A Quick Trip to the Grocery Store
Crime really does pay. Until, that is, you get caught. Then it stops paying really quickly.
Cover Story
Crime really does pay. Until, that is, you get caught. Then it stops paying really quickly.
Illustrations by Robert Meganck
"May I help you, sir?" the store manager asks. "Umm...thanks anyway," I reply. "I'm just fine."
No, I am not fine. I am standing here in the canned-goods aisle of the Soviet Safeway on 17th Street with a backpack full of contraband. And I am so busted.
"Can I look in your bag, sir?"
Safeway imposes a ruthlessly enforced smile policy on its employees. The customer is always right. But not me. Not today. I am a wrong number. And the store manager, who is built like a massive 12-ounce beer can, is not smiling. For one mad moment, I think about bolting for the door. But freedom is at least nine aisles away, and there is this 200-pound unsmiling beer can standing in my way. Besides which, my sprinting days are effectively past me. Anyway, even middle-aged scumbag shoplifters have their dignity, however tattered.
"Oops," I say.
And then Beer Can's hand is clamped on my elbow as I'm marched behind the meat counter and up the stairs to the store office. A small rubbernecking crowd of store employees gathers, soon supplemented by a couple of cops. I am directed to unpack my satchel.
It is a lot of stuff. A big bottle of Excedrin and two smaller bottles of gingko biloba. (Like I said, I'm not getting any younger.) A half-dozen packages of chocolate chips and pecan pieces. A couple of rib-eye steaks. And two cartons of Camel Lights.
Beer Can can't believe it.
"Who the hell gave you the cigarettes?" he snarls.... Continued
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