A while back, one of my teenage sons got caught stealing a candy bar at a local grocery store. After I had assured my wife that I would take care of the matter, I found my mind wandering back to a hot August day in 1961. I was only 13 years old at the time when me and one of my best friends, who shall remain nameless because he is now a respected politician in the community, decided to go into downtown Sacramento to do some early Christmas shopping at the old Payless store on K street. We also unfortunately decided that since we didn’t have any money, we weren’t going to pay for anything. The plan we came up with made so much sense when we first concocted it, but things quickly started going south. For starters, the full-length trench coats we were wearing (we looked so cool) seemed to draw everyone’s unwanted attention to us. My friend had suggested that we would need them to help hide and haul all of our loot. But it was a hundred-degree day, and by the time we walked into the store, we were definitely overdressed and sweating like pigs. As we went from isle to isle, and slyly collected makeup compacts, bottles of inexpensive perfume, and other potential Christmas gifts, my friend and I were beginning to clank with our every step. So, we decided it was time to call it a day and head on home, and it wasn’t until we had taken a couple of steps out of the store that we realized that our plan had a few big holes in it. Two burly men in black suits grabbed us and unceremoniously yanked us back into the store. Then they rushed us up a flight of stairs and deposited us in chairs in a little tiny room where they had apparently been watching our every move through big sheets of two-way glass. They made us empty our pockets, which took a while, and admit that we were low-life potential gangsters.
“And now you get to take a little ride down to the police station,” announced one of the gleeful men in suits, as the box of caramel corn I had had for lunch began to work its way up into my throat.
With everyone for blocks around watching us, as we were handcuffed and loaded into the back of a police car, I swore to my friend that my life was of crime was officially over forever, “and my dad is going to kill me”, I added.
A giant of a police officer, with a huge shiny gun strapped to his side, escorted me into the police station and took me down this long hallway to get fingerprinted. When that humiliating experience was over, I was herded down another hallway and shoved into a holding cell with some of the meanest looking men I had ever seen in my life. The one with the most tattoos seemed to take an immediate liking to me and strolled over and put his colorful arm around my shoulder. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the man was a mass murderer of young boys about my age.
“So, what did they get you for, pal?” he asked, his voice almost as hard as the expression on his acne-scared face.
“Well,” I finally managed to blurt out, “I stole a bottle of Aqua Velva.
The whole place exploded in laughter, and I quickly found myself a little corner of the cell where I could be left alone with my thoughts, none of which were very comforting. And then, about 30 minutes later, the worst part of the whole ordeal happened. My dad, with tears in his eyes, showed up to take me home. His disappointment in me was so obvious, and so complete, that he didn’t even have to verbalize it.
“Get your butt in here!” I yelled at my son.
“I guess Mom told you, huh?” he asked, as he reluctantly made eye contact with me.
“That sweet tooth of yours is going to be the death of you yet, you know that?”
“I’m really sorry, Dad.”
“What in the world were you thinking, anyway?”
“I don’t know. But it won’t happen again. I promise!”
“Well, you better make darn sure it doesn’t, because it may start out with a candy bar, but the next thing you know, you’ll be stealing a bottle of Aqua Velva and ending up in a bloody jail cell.”
“What?” asked my confused son.
“Nothing,” I replied.