LUNKHEADED

Part 9

At that time Mike, Pete and I were on a shoplifting bender the likes of which has never been seen since. We stole anything from anywhere. In fact, in addition to our everyday, run-of-the-mill thieving, we’d developed a shoplifting route of sorts we began to take every Sunday. We’d start at the record store then hit the comic book shop then hit the chain bookstore (I’d never steal from an independent bookstore-I’m not a fucking lowlife) to load up on the hardcovers we couldn’t afford and Club magazines.

One particular day Mike, Pete and I went to the aforementioned comic book shop and as soon as we parked Pete’s sweet-ass Mustang Mach II we got rushed by a phalanx of local cops who penned in the car like we were bankrobbers. There was that weird moment when they make you stew while they take their time getting out of their cars (I hate that moment) and we had a quick hushed conversation, quickly figuring out our only trouble spot would be the quarter of weed in the glove compartment. It was sort of a good news/bad news thing, because while the glove compartment WAS locked, the hinge that held it on on the bottom was gone and you could easily slip your hand in there. The cops strolled over and milled around the car, peering in and poking through the clutter with their nightsticks while one told Pete his plates were expired and he’d have to step out of the car. The other cops were silent, checking out me and Mike silently while we eyed them back silently. They took Pete and put him in back of one of the cars and one of the local cops, a younger, handsome dude who looked like he’d call you ‘champ’ leaned in and rested his forearms on the window.

“Anything in the glove compartment, fellas?” he asked, string me square in the face. I stared down at the glove compartment knob between my knees and got real warm.

“No, man. That’s broken. It’s been broken since we bought the car.” I said as evenly as I could.

“You his brother?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you say ‘we’?”

Truth was, I didn’t know why I said we; everything was ‘we’ with us. I figured I’d keep it simple.

“We’re roommates. We share stuff.” I said.

He shot me a look. “Looks like it’s just locked.” He said, jiggling the knob.

”Yeah, we thought that, too, but the car didn’t come with a key for it.” I was ready for this contingency.

Supercop began to feel around under it, I was so nervous I was squirming involuntarily. He noticed the hinge defect and began to squeeze his fingers in. I could envision his fingertips brushing within millimeters of the plastic baggie of trouble. I had to act. I had only one shot: the Jedi Mind Trick.

“Dude!” I blurted, “You don’t wanna BREAK it!!!”

Time stood still.

The cop froze, his hand still halfway in the glove compartment, and slowly turned his head towards me.

“You’re right.” He said blankly, “I DON”T want to break it…” And extracted his hand.

I swear.

He turned his attention to the backseat and I could barely contain my orgasmic joy at having been the first person on record to Jedi Mind Trick a cop! I watched in the rear view mirror as Pete was released from the backseat of the cruiser he was in and handed back his wallet, giving us the tiniest of fist pumps. It was a good win for the freaks.

I could write a manual on shoplifting, but I won’t. That’s the kind of thing you just gotta learn for yourself. But, there are certain rules of shoplifting that needn’t be written down for even the most doltish of criminals. One of these, assuredly, would be: Do NOT draw any unnecessary attention to yourself! Our friend Ray lived to disprove this and often would just jump out of line at the grocery store or wherever and run screaming out the door, his arms full of Little Debbies’ and toilet paper. He had a dog that I’m pretty sure never in its life ate dog food that had actually been paid for.

Another rule probably is: Don’t recycle spots too much. The comic store parking lot fiasco was proof of that. Plus, the record store people were way onto us as well. They’d stare us down as we walked in, but every couple of weeks one of us would buy something little (trying to dig our wallets out of our pants pockets without dropping any of the cd’s stuffed up our sleeves) to keep them at bay. [Ed note: I once found there (and PAID FOR) the first LIFE SENTENCE lp. Score!} They had good used vinyl for a store in the suburbs, but was run by demonic yuppies. The type who drove Land Rovers with Grateful Dead stickers on them, so it wasn’t like, a moral dilemma, or anything. We’d stuff cd’s down our pants, stick vinyls in our waistbands, hide stuff near the door, grab and go, stage diversions; Sunday after Sunday. We never got caught, despite the pungent reek of marijuana and guilt, we never got caught. I retired soon after the comic store incident. With a perfect record.