This is a repost of part of one from my other blog, but since I couldn’t decide which one the whole story belonged on, I decided to put the whole story there, and this part, which belongs here, here. If you want to read the whole story, here’s the link: Click on me.
I was 6 or 7 when my dad caught me with a Matchbox car I had stolen from the local 5 & Dime. I hadn’t even had the chance to get it out of the package, so my dad immediately packed me into the car, drove me back down there and made me go in, return it and apologize for taking it. This little lesson has stuck with me, well, it’s still with me. I’d like to say that I’ve never stolen anything since then, but as we all know the teen years can overcome the best of parenting. But even during my most narcissistic adolescent phase, I still had this big knot in the pit of my stomach anytime I took something that wasn’t mine. It didn’t stop me, but I still had a physical reaction. Which probably explains why my larceny was kept to a minimum, and can say that I have never been arrested for any kind of theft.
Remembering back on my experience, I really have no idea what the man at the counter said, or exactly what my father had said for that matter. I vividly remember walking in that door, looking down the counter, on the right, to where the cashier was, and standing there in front of him. I remember being embarrassed as hell that I got caught, and more importantly, that I was being held responsible for my actions.