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Fiction Short Story

by Gail Johnson

Like a Thief

Doom descended like a curtain of darkness. Gloomy horizontal lines loomed longer. White between the lines dwindled into dust. Kate's hands shook as coldness crept into her bones. Clinking sounds invaded the foreign room. Scribbled walls crowded her into a space fit for no earthly soul. No rainbow of colors. Only a bright orange. The stench hindered her thoughts. Shadow lines blocked her vision.

They hadn't even let her grab a sweater. Kate could fool herself no longer. The jail bars were hard, cold steel. Breaking into a cold sweat, fear and confusion melted into a puzzle. How could she have gotten herself into this rat hole? What mattered most was that Eleanor was willing to get her out of this quagmire. After Kate made her one phone call, Eleanor had promised to help. After all, it was Eleanor's fault that she now sat in hell.

Kate’s thoughts drifted to the conversation that started this mess. Her editor Eleanor had said, "You write skillfully, and your point of view character is well defined, but your premise doesn't work." Eleanor attempted a weak smile. "Why don't you write what you know? Your articles on funny things that happened with Melville Dewey have been a delight for all our readers. Why change now?"

"I've got a wonderful idea for a story on shoplifting," Kate replied.

"Shoplifting? What would you know about that?"

The statement challenged Kate. “More than you think.”

Kate Tyler had been a librarian for thirty years and writing her column for four years. Her destiny held more. The drive to create something far away from The Dewey Decimal System overwhelmed her. Even her safety net for extra income from the column didn't matter. She wanted away from Dewey. No matter that she knew so many numbers by heart, like 629 was auto repair, or that 911 was American poetry. Even the 395.22 for wedding planning had never been any use to her. She stood alone in this caper.

She had plotted a shoplifting spree scene, but when she added her viewpoint character they seemed as lost as she was as to how to attempt the feat. Lying on her bed one night, she hatched the perfect plan. In case anything went wrong, she would get a notary to sign that she was only a writer trying to show how stealing hurt everyone. She needed verification that she intended to return the merchandise.

Her usual notary was vacationing in sunny Hawaii, probably on the beach sipping a Mai tai. On her commute to see Eleanor, she noticed a yard sign posting notary services. She stopped at the log home and hit the horn. A small fellow peeked through the window and strutted onto his porch.

"Hey, lady. What's your problem?” He removed his glasses and gave her a once over when she stepped from the car. "You need something?"

The fellow had no manners coming out in his sleeveless undershirt, but Kate didn't want to back down. "I see your notary sign. Could you sign a paper for me?"

The guy put his glasses back on and read the paper Kate handed him. "This is fairly unusual, but I don't see any reason I can't notarize, provided you have proper identification. Come on in the house and I'll get my stamp."

Ever-careful Kate said, "How about we do it on your lovely porch?"

"Fine by me. You sit on the two-seater swing, and I'll be back in a minute.” True to his word, he was back in a minute—still in his undershirt—and notarized the paper. Kate paid him his fee of five dollars and left clutching the sealed document.

With her plan underway, she carefully prepared her tote bag and added a few books to the bag to conceal her theft. As she entered Video Mania, she strolled down the aisles looking at all the merchandise. Row after row she ambled past sauntering customers, and some of her favorite music. Frank Sinatra's blue eyes beckoned her. Patti Page's "Tennessee Waltz" made her think of her teen years. But she didn't want to take something she might cherish. She wanted the hippest thing around. She selected Hilary Duff's "Most Wanted" album and "Monkey Business" by Black Eyed Peas. Stashing the disks between her personal books, she surveyed the area and casually strolled out the door. No alarms sounded. She rushed to her car, heart pounding into her chest. She’d done it. Now she could write that story

Kate went home and tapped her title, “Like a Thief” on her laptop. She stared at the blinking screen, glanced away to see a mockingbird protecting his territory, and thought maybe a cup of decaf would get her going. The adrenalin rush of shoplifting had evaporated like smoke in the wind. She tugged the CD’s out for inspiration, but she didn't really care about the music and didn't want to unwrap the disks. Kate dropped her tote bag trying to stuff the contraband back between the books. One went in straight, but the awkward plastic packaging of the other clung to the sides. She shoved until both were concealed. Maybe she should try stealing once more before she went to the owner and returned the albums. Surely the muse would hit her with a second spree. Maybe a different store? No, she’d tackle the same store to make returning the merchandise easier.

