I can no longer hide from my criminal past

Unlike former President Nixon, I admit am a crook. Until now I’ve done my best to conceal my sordid past, but I’m not getting any younger; maybe it’s time to come clean and let the warrants fall where they may.

So, confession time. In my life, I have stolen the following items: a tiny flashlight, batteries for that flashlight, a Superman comic book, a television set and several dozen milk bottles. I have also been known to eat a grape from the grocery store bin if I thought no one was watching.

The flashlight theft was my first intentional caper. I was 10 years old, and for some reason, I decided I simply had to have one of those little pen lights, the sort powered by a single double-A battery. Using Mission Impossible-like stealth and planning, I managed to make it out of Cook’s Five & Dime with the light concealed in my jacket pocket.

It wasn’t until I was out on the sidewalk that I realized batteries weren’t included. Unaware of the criminal’s maxim about never returning to the scene of the crime, I went back in to swipe a battery and was immediately apprehended.

The store manager called my old man. Retribution was swift and Draconian. When I had sufficiently recovered, I was marched before Father Mike at St. Isadore’s, where I confessed my sins, asked forgiveness and recited several Hail Mary’s. I was happy to be kneeling; sitting down was not an option.

This effectively ended my crime spree, until age 12 or so, when I swiped a Superman comic book from Reagan’s Pharmacy. I was never caught, but I was so scared of being found out that I never really enjoyed the comic. At the time, I’d never heard the phrase “Catch 22,” but I understood its meaning.

The television theft, decades later, was an accident. Honest. I was at the mall two days before Christmas with my two small children in tow. I was laden with packages, both kids were whining and I could think of nothing but finishing up and getting out.

The last item on my list was a portable TV. I found one at the mall’s big “anchor” store, stuck it under one arm, and marched out the door, right past the security guard.

I loaded kids, packages, and the TV into my broken down Volvo, drove home, unloaded the whole mess and spent the evening watching shows on my new television. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I had shoplifted the thing.

Remembering all too well my encounter 20 years earlier with Father Mike, I drove back to the mall, explained what had happened, and paid for the set. The mall people acted like I was nuts. I had, after all, made a clean getaway. They did not understand Catholic guilt.

Also unintentional was my very first crime, involving the milk bottles. It went down the summer after my ninth birthday. The bottles were the old fashioned, returnable glass kind. I spent the entire summer removing empties from the racks behind Booth’s Diary on Michigan Street and walking them around to the front of the store, where I turned them in for the 5-cent deposit and purchased ice cream.

I couldn’t figure out why the dairy would give me good money for something they were just going to throw out anyway, but I wasn’t going to rock the boat.

My dad did, however, when he discovered what I’d been doing. Though the punishment was less stringent, the trip to see Father Mike was just as mortifying.

I’ve somehow managed to walk the straight and narrow since the TV escapade; over 20 years now. But it’s only a matter of time before I slip. After all, nobody’s watching those grapes.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.