Small Time Crooks

I vividly remember the first time I ever stole anything. It was a few weeks after I had started working my first job at a local pharmacy. It was hot. The summer heat was lingering as long as I had hoped it would. I said to the pseudo-boss/pharmacist I was working with, rather matter-of-factly, that I was quite thirsty. I started walking toward the sink with the intention of dunking my parched mouth for a few seconds.

He called after me, “Riley, grab me a soda while you’re grabbing yourself a bottle of water.”
“You mean soda from the cooler?”
“Yeah, just take them.”

Now you might say that this hardly qualifies for stealing, but to adolescent Riley, it did. So what if I had permission? The permission from mr. boss-like guy brought me as close to white-collar crime as I’ve ever been. Finally, I was in the big-time! The real deal! The big cheese! No sneaking around necessary, just casually munching some bags of kettle chips and a Dr. Pepper. Real boss-man would never know as long as boss-esque guy didn't spill the beans. The perfect crime.

Soon, every employee, except real boss man, at this small, independently owned, conveniently located, neighborhood pharmacy was helping themselves to candy bars and refreshing teenage-beverages on a regular basis. We’d eat half a bag of any candy or snack we could possible desire, then stash the rest in the drawers behind the cash register for another mischievous pharmacist’s assistant to finish off. Whoever said there is no such thing as free lunch never worked at this pharmacy. We sensed the urgency needed to take total advantage of this situation, and we acted on our impulses like never before. To say that life was good would be like saying summer heat is sweet and precious. We all knew it. But no one wakes up in the morning and declares the sweet fleeting heat a temporary blessing. You just bask in the oppressive lava and take for granted all the sleeveless shirts in your wardrobe. Similarly, our luxury was a mostly unspoken but not-so-unacknowledged bliss.

One afternoon in the bleak, late, Philadelphia winter, I came in to work ten minutes early, as I was taught to do by my gym teacher (“to be early is to be on-time, to be on-time is to be late” he would say).  It was months after the water bottle incident and we were all fat and happy from successfully thwarting any sort of punishment from the big-man. In front of me sat the most dour looking teenage cashier I’d ever seen. If I didn’t suspect a connection to the sticky fingers we had developed, I would have thought he had just bombed the SATs or been rejected from Temple University. “What’s up, dude?” I asked, with only partial interest in the response. He pointed to the open and empty drawers behind the register with the only words one can possibly muster up in a situation like this:

“Check this shit out.”

Caught.

Nowadays, my mock-stealing days are over. No more free lunches taken with the permission of my bosses. Now I am a respectable member of society with short-ish hair and mostly presentable clothes. I ask to take things and I pay for my Cheetos. Well on my way to cubicle land, you might say. And perhaps I am, but I’ve got this idea I’ve been joking about with friends for a few years. If you could steal anything, what would it be? It has to be a physical object, able to be carried by one or two people. Bags of money from a bank? A huge case of Cheetos? A flat screen television? The temporary tattoo dispenser at the local burrito joint?

Yes, reader, those are all great ideas. Certainly, I would love to eat a whole case of Cheetos. If you stole them, I would even bring my ear plugs so the crunch would be that much louder. But personally, these are not the things I would steal. If I was a bolder and more muscle-y man with less to lose, I would steal signs. I don't mean stop signs or speed limit signs. I mean signs that make people laugh. You know?

There’s a sign on interstate 81 in Virginia that reads, “Cave Mountain Lake National Forest – Exit 180A”.  I pass it on the way from Philadelphia every time I come back to Swannanoa. Imagine that! Probably a super majestic mountain lake cave forest! Right there in the middle of Virginia! It takes me off guard every time, and I giggle without hesitation. Every. Time.

There’s a sign in east Asheville that reads, “AC Reynolds Elementary: Building Future Rockets.” I wonder, what are kids coming out of a rocket science elementary school like? Seems like a bad idea to me, having kids build rockets. They should be learning to ride bikes or playing tag. Not building future rockets.

There’s a sign in Chimney Rock, North Carolina that looks remarkably phallic. I point it out to everyone I’m in the car with as we creep past at 20 miles per hour. “Dude, look at that overly pointy, skin colored sign!” It gets everyone, and it never gets old.

I've dreamt up a list of many signs, and maybe in another world they'll all be mine. Dreams, huh? Ask me some time, I'll tell you all about it.

Riley.