PRODUCE
by Robert Healy
The people we believe ourselves to be, who are they? It seems we've lost sight of our authentic selves. It seems we choose to disgrace our souls in order to belong.
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Stores open early, and early or late is the best time to go. Staff will be small, and there is less chance of being seen.
See, you wear a backpack, and you loosen the staps so it hangs down low, with the bottom of it almost touching your butt, depending on your height. Orient the zippers on whatever side your arm is more flexible (for me it's my right) and you position one zipper about halfway up the side of the bag—just enough so you can reach into it while wearing it, not enough so that it hangs open.
Then, when you've found an item of considerable expense, one you're not interested in parting with, you pick it up and carry it in your hand—the hand on the side with the zippers. Remember, it must be small enough to fit in the opening you've created for it.
Duck into an aisle, or a deserted area of the store. The trick is to keep moving.
When you're sure you're alone, reach your prize back around with your arm, as if trying to scratch the middle of your back with it, and slip it into your backpack. And doesn't it feel good, just like it belongs there.
Of course, in ten years time when past crimes can be analyzed and adjudicated with technology, you will pay.
But now you may put punishment out of your mind and enjoy the fruits of your criminal systems.
Remember: Diversify your portfolio.
Do not always steal the same items, do not always steal from the same sections, and do not always steal from the same store. By diversifying your criminal activity you help avoid detection.
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Out front of the 7/11 he stood, looking at the sky. A homeless man conferred with the ice machine and found currency hard to acquire from passersby.
Inside the store two employees manned registers, a few shoppers drifted in and out, and no one else was seen.
Two candy bars, an energy drink, and a protein shake. Into the backpack.
At times he believed the proper protocol should include a small purchase, to offer some consolation to the store—a pack of gum or perhaps another energy drink.
Today no money can be spared, and his two minute spree ends with him back on the street.
Walking.
Passing a highway a panhandler receives two candy bars—further down the road a sleeping vagrant will awake to a protein shake.
Still walking.
The energy drink is drawn from the backpack and cracked open, artificial flavors and cheap caffeine bubble on our thief's tongue, and he comes upon a gym and enters.
With his energy now engaged and a crime out of the way, a good workout can be committed to.
And yet it stinks, it barely begins before this simpleton believes that all is lost, that his sin will erode him and how could he focus on a workout with a thing like that haunting him. So, after a few sorry excuses for exercises, back on the street he arrives, now with an empty backpack and a conscience full of hate.
And he begins to walk, and talk to himself, asking for answers to the dilemmas he has delegated to himself.
He walks, and every so often he realizes his posture has sunk so he stiffens his spine and tightens his core and soldiers on, counting his steps, one, two, one, two, one, two, just like that, avoiding cracks in the sidewalk and wet cement all the way along.
He walks in the hope that his shoes will wear out and he can buy another pair—one that makes him cool.
He walks into the lobby of a grand apartment building and sneaks his way to the stairwell for a climb to the seventh floor, where he makes his way down the hall to a door marked 7C, which he enters—it is unlocked—and proceeds to lock.
It is unfurnished and devoid of life—spotless. It is large, with high ceilings and stretching windows and a beautiful kitchen with gleaming granite surfaces and sleek stainless steel appliances.
He removes his shoes and drops his backpack and looks around before advancing into the space. The walls are unpainted and contain old markings from construction crews or contractors.
He opens the windows and lets the soft afternoon breeze wander in.
He opens the fridge—empty—and then the cabinets—empty—and then moves into the bedroom—empty.
The walls of the bedroom bear different markings, though. Scratches. Lines drawn with nails, maybe, or blades.
Scraggly, scratched lines in random groupings with no obvious pattern or purpose. Flakes of wall collect along the baseboards.
He looks at these markings and pauses, as if pondering whether he should exit immediately, but then gathers himself and takes a seat on the floor, crossing his legs and placing his palms on his knees.
Deep, voluminous breaths enter and exit his frame, and his eyes close.
If there were people on the ceiling they might wonder who this man is or what his intentions are, but there are not.
After a time he rises and approaches a wall, almost as if moved by a bell, and pulls a penny from his pocket.
Using the edge of his penny he scratches a line into the wall, then goes back over it twice more to make it solid and sure.
After this he leaves, with his shoes and his backpack, using the stairwell to exit. He will never return to this building. He will walk and wear out his shoes. He will wear his backpack and bear its contents with a grimace.
END.