I’m Pretty Sure I Fucked Up

Okay…

So you know when I start an essay with okay…there’s gonna be some ‘splainin’ to do. I encountered a “situation” on Saturday and I want your opinion. Try to stay open-minded until the end—and then you can blast me.

Anyway, it was late Saturday morning when I skip/walked into CVS.
I’d just gotten my nails done which somehow always manages to make me feel like a million bucks. I think it’s the hot towels and lotion. Or it could be that fact that they rub my feet for ten minutes longer than seems appropriate (because I pay extra).
I can be in the worst mood ever, spitting nails, but if you rub my feet, I melt into a puddle of baby kittens and all of my twisted, bitchy thoughts simply evaporate.

So, I’m in my happy place as I enter an extremely crowded and chaotic drug store—or in other words, a normal Saturday.

I noticed one young man who was as tall and lanky as a giraffe. He seemed to be running the show at the front of the store. It didn’t take a Mensa certificate to ascertain the fact that the poor guy had his hands full.

It’s amazing what a person can glean from one glance.
The word that came to mind was cluster-fuck but even that couldn’t put a damper on my splendid mood. I was there to scope out some false eyelashes. Kiss. Shy. They’re called. I recently bought a five-pack in Alabama of all places and now I’m obsessed.

So, back to the makeup section I went, which at this particular CVS is so extensive it occupies two entire walls and wraps around all the way to the pharmacy. There were so many brands and choices that I started to shake a little with Christmas morning anticipation.

Drugstore makeup euphoria had set in. What could possibly go wrong?

This. This could go wrong.

I got side-tracked, ogling a wall of fall lip colors when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young man with a backpack over at the L’Oreal portion of the wall. He stood in front of the foundation section for so long that it peaked my curiosity. That’s when I saw him take two giant fists full of bottles and walk around the corner into a deserted aisle filled with foot powder and hemorrhoid cream. Intrigued, I tried as inconspicuously as a middle-aged nosey-ass woman with purple hair can be—to see what in the hell he was doing.

Crouched down, casually looking around, he unzipped his backpack and shoved the bottles inside with the same speed and accuracy I usually see reserved for Black Friday sales. I was gobsmacked.

The young man did this several more times as I walked back and forth past him like a duck at Carnival shooting range.

With no obvious security in sight, I entertained the thought of going up front and reporting him but I could still see the crowd clustered around the giraffe from where I stood. It was a seething mass of complaints and returns and I would be forced to go to the back of the line—lest the crowd take me outside and beat me senseless.

By that time backpack-boy would most certainly have made his exit.

When I came back to reality, the young man, who I guessed to be old enough to vote but probably not old enough to buy beer was still going at it, scooping up handfuls of mascara and eyeliner.

This time, after he threw the loot into his pack I stopped him.

With nobody else in sight, I stood in front of him, blocking his way. There we stood. Face to face. He was slightly taller than me, close to six feet, with skin the color of mahogany and long, black hair, freshly plaited.

“I can see you”, I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering. “I know what you’re doing and you have to stop. Don’t do this.” Even the hemorrhoid cream blanched.

His chocolate colored eyes were soft and kind as they stared back at me. That was…unexpected. Maybe I could reach his heart, His humanity. His sense of shame. Maybe I would remind him of his mom or his auntie.

“Take all of that stuff out of your backpack right now!” I demanded in the sternest tone I culd muster. “Just dump it here.” No harm no foul. Come on, do the right thing”, I pleaded softly, not wanting to draw attention to our little “situation”.

He thought about it. I saw the thought flash across his eyes as quickly as lightning on the horizon. But in an instant— it was gone.

He brushed past me and down another aisle and that’s when I started to shake and think of all of the things that could have gone horribly wrong. He could have had a gun or knife and I would have just been another statistic on the news that night. It seems the desperation level is such that nobody needs a real motive to kill anyone these days.

Then I thought about what he was stealing.

Was it for his sister? His girlfriend? Is there a huge blackmarket for drugstore make up that I am sadly unaware of?

Or is he transgender? Too ashamed to go up to the counter and buy the stuff. (I remembered a guy back in high school who used to steal condoms at Seven/Eleven) and I did notice that he took forever to decide on the right shade of foundation to steal.

My euphoria was as dead as my dream of reliving my forties again and I had a pit in my stomach that could swallow a mastodon.
Gone was my taste for eyelashes so I made my way past the now growing mob of discontents, toward the exit.

I looked around to see if I could spot my shoplifter, but he was nowhere in sight. This was my last chance. I could find someone in charge and tell them what I’d witnessed—or I could leave.

I chose the latter.

Gahhhhh. I know. I should have gone all Cagney and Lacey on him. But I didn’t. I appealed to his better angels. Apparently, they were otherwise occupied.

Later that evening I spilled my guts to my husband who I was certain would tell me all the ways I could have better handled the situation. I was wrong. Even he had a hard time coming up with exactly what he would have done. I felt reassured until he reminded me of the fact that I’m probably on the surveillance tape and should never show my face in there again.

What would you have done? Blast away.

xox