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A story I wrote.
Mar. 25th, 2005 05:45 pmOn Tuesday, she got caught shoplifting.
The woman in charge, presumably, of stopping girls from stealing things filled out some paperwork in the small, TV-lined room where These Things Are Taken Care Of. A man in an awful tie leaned against the door. She noticed there was a box of tissue on the small table where she'd been invited, or rather, instructed to sit. No use in crying, she thought, everyone must do that. But she cried anyway, mostly from embarrassment. Of course she had feigned surprise and blamed forgetfulness when the woman had stopped her in the parking lot and asked about the "unpaid merchandise." But she was sure the tactic was nothing the woman hadn't seen before.
She was a good liar, but she wasn't naive. No amount of pleading her innocence would change anything, so she'd just followed the woman back into the store, face warm, holding the little compact of sparkly eyeshadow an arm's length in front of her. It was her first time getting caught, but it was pretty much how she'd imagined it would be. She'd been handled with a courtesy that was almost painful. While dabbing at leaky eyes with a tissue, store brand, she realized that she'd been smarter the other times... pocketing things from the 24 hour establishment after midnight, when there was a minimum of staff on hand.
The woman finished the paperwork and handed her a copy. She was to get in touch with the store's headquarters and arrange a payment plan for the $155.49 they were asking, or rather, telling her to hand over for the theft of unpaid merchandise. Her only thought was that their phrasing, "theft of unpaid merchandise," seemed redundant. If it was paid merchandise, it wouldn't be theft. Unless it was paid for by someone else and she'd taken it, and she was pretty sure that wouldn't fall under the store's jurisdiction.
The whole process, the whole thing in The Room, had taken about 10 minutes. She was just glad they hadn't shown her the footage. There was nothing she hated more than watching herself on camera; she didn't like how fat she looked. On top of that, it would have been painful to watch herself as she leaned in close to some shelving, partially obscured by a display of hair color, and slipped the eyeshadow in her pocket. It had been sloppy, sloppier than any other time, and she'd actually almost put it back. If only.
Then she was in the parking lot again, and a cart boy was looking at her with a smirk. She cried hard on the way home, and her face looked raw by the time she pulled into her driveway. They hadn't told her she was banned from the store, but she thought she probably wouldn't go back any time soon. What if every time she used her shopper's card, something popped up and alerted the cashier that she'd been in trouble with them before? It was too awful to think about, and the other grocery store was a shorter drive anyway.
The woman in charge, presumably, of stopping girls from stealing things filled out some paperwork in the small, TV-lined room where These Things Are Taken Care Of. A man in an awful tie leaned against the door. She noticed there was a box of tissue on the small table where she'd been invited, or rather, instructed to sit. No use in crying, she thought, everyone must do that. But she cried anyway, mostly from embarrassment. Of course she had feigned surprise and blamed forgetfulness when the woman had stopped her in the parking lot and asked about the "unpaid merchandise." But she was sure the tactic was nothing the woman hadn't seen before.
She was a good liar, but she wasn't naive. No amount of pleading her innocence would change anything, so she'd just followed the woman back into the store, face warm, holding the little compact of sparkly eyeshadow an arm's length in front of her. It was her first time getting caught, but it was pretty much how she'd imagined it would be. She'd been handled with a courtesy that was almost painful. While dabbing at leaky eyes with a tissue, store brand, she realized that she'd been smarter the other times... pocketing things from the 24 hour establishment after midnight, when there was a minimum of staff on hand.
The woman finished the paperwork and handed her a copy. She was to get in touch with the store's headquarters and arrange a payment plan for the $155.49 they were asking, or rather, telling her to hand over for the theft of unpaid merchandise. Her only thought was that their phrasing, "theft of unpaid merchandise," seemed redundant. If it was paid merchandise, it wouldn't be theft. Unless it was paid for by someone else and she'd taken it, and she was pretty sure that wouldn't fall under the store's jurisdiction.
The whole process, the whole thing in The Room, had taken about 10 minutes. She was just glad they hadn't shown her the footage. There was nothing she hated more than watching herself on camera; she didn't like how fat she looked. On top of that, it would have been painful to watch herself as she leaned in close to some shelving, partially obscured by a display of hair color, and slipped the eyeshadow in her pocket. It had been sloppy, sloppier than any other time, and she'd actually almost put it back. If only.
Then she was in the parking lot again, and a cart boy was looking at her with a smirk. She cried hard on the way home, and her face looked raw by the time she pulled into her driveway. They hadn't told her she was banned from the store, but she thought she probably wouldn't go back any time soon. What if every time she used her shopper's card, something popped up and alerted the cashier that she'd been in trouble with them before? It was too awful to think about, and the other grocery store was a shorter drive anyway.
