[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P.

by Robert Thornhill

  Of the few who made it past the captain and me, only one survived the three tests.

  His name is Vince Spaulding. Vince is sixty-five years old and just retired from his forty-year position as a high school coach. He was drafted by the old Kansas City Athletics right out of junior college. He was an outfielder and apparently had an arm like a cannon. He rose quickly from double A to triple A and had been invited to spring training with Kansas City. Then it happened. He blew out his knee sliding into home plate, and that, for all intents and purposes, ended his professional career.

  He finished college and over the next forty years coached baseball, track, swimming, and wrestling at several different schools. His most recent position, which he had held for fifteen years, ended when the Board of Education decided it was time for some younger blood, and put him out to pasture.

  Vince was perfect for our program. He had no work-related ties. He had been married for thirty-five years, but his wife had died of cancer two years before his retirement. He was a man with social skills, having dealt with boards, teachers, and parents for so long. He was healthy and fit, and, most importantly, he just wasn’t ready to sit down and quit. He felt like he still had something left to give, and after lengthy conversations, we both agreed that C.R.A.P. was right for him.

  He sailed through both the written exams and the physical. I had coached him on my ordeal with the oral review board, but even that went smoothly. Vince is a trim 175 pounds, all muscle, no fat. While I came across to Captain Harrington and others on the board as Casper Milquetoast, it was apparent that Vince could handle himself. No challenges from Harrington. He probably figured, and rightly so, that Vince could kick his butt.

  Having been a wrestling coach, he was able to get through PT without kicking the instructor in the nuts, and after several practice days on the range, he qualified with the .45 Glock.

  On his first day at the precinct, we were in the locker room dressing, and Murdock, with his usual tact and finesse, came stomping in. “I hear we got us another refugee from the senior center,” he bellowed.

  Vince had been getting dressed and was in his t-shirt. First, you have to understand that Vince is bald as a cue ball. Early in his career, he decided that with all his time spent in pools and showers he just didn’t want to screw around with taking care of hair, so he shaved it off. If he had a lollipop sticking out of his mouth, he would probably look like Kojak on Social Security.

  Vince rose and turned to Murdock, his muscles bulging under his t-shirt, and very calmly said, “Sir, if you have a problem with seniors, why don’t you just spit it out and let’s get this settled once and for all.”

  Murdock took a look at Vince and stammered, “No, no problem. Just stay out of my way.” He stomped off to the other side of the room.

  The encounter was not lost on the rest of the squad. Vince had made his chops.

  The captain introduced Vince to the squad, and after the meeting he asked Ox, Vince, and I to remain.

  The captain explained that he had a special assignment for Vince and me. The local BuyMart Mega-Store was experiencing an unusually high incidence of theft. Every retail store builds a loss, or ‘shrinkage’ factor into their pricing. What that means is that they know they are going to get ripped off. They know that no matter what they do, a certain percentage of their merchandise is going out the door without being rung up. So you and I, because we’re honest, get to pay a higher price to underwrite the thieves.

  Every large store has people on the payroll whose job is to discourage shoplifters. However, these are not trained security guards; they’re just minimum wage folks walking around, hoping to spot someone stuffing a salami down their pants. And if they do catch someone, they have no authority to arrest. They can only try to detain the thief until the police arrive.

  The flip side of this coin is if they accuse someone of shoplifting and it turns out they’re wrong, it’s lawsuit city. So, too diligent, you make mistakes and get sued. Too lax, and the creeps walk away with the store. The typical damned if you do and damned if you don’t scenario.

  But lately BuyMart was not just losing; they were hemorrhaging. Merchandise was disappearing at an alarming rate, and they couldn’t figure out how the perps were doing it.

  Normally, this would be considered an internal security problem, but not in the case of BuyMart.

  The owner of the national chain of BuyMarts, Dewey Coughlin, had friends in high places. Coughlin, with his innovative marketing plan, had become a millionaire and, to his credit, had become a philanthropist. He had created endowments to the arts and set up trust funds for college tuition for those who couldn’t afford it, and he had made major contributions to the local hospital for a new wing.

  These things do not go unnoticed at City Hall. Coughlin had called in some favors with the city fathers, and now we were about to be introduced to the BuyMart empire.