She clicked on the file menu, saved her title, shut down her computer and retraced her steps to Video Mania. This time, she might as well pick some of her favorites since she knew where they were. Two more disks hidden among the books in her bag, and she walked to the door. As she exited, the alarm sounded. Kate looked around for the problem.

A uniformed officer rushed to her side. He pulled a gun and she froze to her spot. She raised her stubby hands embarrassed, knowing others watching would think her a thief. He had handcuffs. "Okay Lady," he said, "Gotcha you this time. I watched you leave with stolen goods before, but since the alarm didn't sound I thought I'd made a mistake.” He told her to put her hands behind her back. With her arthritic shoulders she finally managed to maneuver her hands into position. Cold steel clamped around each wrist. "I can't figure out how you got out the first time, but we've got you now. Don't understand why the alarms didn't sound.”

Kate couldn't understand why they did. As the officer pulled the items out, Kate saw the problem. Her carefully prepared shopping bag interior had been punctured, probably when she struggled to get the albums back inside. The aluminum tape she had so carefully lined her bag with had a tear in it. The small space not covered with aluminum had set off the alarm.

Officer Flack wouldn't listen to her story. In his stern police voice he said, "We'll take it downtown. You tell the chief.”

Kate knew the chief from his days as a library user. He'd listen and all would be settled. When she got to police headquarters, the adrenalin rush to write shot into high gear. She needed to get home and start her story. The chief remembered her. Good.

"Now Ms. Tyler. What are you doing here? My officer tells me you were shoplifting.” He scratched his balding scalp. "Says he'd been watching you and that you stole twice in three hours. Tsk, tsk. I can't believe that. Tell me he's mistaken."

"Technically, I suppose he's right.” The chief removed the handcuffs, and Kate saw Officer Flack frown. "But I can prove no harm. You see I'm writing this story on how shoplifting affects all of us."

"Writing. Well, why didn't you say so? But still you did actually take something and never put it back."

"But the intent was to return it."

"How do we know that?"

"I can prove it.” Carefully, Kate took her notarized paper from her chest. It was soggy, but the seal and signature were visible. "Here, look at this."

The chief squinted through every letter of the short document. "It does look like you're writing on shoplifting and this notary says you planned to return merchandise. Pretty fancy way to plan a robbery.” He poked his clef chin and told his officer. "How about you go see this notary and see what he has to say."

An hour later, the officer returned with the small fellow in handcuffs, the sleeveless undershirt still an eye sore. But she wondered why he was in handcuffs.

"Chief, remember that guy who robbed First Bank over in Hartsville 'bout three years ago? 'Member the picture taken by the security camera?” He turned the handcuffed man to the side. "Look at his profile. This guy's a dead ringer.” He peered at Kate. "Seems I remember his accomplice was an old woman with streaks of gray running through her black hair."

They turned to look at Kate. She ran her fingers through her black hair hoping the gray hadn't returned since her last color rinse.

Fingerprints taken, the police had their bank robber. They held Kate on charges of shoplifting and accessory to armed robbery. She protested her innocence all the way to her cell after her one phone call. Eleanor had agreed to come. She was meeting with her best-selling author right now, but she promised soon.

The doom descended again. In the haze, she remembered Eleanor's assurances of "straightening out the mess.” Murkiness surrounded her thoughts. She couldn't explain how she ended up in prison for armed bank robbery. Shortly Eleanor would be more than a blurry voice on the phone. Soon.

Kate, in her surrounding darkness, felt the trickling of tears and blinked. She felt like a thief tumbling into a tattered safety net.


About the Author
After retiring as Dean of the Learning Resource Center at a local community college, Gail Johnson lunged into writing with purpose. Before realizing how thrilling success would be or how unpleasant the disappointments, she forged ahead meeting with “instant” success in four years. More years passed before other acceptances came her way with publication in Weeds Corner, Reflections, Brady Magazine, and several others.