This is Mine Now

I was cleaning out the desk of a girl in my class who happened to be absent that day. We had been friends, but she had recently found others.

As I cleaned, I came across a stack of red admission tickets, the type they used to hand out at carnivals for rides. They were lunch tickets for my school’s cafeteria.

I had no particular need for the lunch tickets. My mom packed my lunch every day and if I wanted lunch from school instead, all I had to do was ask.

For a second, I held them between my fingers.

Then they disappeared.

Quickly, as if nothing happened. They were tucked away in my pocket.

A warmth washed through me. You know the kind. The kind that makes you feel like you’re enveloped in sun. Every inch of you lights up. My heart rate picked up a few paces. A sense of importance developed.

I had done something solely by the will of myself. But more than that, I had done something that no one else knew about. I had a secret. God it felt good.

It was delicious.

I looked around with laughter in my eyes. The playing field seemed to have been leveled slightly.

It was perhaps the first time I had felt this way.

When the girl realized her lunch tickets were missing, she told the teacher, and the teacher let her know that I had been the one cleaning out her desk. She informed her parents of this, they confronted my parents, and my mother and father confronted me. I denied it for weeks but finally the guilt of lying to my parents got to me and I confessed. I paid back the value of the lunch tickets and said my apologies, though I wasn’t one bit sorry. It was a learning experience in many ways. But rather than learning my lesson, I learned how to refine my craft. I learned that stealing should never be personal.

The next week I walked out of Longs Drugs with a tube of Airborne in my pocket.

It was an accident.

Then it wasn’t.

I did it again.

Circumstances permitting, I stole regularly. Here and there, mostly from drugstores, I would lift things. Little things, often one at a time. And often while purchasing something else at the same time. I picked up tricks like this along the way.

I learned how to steal indistinguishable amounts. To select what to steal based on what would be least noticeably missing. Never the last of something. But one nail polish in a row of twenty? Fair game.

I learned to survey my surroundings without arousing suspicion. To identify security cameras without looking too hard. And tags. I learned to spot all different types of security tags - which ones wouldn’t set off an alarm and which ones I could easily remove with the nail scissors I kept in my pocket.

If I knew I was going to be stealing on a particular outing, I would tailor my outfit to suit the occasion. Much like how at movie theaters I would bring a large bag to conceal the outside food and beverages I was sneaking in. Most often, though, these trips were unplanned. I’d seize an opportunity if and when I recognized it, based on a variety of factors I weighed in order to determine the probability with which I would or would not get caught.

One time I was in a small pop-up type store trying to figure out where I was supposed to pay for the tote bag I wanted. No one was paying any attention to me or offering help. So, I thought, “fuck you,"and walked out the door with it neatly folded up and wedged beneath my armpit. I felt at once self-righteous and defiant. And I liked it.

-

When I hit high school, my focus turned to department stores. A perfect mark, with those notoriously unattended counters.

Other girls got caught stealing clothes from Urban Outfitters, not noticing the security tags stitched directly into the garments. But I was careful. While they were sounding alarms, I was strolling out of Macy’s with fistfuls of jewelry.

Then my tastes evolved. I took things from Nordstrom or Anthropologie, even Whole Foods. I would case whatever store I was in for potential. I began to feel a sense of justice from taking things I thought were overpriced. I felt like I was tricking the system.

I knew it was bad.

I’d been taught.

But it didn’t feel bad while I was doing it, or after. Truly it never has. I have never felt any semblance of guilt toward the corporations I have stolen from. I’ve always been able to rationalize my kleptomaniac impulses without much effort.

Besides, I was somewhat addicted to the newfound independence I felt. No longer did I have to rely on anyone else or be indebted to my parents. I could get anything I wanted, for free, and no one would be the wiser.

My friends knew what I was doing. They found it amusing. They would point out things they liked and make requests for what they wanted me to steal for them.

And I would.

Most of the birthday gifts I gave my friends throughout high school and the early years of college were stolen. I loved being able to take things for them. I relished in the happiness it brought people to get exactly what they wanted but were unable to get for themselves.

-

During college I flew to LA to visit some friends from high school. One of them had been eyeing a pair of earrings at the Nordstrom in Santa Monica.

“Wanna go shopping?” she asked. We went to get them for her.

The Nordstrom in Santa Monica is one of the fancy ones. The counters are always well manned. I took a lap around the store, lifted a few trinkets from the accessories department, and made my way over to the jewelry.

I found the earrings my friend wanted, and I found other things I liked. I took them all. Slipped them down a sleeve or into my purse. I wove back through the accessories department, picked up a phone case, then headed for the door.

As I neared the exit, I heard a noise, then felt a hand. I was apprehended by the Nordstrom admonishment team.

I had gotten cocky and I knew that. I was trying to take too much, was too rushed and exposed. I had been stealing from the jewelry section with nothing but glass display counters obstructing my transgressions. This was abnormal for me. I usually stuck to pillaging aisles or racks, which provided a good amount of cover. And I had roamed. Stealing little things from different departments around the store.

