with a bit of shaming on the side. How could you, and at your age too. Shame. Shaaame. He told her that she was to leave the store and to never return, under any circumstance. Fair enough. Hairline and Forehead shook their heads. They obviously believed he’d gone easy on the entry level thug. Didn’t matter, a deal had been struck. A plea agreement that Mom was more than okay with. She put a solemn look on her mug: I’m so, so sorry
4. Had Boss Man called in the Fuzz, Mom more than likely would’ve been picked up on a charge of petit theft in the second degree, as the total value of the item(s) was less than $100. In the state of Florida petit theft is considered a misdemeanor of the second degree, carrying a sentence of up to 60 days in jail and a fine of $500.* While some may argue the penalty isn’t enough to deter someone from offending, or even reoffending in some cases, I’d say that had this gone to court and Mom found guilty, the time in jail, coupled with the loss of funds she already didn’t have, would have absolutely ruined her.
* Florida Statutes Sections 812.014, 812.015, 812.0155
about this. Boss Man nodded his head, waving her off. Mom got hip, instantly picking up what he was putting down. The dismissive gesture meant it was time for her to bounce. She quickly grabbed her purse from off the desk and slung it over her shoulder in a swift, practiced motion. She was then escorted by the gangly trio off the premises: a walk of shame down the aisles of dried goods and canned fruits and vegetables, past the registers where the cashiers and baggers eyed her knowingly, and back through the sliding glass doors. And don’t you ever come back, you hear?
Outside. . .
The sun was getting low, but the temperature held at a balmy eighty-two. A rogue breeze found its way into the immediate area, passing through the narrow, funneled passages between all the tightly parked cars and trucks and SUV’s in the parking lot, churning the warm air. A lone white plastic bag caught wind, stirred and took flight. Probably the least beautiful thing anyone had ever seen before. Mom caught a chill, but it wasn’t from the obscure allusion. Even outside she still half expected to feel a hand grab her by the shoulder and yoink her ass back in: On second thought . . . That’s when Mom finally found her legs. Fuck this shit, I’m out. With a newfound sense of purpose she walked off from the storefront, out of the parking lot, and out on to the street. Three for three, and your girl was batting a thousand with the smart decisions. Watch her go.
Mom lived over a quarter mile away in a run-down one bedroom apartment situated in a cul-de-sac dotted in potholes, accented by shards of brown and green glass, with an illegible graffiti trim that could’ve been Sanskrit for all she knew. A ten, fifteen-minute walk through some sketchy areas that would take her close to forty minutes to complete. Her neck and her back would only allow her to move so fast. At the time she didn’t own a car, hadn’t owned one in years. The last vehicle she had owned,
a ratty, gun-metal blue Oldsmobile that she lived in for close to a year before landing the equally ratty apartment, was long gone. Ticketed and towed away, at someone’s expense. Personal transportation had become just another luxury she couldn’t afford. So everywhere she went, anytime she needed something, Mom was footing it and paying the price for the excursion later on when her body would seize up on her tight, forcing her to remain invalid for the next few days till it would ease up just enough to where she could function again.
But standing out on the sidewalk, empty handed and feeling exposed, the thing Mom wanted most in the world was to be at home before it got too dark: in her recliner, TV on, cat curled in her lap, with a Valium and Percocet in one hand and a strong, cold drink in the other. Safe inside a place where everything that had just gone down was nothing but a thing. I’m really not a bad person 5
Unfortunately as exhausted as she was, there was only one way for her to get there. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk either, not after all she’d been through. It was always during her walks that her mind would wander, confronting her with some hard truths. A humbling round of self-reflection was the last thing she needed at
5. ‘I know you’re not,’ I said, but Mom acted like hear me, though. She needed to vent. I get it.
‘If I could just catch a break. Just once, I could get ahead of all of this. But nothing ever seems to work out. And I’m so fucking tired of losing all the time.’
How do you even respond to something like that? ‘I’m sorry’? ‘Things will get better, you’ll see’? ‘This too shall pass’? It’s almost like explaining the water to someone that’s drowning in it. Don’t tell me how wet the waves are. Throw me a fucking life preserver. But I was busy living paycheck to paycheck too. How was I supposed to support my mother when I could barely support myself and my family? You can’t get water from a stone. So I’d lend a sympathetic ear when she needed it, the very least I could do, and as she perpetually struggled to get by I would continue to hold out hope that her break, her one shot, was just around the corner. If wishes were horses.
the moment, but the uneven litter-strewn sidewalk that lay ahead served as a constant reminder to just how far off course she had strayed from the trajectory she once imagined for herself.6 The trip would hurt, on many levels. But self-pity would never close the distance. So she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and cinched her purse, then orientated herself east and slowly began the trek back home.
Fuck it, fuck it all.
The sun continued to drop like the beat in a mid-90’s slow jam, as the coiled tungsten filaments housed within the vast chain of streetlights overhead all heated within a fraction of a moment, heat mixing with its gaseous counterpart inside the respective glass domes, burning at a constant 3000k. The combination created an illuminated pathway below that stretched on for miles and miles in both directions. This transition from natural to artificial electric light was so damn buttery a person would have to actually give a shit to even notice what had just occurred. Mom didn’t see it all. Shit wasn’t even in her peripheral. There was always so much
6. Mom’s gig as an LPN at Broward General had become just another distant figure in the rearview mirror of her life. But even when she was hard at it, the job would’ve never given her a six-figure a year salary. What it did give her though was a very average standard of living: roof over her head, food in the refrigerator, reliable transportation, the occasional night out with her kids, and that certain type of peace of mind that only job security can provide: these things will always be here, readily available because I work hard, and in-turn the system will always modestly compensate me for my time and effort, even allowing for some possible advancement if I just stay the course. It was an illusion, really. All of us are just one illness, injury, tragedy away from total ruin, and Mom was no exception to the rule. 20+ years on and she could barely make a dime by rubbing two nickels together. And as she crept on towards her mid-50’s, body and mind broken beyond repair, with no real discernable skills to help her succeed in an ever-evolving modern world, it was all but a forgone conclusion that she would continue to struggle throughout her remaining days.
ground to cover. She was a big girl. She knew her way home. But at times she wasn’t certain. It seemed like every turn eventually came to a dead end. You’ve come a long way, baby. And as she shuffled along the trail of white lights and gray pavement, goddamn sciatic nerve playing fuck games with her legs and back at every step, she could’ve swore that every car and every truck that had ever existed was out there on the road that evening flying right on past her, just headlights and taillights and oil-stained exhaust, all up and down Sunrise. Everyone had somewhere they needed to be.