by Mary Carter
“Thief!” Judge Jeannie yells, pointing at me. “Thief, thief, thief,” the audience chants. I don’t know who put the paper bag on the podium where I stood, or why—but I did know that a) if it came to a fight Judge Jeannie was going to kick my skinny white ass and b) I was not going to keep crying on national television. I put the bag over my head. I think I hear Kim and Tommy shout my name, but everything is kind of muffled with a paper bag over your head. It smells like a sandwich; this must have been someone’s lunch. “Take that bag off your head now!” Judge Jeannie fumes. I don’t, of course; I stand there crying into it. I hear the audience gasp first and feel Judge Jeannie’s hands around my neck second. “Remember,” I gasp as she strangles me on national television, “the camera adds ten pounds.”
Chapter 33
“I’m sorry, he’s not here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”
sigh. Greg had been refusing my calls all week.
“Margaret, it’s Melanie Zeitgar. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Melanie? The clockmaker?”
“That’s me.” “Well hello, dear. Are you calling from Europe? How is your one-woman show going?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Do you have any idea where I can find Greg?” There is silence on the other end of the phone. “Please,” I say. “Please.”
“He’s finishing up a training at Bloomingdale’s,” she says. “And then he’s off to the television studio.”
“Thank you, Margaret. I owe you one.”
Keep walking, I tell myself. Don’t take anything. Not this scarf. Not the plastic blue watch falling out of the bin. And definitely not the gaudy rhinestone brooch sitting right there on the edge of the bin. Greg’s right, my little voice says. You’re an addict. The urge to steal courses through my veins like steroids through an athlete. But I don’t dare. Greg Parks is somewhere in the building. I walk out of Accessories and head to the elevators. That’s when I see her. She can’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. She is lingering around the display cases of jewelry wearing a white cap, pink shirt, and jeans with rhinestones. She had a small pink and white knapsack. No baggy clothes, and she has no problem making eye contact with the clerks.
But she can’t fool me. Maybe it is the flushed look on her face, maybe it’s the way she is scanning the items with her eyes—or maybe shoplifters give off scents other shoplifters can pick up—regardless, I know in an instant. She’s using the buy one/steal one method. She picks up a necklace or box of earrings in one hand and places it in her basket while slipping the item she really wants into her pocket with her left. I feel like I’ve gone back in time and I’m watching home movies of myself. Only there’s a big difference this time. This time—this “me” can be stopped. This “me” has a chance.
I approach the cosmetics counter around the corner and ask for a supervisor. The salesgirl rolls her eyes at me and seems reluctant to call a supervisor until I tell her I work for Greg Parks, the Loss Prevention Consultant for Bloomingdale’s. She’s still clueless so I name drop Side Court TV, and within minutes the head honcho, Barbara Stockman, is summoned to my side. I recognize her from the presentation I did with Greg. Obviously, she recognizes me too. “Melanie,” she sings. “I was wondering where you were. Come on, the training’s just started.”
“Barbara,” I say, “I’m not here for the training. I’ve spotted a shoplifter in your store.”
Barbara’s eyes widen. “Who?” she says, looking around.
I nod my head toward the girl who is now walking briskly away.
“You’re sure?” Barbara asks me.
“I’m sure,” I say.
She calls security. I watch the security guards follow her.
Barbara offers me a cup of coffee and asks me to wait with her in her office. A few minutes later the guards return with the girl. She glares at me through Barbara’s open door.
“I hate you!” she yells at me. “I hate you.”
I meet her defiant gaze and she holds my stare, but a slight quiver of her lip reveals she’s scared to death. This might just be the last day she’ll ever steal. You’ll thank me someday, I want to say. But I know she won’t believe me. And she’d never believe it if I told her I’d give anything right now if someone had just done the same for me.
“He’s already left, dear,” Barbara tells me a few minutes later when I ask after Greg. “They’re taping a live show today.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.
