1958 - Don't Steal

1958 - Don’t Steal – Don’t Even Take Change

My hand shook as I knocked on Don Young’s door. I stood in the closed-in hallway at the top of the stairs. There was a single light but, as there were no windows, I felt as though there was an oppressing weight on my shoulders as I knocked again.

Just an hour ago dad had gotten my tearful confession: I had stolen 3 comic-books from Young’s Drug Store. My penalty was to pay for the books using money advanced from my allowance which I would not be getting for 2-weeks and, even worse, I had to confess my crime to Don Young, the owner and proprietor of the local drug store. I was warned: There might be more punishment. This is the course that set me outside this door. Don and his family lived over the store in an upstairs apartment at the top of a narrow stairway. I climbed the stairs, slowly and with a great deal of trepidation. Despite my hesitation I eventually arrived at the door. I took a deep breath and knocked. I heard a chair move, as it scraped across the floor sounding like a chair pushed back from the dinner table. Footsteps approached.

The door opened. Don towered above me, “Yes?”

“Uhh, sir, my dad told me I had to come talk to you.” I mumbled.

“Hmmm, ok, come on in. Have a seat.” Mr. Young pulled a kitchen chair from the little kitchen only a couple of paces from the front door. Although there was a couple of chairs and a couch he had retrieved a chair especially for me. It was hard and uncomfortable. He placed it directly in front of his easy chair and sat down facing me. Unknown to me, dad had called and told Don I was coming by and why. Mr. Young didn’t let on. “Now, son, what can I do for you?”

I stammered as I confessed in a small voice, “I stole these from your store today.” I held out the offending comic books.

“What? Speak up.”

I repeated myself, probably no louder, “I stole this from your store today. My dad caught me with these and figured it all out. I’m so sorry.” I held the books out and looked at the floor. “He told me I had to pay for them and I have to give them back, too.” I stood and dug around in my pocket fetching the $.30 that reflected the price of the three 10-cent comic books. My shoes must have appeared to be absolutely fascinating as I looked down at them steadily, hesitating to look Mr. Young in the face.

“Well,” Mr. Young said, “this is very serious.” He stood, walked a few paces and looked out the front picture-window for a moment. He turned back. “I have to consider if I should call the police or not…this is a very serious problem to me. You see, I lose a lot of comic books and candy at the store. Do you know what happens to me when someone steals from my store?”

“No, sir.”

“You see, son, I have to pay for those comic books before I sell them to you. If all of my comic books were stolen I would not be able to afford to sell these things anymore. Then I might go out of business. You wouldn’t want that would you?”

No, sir.”

Mr. Young stood and walked to the window. “What do you think I should do about this?”

“I don’t know.” A very small voice.

I thought back to an incident a couple of weeks before when the same question had been asked of me. As usual I had attended Sunday School and the church service thereafter. This particular day mom did not give me the quarter for the collection plate as she usually did. Instead, this time, she handed me a fifty-cent piece saying, “I don’t have any quarters today so this will have to do.” “Wow!” I thought, “an extra 25-cents! I can buy that Superman Annual that I wanted!” Superman Annuals came out every three months (why they didn’t call them Quarterly’s I don’t know.) “Ok, mom,” was my only reply. I was already planning in my head how I would find the time to get to Young’s Drug Store that afternoon.

I attended Sunday School that day with a ½-dollar burning a hole in my pocket. In my excitement I could hardly wait. Immediately following Sunday School was church services. I listened with my usual disinterest, observing the congregation and surreptitiously staring at the Korean woman who was there with her husband, a chief in the Navy who often wore his uniform to services. She was the only minority person we had in town and her eyes, her hair, her short stature were all fascinating to the boys in town who, when we got together after church, often asked each other about her, pumping information from each other even though we all knew, with no children in her family, there wasn’t much chance we would ever get our questions answered. I sat and fidgeted finding my patience tried and my expectant-anxiety growing in anticipation of the collection and my desired goal of winding up with an extra 25-cents after they had passed the plate. My offering of 50-cents was sealed in a little white envelope. As I carefully placed it in the plate I captured a loose quarter with my little finger scooping into my palm…change! Got it! I performed this act with as much slight-of-hand as possible to avoid any questions even though, I told myself, I felt fully justified, after all, mom had already counted the money as spent and I wasn’t giving any less than usual…or that was my rationalization.

As soon as services ended I told my mom I was going to Jack’s house, of course, lying through my teeth. Unfortunately she informed me I had to go home and change from my good clothes first and we would be eating within the hour. I would just have to wait to go visit Jack. I sat for the next couple of hours restless with anticipation. Finally we had eaten, everyone else had settled in for the afternoon and I headed out. “I’m going to Jack’s house.” I threw this over my shoulder as I left, quickly closing the door behind me to avoid any protest that might follow my announcement. I ran as fast as I could to the store and purchased my heart’s desire…a Superman Annual.

I ran home and, stuffing the book into my pants, headed upstairs to my room. I began to devour the story. Dad busted me within the hour after I got home asking where the comic had come from. I calmly told him I had bought it with change from the collection plate, attempting to be fully confident in my flawless logic. After a lengthy lecture from my dad (he was really good at this) he informed me I would have to burn the magazine in the old coal furnace that resided in the dusty old basement. I was heartbroken. I was also informed I would have to confess this act to Reverend Kirk. The next day, a Monday, and immediately after school I found Revered Kirk in the basement of the church. We had a quiet talk, during which I thanked my stars we were protected by the building because I was pretty sure I would have been burned to a crisp by lightning. During the course of our conversation he had asked “What do you think I should do about this?” As a part of my answer I had promised to never steal from God again. Now 2-weeks later I was busted stealing from Don Young’s store and I was getting the same question. I snapped back to my situation. Don had spoken. “What?” I asked.

He repeated his question, “What do you think I should do about this?”

“I dunno,” I repeated.

“What do you think I should do? There are a couple of choices. I could choose to ban you from my store.”

“Ban?”

“Yes, if I ban you from my store it’ll mean you won’t be able to buy any comic books or anything else from me. You wouldn’t be allowed in my store. Of course we could call the police.” He paused and returned to his easy chair leaning forward, elbows on knees. He looked up and caught my eyes. Speaking directly to me in a quiet voice he said, “Tell you what, son, I’m going to call your dad after you leave. He and I will discuss the appropriate action.”

It sounded like I wasn’t about to go to prison. My relief was palatable. “Yessir. Thank-you, sir.” I twisted in my chair wanting to make a dash right then but held back…there might be more. I hesitated and looked back at Mr. Young…

“You can go now.” I practically ran from the room hiding my nervousness as best I could, which was probably: not at all. I paused outside the door at the top of the stairs taking a deep breath and trying to calm my shaking hands.

I headed home. Now I would have to deal with my dad. I had no idea what punishment he would mete out. One thing I did know: I didn’t seem to be too good at this life of crime…I figured from then on I would try to be a lot more honest.

I haven’t always succeeded…but I try.