I filched an apple. I was seven years old.
I was thirteen when I spotted the bag of fresh rolls and bread left in the restaurant’s doorway. After that I had fresh baked something every day for breakfast but not always from the same restaurant or grocery store. Variety is good.
In high school I worked in the super market and noticed that women leave their purses with coupons open in the baby seat of their carriage while they molest the fruits and vegetables. One wallet a month was my limit.
College kids are trustworthy and don’t lock their dorm rooms. Mealtime was always a good time to visit.
I borrowed my English Professor’s wife—also, since I worked in the main office I knew when the department heads would be away on trips. They should be ashamed of the personal things they left for people to find. I confronted them directly and extracted something of value—a grade, the use of their car and even a little cash, but never too greedy.
I’m married now with two kids, a ranch house in the suburbs and a good job. Unlike my early years when I justified my action by my low socioeconomic conditions—I just accept who I am and despite all the so-called normal things I do I still have my “hobby” to keep me sharp. Your pen? Is this your pen? Sorry. All Mont Blancs look the same. Don’t you think?
PAUL BECKMAN is a real estate salesman, a writer, snorkeler, traveler and photographer. He specializes in the short story, flash fiction & briefs (stories under 50 words). Paul prints stories on postcard stock and mails them anonymously to friends of friends. Work has appeared in THE CONNECTICUT REVIEW, PLAYBOY, 5 TROPE, OTHER VOICES, WEB DEL SOL , JEWISH CURRENTS, PITTSBURGH FLASH FICTION GAZETTE, RIVERBABBLE, EXQUISITE CORPSE, COLLECTEDSTORIES.COM, OPIUM, CLEAN SHEETS, & THUG LIT.