Faycin the Failed Thief

This week's Writer's Workshop prompt is to write about a time you got in deep doo-doo as a kid.

As I mentioned in this post I've decided to continue doing the Writer's Workshops even though I guess I won't provide a link to my post there because while in a miserable mood I kinda made an ass of myself and said I was not going to participate anymore. I'd like to do it, it was kind of fun, but I really don't think I'm welcome after my meltdown. So no more trying to get new readers because I'm the kind of person that's a born pariah. I'll just do my thing and my -666 fans can continue to come visit me as usual. 

When I was twelve years old I was a very troubled young lady. I was not violent, I've never been the sort of person who even likes getting in a fist fight although I've been in a few. But I had started smoking weed and sneaking nips of alcohol. I started occasionally ditching class, and unfortunately I followed my friend "Junie's" lead and began shoplifting. 

Junie came from a troubled family: her parents' divorce had really unsettled the children. Her mother was angry and bitter and her father was negligent. Her little brother swore constantly and enjoyed playing pranks on his sisters. Junie's older sister compensated by being the "good, responsible one." Junie wasn't a bad kid, she was just unhappy. She was constantly teased for her weight and was a very lost soul. She compensating by engaging in activities such as smoking pot and shoplifting.

As I realize now, my own bipolar disorder had onset at puberty, and I wasn't a popular kid either. I was an ugly, awkward girl with long, greasy hair, acne, and buck teeth. I got picked on a lot too. In an effort to make myself seem "cool" I started trying to play the part of the "bad girl." Not sexually speaking, I was very inexperienced in that department and thought that a "blow job" was blowing in someone's ear. I had never even kissed a guy. I was afraid of sex, despite rumors that would later be spread about me. No, my goal was to appear to be "tough" so no-one would mess with me anymore.

It's kinda hard to look tough while wearing Martian headgear, but I digress.

One morning before going to school, I had a sore throat, so my mother gave me two bucks to get some cough drops. This was 1977, two bucks could buy you a box of Sucrets. So I went to the local drug store after school. When I got there, to my dismay, I discovered that I'd lost my money. Well, no problem for a slick five-finger discounter like me. I slipped the box of cough drops into my pocket and slipped out the door.

A few minutes after I'd gotten out on the street I heard a voice calling "excuse me!" I looked back to see a store clerk running towards me. Now, if I'd really been the smooth criminal I thought I was, I would have busted a move and run for it. I don't think this young lady would have chased me very far. But in reality I was a complete naífe, and I turned to her and said very cleverly:

"Yes?"

"Did you take something from our store?" she asked.

I even more cleverly responded "Uh..."

She reached into my coat pocket and brought forth the cough drops, then grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back into the store. People on the sidewalk were laughing, and I wanted the Earth to open up and swallow me.

Granted, I had done something wrong, but the security guard was one of the biggest cunts I had ever met. She shouted at me and berated me, calling me a little criminal. She told me to look at the camera so she could take my picture. I started to become defensive and told her I wouldn't. I sat with my arms crossed. She grabbed my face and squeezed my jaw in an attempt to force me to look at the camera while the clerk took the picture. 

"So you think you're tough, do you?" she yelled. "Well, we'll just see how tough you are when I call the cops!"

At that point the scared kid came out, begging her not to call the cops. Of course she did. The cop was much nicer than this bitch was. He saw me for what I was: a scared, troubled kid. He did not handcuff me. He let me ride in the front seat of the police car. I told him I was sorry, that I'd never done anything like this before. He said that he imagined I never would again either, that it was just a stupid mistake and to learn from it and not do it again. He was a nice fellow.

My parents were, of course, very upset with me, but in retrospect I think they overreacted and that their overly harsh punishment caused me to start disobeying even more. There was three months left of school and my father grounded me for all three of them. I think that a month would have been sufficient. I would have obeyed rather than sneaking away from school to meet friends and get high, pretending that I was "going to the library." My mother told me that the shoplifting would ALWAYS BE ON MY RECORD no matter what the cop said. He told her that it would be erased when I turned 18. She said that because of my indiscretion I probably would never be able to get a good job and would never be able to get into college. At that point, dumb though I was, I told her that I was sure other people had made stupid mistakes when they were twelve and that things turned out fine. Of course I got holy hell for mouthing off.

So, that was the experience that kicked off the beginning of my extremely troubled life as a teenager.