Apparently, a fake pregnant woman and her friend had followed me around as I dropped various items into my bag. I was instructed to come with them. They led me to a room in the back where they handcuffed me to a bench and proceeded to empty out the contents of my purse.

They played video footage of me taking things from around the store. As if additional proof was needed, outside the bevy of gold and silver inside my bag.

I sat stone faced and remorseless. I was prepared for this. I have always been fearless in the face of authority.

I looked on, bored, as the woman individually removed each item from my bag and assessed its value. While ravaging through the contraband, she happened across my wallet which contained my fake ID. My body tensed.

She slowly slid the ID out of my wallet and held it up in front of me. “You could get into a lot worse trouble getting caught with this,” she said.

I fixed my eyes on hers and held contact. “That’s my personal property and if you remove it, technically you’re stealing from me,” I spat.

She wordlessly slid the ID back into my wallet and resumed taking inventory. After she tallied up the total of what I had been attempting to steal, she offered me a deal. Since Nordstrom had been able to recover everything, they would not call the cops. All I had to do was pay them a sum of money and stay out of Nordstrom stores for two years.

I definitely did not want them to call the cops. Or for my parents to find out. Although we are very different people, with conflicting interpretations of the world, my parents love and care for me endlessly. I don’t want to disappoint them or make them feel like they did a bad job raising me. But at the same time, it has always thrilled me to indulge in the things I’m not supposed to. I can’t help that part of myself.

I took the deal and promptly received a civil demand letter in the mail.

Then I faced two challenges.

The first was how to pay the collections agency without my parents noticing, as they had access to view all the transactions in my checking account. I made up a story about wanting independence to manage my own finances and had them removed. Once they were off the account, I borrowed some money from my boyfriend, googled "what is a money order," and paid the hush money.

The second component of the deal proved to be more challenging. For most people it might be easy to avoid Nordstrom stores for two years, but I had a mother who shopped there fervently. She had a personal shopper, one of those Nordstrom credit cards, and was in an upper tier of membership. On top of that, my mom always elected to park in the lot that forced you to walk through Nordstrom whenever we went the mall.

At that age I had yet to realize how insignificant I am in the scheme of life, and so thought if I even stepped foot in a Nordstrom that facial recognition software would identify me, and I'd be exposed to my mother for the bad girl that I really am. My chief concern at the time was maintaining my angel-daughter image. So, I began inventing excuses that would prevent me from ever going in the store.

“Oh, I forgot something in the car. I’ll go get it and meet you inside,” I would mutter as we were steps from the Nordstrom entrance.

Then, I’d enter the mall through an alternate route and text my mom, “Change of plans. Meet me at Gap.”

On the way out, I’d ensure our final stop was next to an exit far from Nordstrom. Rather than weaving back through the mall, I’d encourage my mom to leave through the nearest exit and walk outside back to our car so we could enjoy the fresh air.

-

My luck was bound to run out and it did. I had gotten caught. I decided to stop stealing.

I resumed a normal life wherein the things I wanted I paid money to acquire. It wasn’t as much fun, and it was a hell of a lot more expensive. I began to tire of my possessions. There was no longer a continual stream of new objects in my life to keep me entertained.

I lasted like this for more than a year until one day I came across a bottle of Essie nail polish for $9. More than what I had just paid for lunch. A lunch that had such a generous portion I ended up saving half for dinner. Two meals!

The price seemed unfathomable to me. So, I took it.

And just like that, with a sleight of hand, the stealing resumed. My statute had run out. It was the same progression, overpriced nail polish from drug stores, little things here and there. I did not step foot in Nordstrom.

Then, I got a letter in the mail. And a check. For the full amount I had paid the collections agency. Plus interest.

As it turns out, you can’t legally make people pay for goods they never successfully stole. Some mom discovered this, took Nordstrom to court in a class action lawsuit, and I got my money back.

Do you know what I felt in that moment?

Sweet, sweet fucking vindication.

Surely this was a sign.

The memory of getting caught drifted away from me. I knew I would never make that mistake again.

It dawned on me.

Stealing was a skill. My skill.

It was so easy.

I was so good at it. Most of the time.

Why deny this impulse of mine in a world where all anyone’s trying to do is get ahead? In a society where consumerism is bred at birth. Where we are taught to want more. And more. And more. Where the latest products and trends are shoved down our throats at every corner. Where we are assaulted with advertisements perpetuating consumerism in all directions. On the radio. TV. The backseat of cabs. Surfing the web. In print. On giant billboards lining the interstate. It’s unavoidable.

So, I chose to embrace it. I will play into the game, but only on my own terms.

Occasionally, still, when the line is so long and I’m only getting one thing, I drop it in a pocket and purposefully stride out the door. Chin up, shoulders back, a look of delight plastered across my face - nothing to see here.

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