Shop Lifter
Penny Nolte
Word Count 775
Right after I got a job at the discount clothing store, my boss retired. Suddenly, at 22, I was promoted to manager. The store was in a suburb of Denver, the fastest growing city in the country at the time, and quite a change from my tiny hometown in upstate New York. The store was a cramped 2,500 square foot space, packed with racks of garments and accessories.
Because we were on a shoestring budget, the previous manager had just hung clothes on hangers in the windows, but I used cardboard and foam core to make life-size “paper dolls” that I dressed in the store’s merchandise. I enjoyed giving them different hairstyles and skin tones, and I invented backstories for each of them – young mom, college kid, professional, etc. – posing them in casual groupings tacked onto the display walls.
The staff budget was bare bones, and we often worked alone. I generally took the Friday and Saturday shifts, our biggest days, and at the end of the day took the deposit to a night drop at our bank. Otherwise, we left cash in the drawer, locking it in the office overnight. One day, Frank, our regional manager, popped out of the office and said, “Hey, I want to show you something.”
Outside, he pointed to huge scrape marks all across the back of the door. “Would you look at that?” The bar he padlocked across the door after each visit had been hammered with something heavy. The face of the padlock was lying on the ground, while the mechanism had held. “Probably happened at night,” he said, “You haven’t heard anything out here, have you?”
“No,” we answered, shocked. “That would have made some noise.”
“For sure!” said Frank, “I’ll report it, you don’t need to worry. The door held.”
Another time, I got a call from my co-worker Tanya, who sounded flustered. “I’m alright, but the cops are here. Someone tried to break in through the ceiling.”
Apparently, people had gotten into the crawl space through a neighboring connecting store. They had removed a few of our suspended ceiling tiles which Tanya noticed when she opened that morning. Probably intending to jump through, instead they retreated. They would have needed to bring a rope because of the long drop to the floor.
One Friday night, while I was working alone, a woman came in and said she was looking for a nice outfit to wear to a wedding the very next day. Now this is the customer you dream of, someone with a specific need ready to make a quick purchase. She chose several outfits to try on and I suggested matching accessories – up-selling – as Frank called it. It was near closing time, which I let her know so she wouldn’t be surprised. “I’ll be quick,” she promised. “Thanks Hon.”
When my solo customer walked up to the counter with her arms full of merchandise she said, sheepishly, “The prices are so good, I just couldn’t decide.” I complimented her on her choices and began to ring up the sale. The total was growing impressively, over $300, which would look great on the books. And that is when she said, “You know, I have a layaway, too. Could I pick that up tonight?”
“Of course, do you have your ticket?”
“No.”
“Can you describe the item?” I asked kindly. “I can take a look.”
She gave some details about the style and color, and I went back to check in the office. When I returned, empty handed, my customer was leaning over the counter, reaching into the cash drawer. “Hey!” I yelled, sprinting up to the front, “What are you doing?”
She plopped back down on the floor, still stuffing money into her purse, and said, “Well, I’ll have to be going now,” then ran out of the store. I heard a door slam, and a car’s tires squealed off.
I dialed 911, describing where I was and what had happened. A policeman arrived quickly, with no sirens going but lights flashing. He took my statement and asked how I was feeling. “She tricked me!” I fumed.
“They have probably been planning this for a while,” he consoled me. “There were a couple of attempts around here before. Do you need to call your manager?”
“I am the manager!” I shook my head in exasperation.
Taking a closer look at me, he asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want my 25-year-old daughter working here by herself at night. Even if she was the manager.” He paused, then said, “Do you think she was armed?”
I hadn’t even considered that.
Penny, a writer, artist, and educator, creates gentle narratives exploring connections to family and place. She has written essays, songs, and poems since childhood and shares the love of shaping words with students as an adjunct faculty member at the Community College of Vermont. Her newest work can be found in literary magazines including The Avalon Literary Review, and upcoming in Loud Coffee Press and others. Originally from upstate New York, Penny now lives and works in Vermont.