“Would this help?” Barbara asks, handing me an envelope. “What is it?”
“It’s a guest pass to today’s show. Greg was kind enough to give me a pair, but I’m afraid we’re all going to be tied up for a while,” she says, glancing at the girl in the hall. “Why don’t you use them?”
I smile and take the envelope even though I have no intention of bothering him during the show. “Thank you,” I say.
“No,” Barbara says. “Thank you. Call me if you ever need a job,” she says with a laugh. “We could certainly use someone with your sharp eyes.”
On my way home I pass a homeless man dropped and rolled in the dirt like a corn dog at the county fair. He has one wrinkled hand wrapped around a tin cup and the other resting on a beautiful yellow lab with big, sad, brown eyes. The dog is nuzzling the old man, who according to the sign is a blind Vietnam Vet in need of help. Although the homeless man is a good ten feet from the deli, the owner is trying to shoo him away with a broom. He brushes it near him and the dog winces as particles of dust get caught in his eyes.
“Hey!” I yell at the man with the broom. “Stop that!”
Both men look up at me; the deli man stares directly at me and the blind man looks a little to my right.
“He’s a bum! He upset my customers!” the deli man shouts.
“Well I’m a customer too,” I say. “And you’re upsetting me.”
The homeless man spots a window of opportunity and grabs it. “Spare a dollar, pretty lady?” He lifts his cup and turns his face in my direction.
“How do you know I’m pretty?”
“I can smell you. You smell pretty.”
I sniff my wrist. I do smell a little bit like apples.
The deli man huffs and spits on the ground next to him. “I work sixteen hours every day,” he yells. “Get a job.”
I step near the deli man and square my shoulders. “If you don’t stop harassing this man I’m calling my lawyer,” I threaten. A thin dark-skinned woman with long braids sticks her head out of the deli door and speaks to the deli man in quick, low tones. He grunts, gives me a dirty look, and shuffles away.
I kneel down next to the old man. “May I pet your dog?” I say.
The lab sniffs my hand. “Do you have a dollar?” the man asks again. “We’re hungry,” he adds, placing his hand on top of the lab.
“I’m not going to give you any money,” I say honestly. “But I’ll get you anything you like from the deli.”
I take a red plastic basket and fill it with peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I realize halfway down the aisle that I’d better check and see how much money I have on me before loading it up any more. I rummage around my purse, feeling for my wallet. That’s funny—where is it? I rummage around again. I set the basket down and hold the purse in the light. Where is my red leather wallet? I know it was here this morning. I know it because I had to use it twice—the last time was at the diner in New Jersey. Oh no, could I have left my wallet there? Now what do I do? I can’t abandon this old man. And I’m so done with stealing. I swear. But this isn’t for me. That man and his dog are getting a sandwich if it’s the last thing I do.
The peanut butter will be easy to stuff in my jacket, but I hadn’t counted on a loaf of bread. I stick the small jar of Jif in my rain jacket and looked down at myself. The jacket is bulky so you really can’t tell. The deli man is busy cutting thin slabs of roast beef and his wife is at the counter arguing with a teenager who is trying to buy cigarettes.
/> “No good for you. You too young,” she admonishes him, waving the cigarettes.
“I’m twenty-one!” he shouts back, waving his ID at her. “Now give me the goddamn cigarettes.”
I use the distraction to grab the bread, head to the front of the store where they are still arguing, and pick up the New York Times. I have enough change in my pockets for the newspaper. I lay the Times on top of the bread and walk toward the register. I place the money for the Times on the counter next to the young man who is still ranting and raving.
“For the paper,” I say.
“Thank you,” the sweet old man says as I make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“You’re welcome,” I say, sitting down and making one for the dog and myself. “What’s his name?” I ask as the dog smacks on the peanut butter.
