a thief - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I try to be an ethical thief, people admire Robin Hood, right? I'm not stealing to sell it, or buy drugs or be bad. It's just that my wages don't buy clothes and a roof and heating and pay all the taxes and bills. There are guys a block away that pull 300 an hour when I scrape 10. How are they worth 30 times more than me? Seriously? So I steal. I take the cheapest thing that will do the job and I feed my kids. It ain't luxury; it's survival and if you don't like it you can stick it because I do what I gotta do.
I have a right to dignity, but that comes with a huge price tag these days. Maybe I should be all composed and have self esteem some other way. I guess with all that love and care I got in those cheap-ass daycare centres and schools that treat you like an enemy from day one, I should have some resilient core. Maybe it's all excuses; I really don't know. All I know is that when I put on them nice clothes from them nice stores I feel like I might get some respect at least. It ain't love, but it ain't being given them shifty looks that say folks are scared of me cos I'm poor. I like that. I like it a lot. So I walk in all casual like and take it. Self esteem the easy way. Maybe one day I can shoot for more, something real, I damn well hope so.
They call it theft, I say it's ethical redistribution. I'm not going in noone's house, not beating on old ladies or pulling knives - I just do my thing, flow along, enjoy the day and stuff finds me. It's weird like that. But those ones in the suits they don't see it from where we are, that all these stores are their oasis, their bounty, but for us it's a mirage in the desert, cruel. We can see all that stuff we need, our kids too, but it might as well not be there at all. How would them suit people like to wake up and see only cheap unhealthy shit on the shelves and no decent clothes, cos that's our life. When does stealing become something else; I'd say when it's filling a real need. That's all I do, peaceful facilitating of providing for urgent needs. It's the fifth emergency service.
I would have said he was a boy from the chubby face but he was simply too large to be a child. He sat on the sea wall checking texts, oblivious to both the weather and the goings on further down the beach. At his feet was a longboard of sorts, high-end from the looks of it. I turned away to scan for a signpost and when I looked back he was walking quickly down the promenade, board under his arm instead of at his feet. His body wasn't that fat really, certainly not slim, and his clothing wasn't skater-ish at all, in fact it was more biker boy. Somehow he'd poured himself into leather pants and a white t-shirt. I'd already begun to admonish myself for staring when some kid started going frantic on the sand, like he was looking for something important...
I knew exactly where Miss Mable kept the money receipts for the day. I had been working there for only three weeks, and although she was secretive in putting away the receipts, cash and checks, I noticed that about 20 minutes to closing time, she disappeared into the back. One night, when two of the other workers had left, I followed her. The office door was partially open. The overhead light was off, but I watched her hide the receipts in a file cabinet, the second drawer down. Each morning, she counted the money, and took it to the Eliton Bank on Macbee Street. One night, I quietly slipped into the office, and I took 346 dollars from the receipts envelope. Next morning, when she counted the money, Miss Mable never noticed any cash missing. I was in. Once a week, and then three times a week, I took from two hundred to four hundred dollars. One night, I was counting out some cash, and the light
suddenly came on. Miss Mable stood at the door with a 9 millimeter pointed at my head.