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DIRTY HARRY STREET JUSTICE

Spring has almost sprung on the Avenue, and if you’re in the retail trade, you know what that means. The shoplifters get stirred up.

Spring has almost sprung on the Avenue, and if you’re in the retail trade, you know what that means. The shoplifters get stirred up. No shit. After being in the business for over a decade now, I tell you, it happens every damn year. And if it’s not exactly quantifiable in any sense other than the realm of anecdote, I swear you can still almost set your watch by the phenomenon. I wish I could tell you why. Just last week, on a glorious afternoon, we got hit by the first of the season. But you know, it’s not as cut and dried as you might think. You must take great care, and must be awfully certain, before you call someone out. It’s yet another apparent case of the victim having less rights than the criminal, but, hey, I’m a lefty—I’m all for due process, especially living as we do in Bushworld, where you can be remanded to the custody of some Jack Bauer-type without so much as a cursory reading of your Miranda rights. But damn it, when you are thieving, you are taking food out of my family’s mouth, and it’s difficult not to get angry. Hard not to wish for some good old fashioned, wild-west, Dirty Harry Callahan style street justice. What also chaps my ass is the idea that ripping off someone like me—a small, family owned business—is thrilling in some manner, either to some kid testing boundaries, or an adult, middle-aged woman who seems to have everything but a reasonable sense of morality, or else the right combination of brain-chemicals. Ever hear of Wal-Mart? They got like, billions, man. They rip off their own employees, even, to hear some tell it. Go hit them. Or better yet, just don’t steal. Work for your crap like I do. Try it, seriously. Feels pretty good. Makes a different set of chemicals squirt into your little pea-brain.
And also, for those of you with certain notions in your head about who exactly are the ones doing the old sticky fingers routine, let me disabuse you right here and now of a predilection for stereotyping or assumptions. Neither income levels, skin color, upbringing, religious faith, nor education factor in very much, or so it seems.
Here’s a quick primer for those of you who think owning a retail business is all fun and games, and results in carrying home sacks of gold every night proffered by shiny, happy customers who love and respect you: You have to watch out for the friendly ones. Sounds terrible, I know, but when someone comes barging through the door acting as though they’re your best friend, you’d better stick to them like their own shadow. Other methods: Walk in and announce in a strong and steady voice, “Here’s my bag from another store (or backpack, big purse, whatever), you can watch it for me up here while I shop.” Or blow in the door like a gust of wind, go straight to a rack of blue items, grab one, look around all wild eyed, and ask, “Will you go all the way in the back and see if uh you have this in green?” Or else: Two come in together, and while one makes a beeline for some dim corner of the shop, the other gets right in your face and starts asking a go-zillion questions about this, that, and the other thing. There are plenty of other methods—but I don’t want to give anyone ideas. I was talking to other shopkeepers just this morning about the phenomenon of this unsettling, unpleasant variation of spring fever, and all confirmed the same experience. The worst part (besides the loss of revenue) is, as one gentleman said, that you just get cynical after a while —not about being in business, but about people in general. Ah, the bitter taste of lost innocence, right? Well, I just wish it were possible to give my fellow man the benefit of the doubt, that’s all I’m saying. You learn real fast, though, that if you expect the best from people, you’re going to get the worst. Hey—I wish it was just my opinion.
If I were a real journalist, I’d probably call a psychologist at USC and ask what they thought were the underlying reasons for this interesting type of behavior, but I don’t have time. I have to go watch this unfamiliar cat who just loped in with a big grin on his face, and a shopping bag from some store on the other side of town.

Until next time, I remain, York