“Charity,” the blind man says. We sit for another few minutes eating our sandwiches in silence. I wonder how he ended up here, living on the streets. He was an American, a senior citizen, a soldier. Why were we stepping over him like he was garbage? Look at Charity sitting next to the old man with his paws on him protectively, loving him unconditionally. He’s a better man than we are. We should all be ashamed of ourselves.
“Where do you sleep?” I say after a bit.
The old man rolls his head from side to side. “Cops keep me on the move,” he says. “But I get by.”
I nod again. Then I see the dog chewing on something. It appears to be a red leather wallet.
I reach for it. The dog growls and the old man grabs my hand. “That’s my wallet,” I say. In a flash the old man snaps my wallet from me and looks me directly in the eyes. “Hey!” I yell. The man starts to run. Faster and swifter than a blind man could any day. And Charity isn’t guiding him, he’s running behind him. But he does drop my wallet. Only it’s empty. Cash, coins, credit cards, driver’s license—everything. It’s all gone. He didn’t even take the peanut butter or bread with him. I pick them up off the ground and turn around. The deli man is standing at the door watching me.
“You stole that,” he says, pointing a shaking finger at me. “My wife says you only buy paper. I’m calling the police.” I follow him back into the store and try to explain the situation. I show him my empty wallet. He points to a security camera in the corner of the store.
“Got you,” he says.
“Look. I’ll get the money. Just let me—”
“Too late. I call police. I sick of thieves. I sick of you people who steal from me. Every day someone want to take my fruit—here is out here—is free. Ha! This is not free,” he says, picking up an orange and winging it at my head. I look behind me and he grabs the loaf of bread. Then he starts shaking it so hard all I can think is “Don’t Squeeze the Charmin.” “I pay for this. I sweat for this. You—” he says, screaming at me now as a small crowd draws—“who do you think you are?”
Tears fill my eyes. “No one,” I whisper. “I’m no one.” That’s why you steal, a little voice informs me. I hold the empty wallet up again. “He stole my money, don’t you see?”
The deli man backs up and looks at me. “He steal your money—you steal my bread and Jiffy. What’s the difference?”
“I—I—” I say. I can’t think of a good answer. I’m shaking with anger because the old man tricked me and stole my wallet—but he’s right. There is no difference between me and him or me and a cat burglar or me and any other lowlife thief.
“What else you take, huh?” the deli man screams. “Something else? In your purse? In your pockets?” His anger goes way beyond the loaf of bread. Years of rage are converging on his face, which is overheating, threatening to blow any minute. He’s sweating and his breath becomes labored and grows gravelly as he begins circling me like a shark. His wife approaches timidly from behind.
“Rob,” she says in a quiet voice. “Rob, you take it easy now.”
“Call the police,” he screams at his wife. “We’re not letting her go.”
“Robbie,” she says, her voice gaining a little bit of strength. “She will pay us. You take it easy now.” She is speaking to him like he is a jumper on a roof and she’s his only savior, perched on the edge right beside him. It occurs to me then that I should be afraid of him. It occurs to me he’s having a nervous breakdown. It’s quite possible that he is going to snap like a twig, pull out a gun, and shoot me. He’s advancing on me now, backing me up into a wall of chips. A few shoppers have stopped to watch. I think of all the horrible crimes in which crowds watched the person being stabbed or raped or mugged, not moving a muscle like they were watching dinner theatre. And those victims weren’t even thieves. I wouldn’t stand a chance. And now I suddenly, violently, have to pee.
“Please,” I say, my voice leaking out with a croak. “Leave me alone.”
“Give me your purse,” he yells. “And empty your pockets.” This is not good. This is not good, not only because this man is a sizzling grenade with his pin about to pop, but it’s also not so good because if memory serves me right there just might be a teeny, tiny pack of gum in my purse. And one in my pocket. Or two. Two at the very most.
