I witnessed a young man shoplift today.
I was at Walgreens picking up my meager lunch of Chef Boyardee because I needed some tissues. The young man, wearing his over-sized black jeans and khaki Dickies shirt, walked slowly through the back aisle of the store where I stood. While I deliberated between Oreo Cakesters and Hostess Cupcakes he glanced, sidelong, at me and the other end of the aisle while alternately examining the freezer case and a small box of Nutter Butter cookies. I noticed his peculiar glances but paid little mind as I had my tissues tucked beneath one arm and a can of fake ravioli in the same hand.
I witnessed a young man shoplift today.
I exchanged pleasantries with a cashier who reminded me of a kind grandmother, somebody who’d make a great waitress refilling a cup of coffee in a comfortable diner. “I’ve got Ree-sees two for a dollar” she said as I collected my paid-for merchandise. “I shouldn’t,” I replied. “I’ve already got dessert in here.” I gestured toward the bag in my hand, smiled, and walked out to my car. As I opened the door the young khaki-shirted youth emerged from the pharmacy with no bag in his hand and walked to a point on the store-front sidewalk about a dozen feet from my front fender. He looked in all directions displaying no signs that anything unusual had occurred. I occasionally glanced at the young man as I buckled my seat belt and fussed with the radio. I wondered why he stood there. Perhaps he came to Walgreens, as had I, looking for lunch, but left empty-handed and was thinking of an alternate food choice.
I witnessed a young man shoplift today.
He turned away and, in one swift motion, lifted his shirt with one hand and produced a few magazines from the front of his pants with the other. He started walking further up the sidewalk and from my peripheral vision I saw a white, late model Chevy Impala with black rims pull up parallel to the store without parking. The young man stepped onto the asphalt and pulled the box of Nutter Butter cookies from his left pants pocket, wrapping it in the magazines as if to conceal the stolen goods. This perplexed me as the magazines themselves were purloined. More than that, however, I was startled by what I perceived to be an amateur attempt at theft. I mean, who unveils their ill-gotten gain a mere twenty feet from the scene of the crime? I started to think perhaps I’d missed something. Should I call the police? What would happen if I did? Did this qualify as a 911 call? Should I memorize the license plate?
Instead I did what I believe to be the most spineless thing I can imagine. I drove away and that’s it. I don’t know the license plate number. I don’t remember what the young man’s face looks like. I don’t remember the actual time he was in the store. I’m feeling pretty ashamed right now.
I witnessed a young man shoplift today, and I did nothing.
