My life of crime, as I like to call it, started early on. I was five years old when I committed my first offense. It was a small transgression, just a mere Kool Aid packet from our neighborhood grocery store, Mayfair Market. But still, it was the beginning of what was to be my life of crime.
It happened one afternoon while shopping with my mother. I wandered off and found myself in the Kool Aid aisle. Right then and there, I decided I had to have one. Rather than just ask my mom to buy it for me, I made an independent decision. I picked out the strawberry flavor and slipped it into my pocket. As I made my way through the market, I felt like “THIEF” was written all over my forehead. I became paranoid, thinking every person who walked past me knew what I had done. My entire body throbbed. Yet, I felt excitement at the same time. In my family, getting anything for free was a big deal.
As we left the store, my hand remained in my pocket to make sure my packet of punch was still there. The rush of adrenaline must have lasted for several hours. I didn’t even know what to do with the ill-gotten gains once I got home. Frantically, I ran around the house, looking for the right spot. By night fall, the answer came to me. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I lifted up my pillow and placed the packet on the bed. After that was out of the way, I was able to relax and go on to be a carefree child again.
It wasn’t until bedtime rolled around that I suddenly remembered my mother would be around any minute to tuck me in. Talk about an oversight! Before I had the chance to do anything about it, she was standing at my bedside, ready to pull down the sheets. I tried to distract her, but before I knew it, she had turned down my blanket and lifted up my pillow. The packet was staring her in the face. Instantly, her expression changed from loving mother to a distant stranger. I had never received such a look from her. She knew where I got the Kool Aid from. I couldn’t even find it in me to make up a story. Remorse set in and I was ridden with guilt.
The following afternoon, my mom brought me back to the grocery store. The lesson of the day was that crime does not pay. She took me by the hand and turned me in to the security department. I couldn’t believe she was doing this to me. I knew I did wrong, but I didn’t think I deserved this kind of punishment. I remember thinking they were going to arrest me. As it happened, I only got a slap on the wrist and a warning never to do it again. That in itself should have been enough to make me change my ways forever, but I guess I was just a thief at heart.
My crimes may have started insignificantly, but they progressively elevated. Usually, my worst violation was eating candy from the bulk bins in the store while I was shopping. Shortly after my mother’s death, when I was still just twenty-one I was headed toward jail time. I started my crime spree by stealing exercise clothes, bathing suits and bras from department stores. I wasn’t used to buying my own clothes. I convinced myself I deserved these things. It was only a matter of time before I got caught.
I wasn’t just crying out for help; I was screaming. I was lost and detached. I spent hours casing the malls looking for fulfillment. My mall of choice was the Beverly Center. Ironically, that was where I was arrested.
It was just like any other day. For what seemed like hours, I paced around Bullock’s department store. I didn’t actually plan on walking out with a denim dress, not until I tried it on. Then I was sold. I realized the only way I could have it was to steal it. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done it before, and successfully, at that. With no other choice of action, I shoved the dress into my bag, acting as if it was the normal thing to do. There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation. It was as though I had lost all sense of right and wrong; more accurately, lost all sanity! I tried to do it discretely in a private dressing area, but I guess I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
I don’t know how I thought I could get away with it. Actually, I didn’t give it much thought at all. From the junior department, I headed straight for the exit. I don’t even remember breathing. My body pulsed and tingled. I should have turned back, but I didn’t. Just before I was home free, out the door, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Bullocks security,” the female voice said. “Can I take a look inside your bag?”
The expression on my face confessed my guilt, but my words alleged my innocence.
I exclaimed, “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”
I couldn’t believe a teenager would be the one to catch me stealing. She couldn’t have been much more than eighteen and didn’t look very authoritative. I must have looked clueless not to have noticed her following me through the entire store. What did I do wrong? Was I starting to look like a criminal? I didn’t think so. I was a thief, but I never said I was a good one.
With my bag in hand, this schoolgirl escorted me to the store security office. When we got there, we were not alone; I wasn’t the only careless criminal that day. There were two other people being questioned. One was a middle aged housewife and the other was this young biker looking guy wearing a scruffy old leather jacket and ripped blue jeans. Neither of them seemed happy. I could relate.
Several minutes passed before my name was yelled out from the back room, “Brooklyn Rosen, please come here.”
The voice from the other room was stern and authoritative with an Eastern drawl, which sounded very mafia like. As I entered the room, a large scary looking man waved me in. His badge read “Security.” After looking at him, I had doubts I would ever get out of jail.
He said, “Sit down, Ms. Rosen,” and proceeded to ask me some basic questions.
I had come up with a plan quickly while waiting and figured sympathy was all I could hope for. That was when I proceeded to talk about my mother’s recent death and how messed up I was over it. At the time, I thought that was just an excuse, but now I know there was a significant amount of truth to it.
I thought I did a pretty good job, until I noticed a police officer with a huge gun and handcuffs standing in the back of the room. He was there to take me to the West Los Angeles police facility. He accompanied me through the store to the parking lot. I could feel people’s eyes on me. Like a common criminal, I kept my head down. My arms were cuffed behind my back. All I kept thinking was what a string of bad luck I’d come into. This was most certainly becoming one of the worst days of my life.
The drive from the mall to the jail was not as bad. I had the feeling I was participating in an episode of “Cops”. We sped around like we owned the road. The cop was actually an all right guy. He said if it wasn’t Bullocks, he would just let me go, but they were firm about prosecuting.
Next time I should venture out to Macy’s instead, I thought.
When we got to the station, a lot of heads turned. I wasn’t really dressed for the occasion, only wearing a flimsy white tank top and tights. Just that week I had dyed my hair blond, making myself look a bit like a bimbo. The cops were glaring at me like hungry wolves. One said he would take me off their hands and gave me a little smirk as I was taken into the station. It was pretty belittling. To think I was the one being taken into the cage, not any of them!
I was photographed, fingerprinted and given a cell. The rest was all a blur. I don’t even remember my court date. But I will never forget the many hours of community service I was made to serve. I worked at my local YWCA, sweeping the grounds and typing letters; still two things I have yet to do since. The main thing that really stands out in my mind was the call I got from the Bullocks security officer I met with on the day of the arrest. He asked if I could come back in to speak to him.
I agreed to meet with him the following afternoon. I was not thrilled about having to go back to that store, but I went. I headed directly to the security office. The officer was at his desk. He motioned for me to come over. I sat down and we talked about my experience. He was extremely warm, a lot different than he had been a couple of days earlier. He seemed really sympathetic toward me. I could see he felt for me. For some reason, I started to feel really crummy. I wasn’t scoring high in the karma department, I thought.
Before I was ready to leave, he pulled out a bag. As I opened it, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was giving me the denim dress. Seeing this gave me a pit in my stomach. I had lost all desire for that dress the day I was arrested. I wished not to be reminded of that dreadful day and now he was showing me kindness by giving it to me. I knew there was something odd about this, but I went along with it. I thanked him, grabbed the bag and went on my way.
As I left, he said, “Feel free to stop by anytime.”
Yeah, right, I thought. It couldn’t have gotten much weirder. I felt like he was going to ask me out on a date, but I didn’t wait to find out.
With dress in hand, I strolled through the store back to my car. The very same afternoon, I went to my nearest Bullocks, which was in Sherman Oaks, and was audacious enough to return the dress for a cash refund.