Little more than a year ago, I became a thief when I unwittingly stole approximately $25 of goods from a grocery store.
To avoid a long wait, I opted for self checkout, a convenience that I use (successfully) most every shopping trip for small lists. This time, however, my mind was not in the game. At the time, I worked for the MidWeek. It was the responsibility of a staff of four (which included the managing editor) to cover all of DeKalb County—quite a spread. I also contributed weekly to Valley Free Press, which added LaSalle and Kendall Counties to my area. In all, I carried three to seven stories, about five photo assignments, and pagination duties on my weekly schedule (and if you think that’s a hefty workload, that would be a welcomed vacation compared to running the Sun Day). My hectic schedule, I have no doubt, contributed to my lapse at the grocery store.
As every other time, I removed my items from my basket, slid them over the scanner (each time taking a childish thrill in the act) and plopped them into bags. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I stole it all.
Unpacking the groceries with my wife, I couldn’t find the receipt and asked my wife if she had come across it. No, she hadn’t. Great, I thought, I walked out without my receipt, which I needed, as I paid with my debit card. I checked the bags one more time and a feeling slowly crept in. I couldn’t remember paying. A Saturday evening, I had to wait until Monday morning to call my bank for them to verify a purchase at the grocery store. Monday came around, and sure enough, no record. I never paid. After I bagged my groceries, I just walked out.
The thought occurred to me to go back to the grocery store, explain the accident. But what was I supposed to say? Here’s $25 for some groceries I stole the other day. I suppose I could have done that, but…. The next time I visited the store, though, I walked in ready for the feel of cold, hard cuffs around my wrists. That, of course, didn’t happen. But apparently my thieving continued. At least in the sense that I don’t pay for things anymore it seems.
Twice in one recent month, I found myself at restaurants without any means to pay for what was ordered. Both times I was assured it was okay by management (with smiles, I might add—everyone makes mistakes, I guess) and was let go without having to wash dishes. In both instances, I did return with the appropriate money and an abundant tip for the servers, which tore at me more than not being able to pay the bill because I forgot my wallet.
The old adage says crime pays. Well, then I’m not doing it right because as a result of those last two instances, three cups of coffee (abominable, I know, that I couldn’t scrounge up the change to pay for coffee!) and lunch for one cost me, lo and behold, about $25.
