The Shoplifter Who Asked Me to Help Him Carry It Out

I work at a hardware store, and most shoplifters at least have the common decency to be sneaky. They tuck things in a jacket. They cut a tag. They do the thing where they walk very fast and very casually at the same time, which fools absolutely no one but which we all silently respect as effort.

This guy did not respect the game. This guy insulted the game.

It was a Tuesday, dead quiet. A man in a hi-vis vest -- and I want to note the vest, because the vest was the whole con -- comes in and starts loading a flat cart with power tools. Not one. Not two. A drill set, an impact driver, a circular saw, a whole nail gun in the box. Hundreds of dollars of stuff, stacked up like he was building a house that afternoon.

Now, the hi-vis vest does something to your brain. You see a man in a vest moving with purpose and you assume he belongs there. He looked like a contractor. He looked like every contractor who has ever ignored me while buying nine hundred dollars of lumber. So I did not think twice when he pushed the cart toward the doors.

What I did think twice about was when he stopped, looked directly at me, and said, "Hey boss, can you grab the other end of this? It's heavy."

And God help me, I almost did. My hands were already coming up. Fifteen years of customer service had trained me so deep that a man actively robbing the store asked for help and my first instinct was to provide excellent service.

I got one hand on the nail gun box before my brain caught up with my arm. "Do you," I said slowly, "have a receipt for these?"

He did not miss a beat. "It's on the truck," he said. "My guy has it."

"Your guy."

"On the truck."

I looked at the cart. I looked at the doors, where there was very clearly no truck, just the empty fire lane and a pigeon. I looked at the man, who was already sweating in a way that had nothing to do with the weight of the tools.

"I'm going to need to see that receipt," I said, "before it goes out the door."

And this man -- this bold, magnificent criminal -- sighed. He sighed like I was the one being difficult. Like I was ruining his day. "Come on, man," he said. "Don't make this a thing."

I made it a thing. I stepped between the cart and the door, which is not what you're supposed to do, they train you never to do that, but I was running on pure adrenaline and offended professional pride. And he must have decided a nail gun was not worth a wrestling match, because he let go of the cart, put his hands up like I had drawn a weapon, and said, "Fine. Fine. It's all yours," and walked out. Empty-handed. In his vest.

He left the cart. Nine hundred dollars of tools, neatly stacked, ready to go. My manager reviewed the footage and the thing everyone kept saying, over and over, was, "He asked you to help him carry it?"

Yes. Yes he did. And the worst part, the part I have to live with, is that for one shameful half-second, in my heart, I wanted to. The customer asked for help. I am so tired.