I’ve never been so ashamed of myself in my whole life. What have I done? I was never supposed to hurt anyone. I had rules. I wasn’t even supposed to steal from mom and pop shops; how could I forget that? Even if the peanut butter and bread was for the old man and the dog, who was the gum for? I didn’t give it away; the packs are right here, in my purse, in my pockets. Why do I keep doing this? Shame whittles through me like a raw nerve throbbing outside the skin. I want my mother. But of course she would be ashamed of me too. “Call my mother,” I yell. “She’ll kill me,” I add. “She’ll be so ashamed.”
“Your mother!” the deli man shouts. “How old are you?”
He advances again, this time he’s two inches from my face. I can see the stubble on his face.
“Thirty,” I whisper. “In two days.” I put my hand in my pocket and pull out the packs of gum. I turn my purse upside down. The other pack of gum tumbles out along with tampons, dental floss, matches, and a can of Friskies. I see the man’s hand go up, and for a split second I think he’s going to hit me. And what’s even stranger—part of me wishes he would. I want him to hit me. I want to be punished. If this were Singapore they’d take the butcher knife from the back and chop off my hands. I could take a hit. But instead of hitting me, his hands clutch at his heart.
“Robbie, no!” his wife screams, running up from behind. She barely gets her arms around him as he crumples to the ground.
Chapter 34
“CPR,” I say, dropping to my knees and taking his wife by the shoulders. “Do you know CPR?”
She shakes her head. Her eyes are large, brimming with tears; she’s spraying fear like a wild animal. “His heart,” she whispers. “Doctor says too much stress.”
“Call 911,” I say, pushing her toward the phone. He’s already on his back. I tilt his head, pinch his nose, and put my cheek down to his mouth. He’s not breathing. I try and find a pulse. No pulse. Three breaths, fifteen compressions. It’s been well over two years since I breathed into Annie the CPR mannequin, and I pray the rules haven’t changed too much. This time I drop the Saints and go right to the source. “Please, God,” I say as my hands pump down on his heart. “Help me.”
On the third round, I have a pulse. And then air. He’s sucking in glorious air. His wife is leaning over us crying.
“Robbie,” she says. “Robbie.”
He opens his eyes. I’m leaning toward him, listening for the breath. He spits in my eye. But I don’t care. He’s alive and the paramedics have arrived. I roll away from him and put my head in my hands. The paramedics approach me. His wife and I both yell that it’s Robbie who is in trouble.
“You did CPR?” one shouts at me.
I nod. “Did I—did I do something wrong?” I squeak.
“You saved his life,” he says.
I remain on the floor as they take him out in the stretcher.
>
She wants to go with him in the ambulance, but she has to close the store first.
“I’ll help you,” I say.
She hesitates only for a second and then nods. While she’s locking up the register, I usher everyone out of the store. The police arrive.
“He’s in the ambulance,” the wife says to the officers at the door.
“We got a call about a theft,” the officer says. “Were you robbed?”
The woman looks at the cop and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “My husband was confused. And then he had a heart attack. But it’s okay. Everything is okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper when they’re out of sight.
She grabs my hands. “I’m not,” she says. “You saved his life. And maybe—just maybe you learn lesson?”
I start to cry. “But it’s my fault,” I tell her. “I made him mad. If I hadn’t—”
She interrupts me by putting her hands on either side of my face. “He’s been mad for twenty years,” she says softly. “But it’s over now. And no matter what else, you are a good girl. And you are wrong. Your mother would be proud.”
I give her my phone number, and she promises to call and let me know how he’s doing.
I run out of the deli clutching the envelope in my pocket. The studio is only ten blocks away and I run as if my life depended on it.
“Taping has already begun,” the guard says as I enter the building and try to get past him.
“Please,” I beg holding up my guest pass. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I know I have to do this before I lose my nerve. “You have to let me in.”
Just then I see Deborah Green round the corner. “Deborah!” I yell. “Deborah.”
She disappears into an elevator. It’s too late. I turn around and head to the exit.
“Yes?” I hear from behind me.
I turn around to find Deborah waiting impatiently.