  The reason Vince and I were chosen for the assignment was that we fit the demographic of a large percentage of BuyMart employees.

  We were old.

  Part of BuyMart’s ingenious plan is to hire retired seniors. They work twenty to thirty hours a week and are therefore considered part-time employees. Part-time employees receive no overtime, medical, or retirement benefits, so it’s a great cost savings to the company, and the seniors don’t care. They’re already on Social Security and Medicare, and twenty hours a week is as much as some of them can take. They’re just grateful to have somebody that wants them and to have a place to go.

  Vince and I would blend in perfectly. Ox, not so much. Vince and I would be given assignments within the store, and Ox was assigned patrol duty in the area surrounding the BuyMart Mega-Store so he would be close by if we needed him.

  Dewey Coughlin was a native of Arkansas, and the national headquarters of the company was in Unionville, Arkansas. Coughlin was nothing if not loyal to his roots, and many of his key employees were trusted friends from his days before he hit it big.

  Gil Feeney, one of his Arkansas buddies from the old days, was the BuyMart store manager, and of course he was in on the plan. Since no one had a clue where the theft was coming from, we were basically flying by the seat of our pants. The plan was to place Vince and me in varying positions throughout the store so we could eventually take a look at all possible avenues of theft.

  Our first day on the job was really special. We were given little BuyMart vests to wear over our shirts and a paper cap that read, “BuyMart. If we haven’t got it, you don’t need it!”

  Words to live by.

  Vince was given a broom, mop, and feather duster for light maintenance, and I got to be the store greeter. My job was to stand at the entrance, greet the shoppers coming in, give them a green sticker for any returned merchandise, and watch those exiting for any signs of shoplifting.

  How hard could that be?

  I took my position, and as a scruffy guy in a dirty t-shirt and ponytail approached, I cheerfully said, “Good morning, sir. Welcome to BuyMart.”

  As he passed, I heard his curt reply, “Kiss my ass!”

  Okay then, off to a rousing start.

  Fortunately, most shoppers were polite or at least nodded in my direction.

  A woman came in with a gallon milk jug with about two inches of milk left in the bottom. “Gotta return this,” she said. “It’s spoiled.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Just take it to the service desk down this aisle and they’ll take care of you.” But as I peeled off a green sticker and stuck it on the carton, I noticed the expiration date. “Ma’am, this milk expired two weeks ago.”

  “So what?” she said and walked off toward the service desk.

  Great scam, but what can you do? ‘The customer’s always right’. Right? I couldn’t help but think how many honest milk sales it took to underwrite this blatant theft.

  Then, over the intercom, I heard the announcement, “Vince, cleanup in aisle three.” I thought I had probably gotten the cushier job.

&nb
sp; Later that morning, a young man in a wheelchair with a plaster cast on his leg was pushed in by his lady friend. I, of course, asked if there was anything we could do to make their shopping experience more pleasant. They said they were fine and picked up a small hand shopping basket and entered the store.

  I had totally forgotten about them until they had gone through checkout and were exiting the building. Vince intercepted them at the door and asked to see their register receipt. He crosschecked the items in their bag with the receipt.

  “Anything else you want to check out before you leave?” he asked.

  The guy shook his head, and Vince reached down into the top of his cast and pulled out three Slim Jims, two Bic pens, and a Timex watch.

  Vince showed his badge to the dismayed couple and called Ox on the walkie-talkies.

  When Ox arrived, a smiling Vince put on his toughest face and ordered, “Book ‘em, Dano!” As he walked by me he grinned. “I always wanted to say that!”

  Nothing else memorable occurred the rest of the morning, and at noon I was relieved for a lunch break. I met Vince in the break room for a vending machine lunch.

  He noticed me staring at some sticky goo on his pants and muttered, “Don’t ask. Honey. Aisle three!”

  We sat down at a long table with a couple of other guys, and Vince pulled his feather duster from his back pocket and laid it on the table.

  That got the attention of one of our fellow diners. He looked at the fluffy duster and said to his buddy, “Oh, I’d like to take that home. I bet me and the old lady could have some fun.”

  “Sheesh, Mitch,” his buddy replied. “What are you? Some kind of pervert?”

  “Heck no. Using a feather is just kinky. A pervert would use the whole chicken.” He busted out laughing.

  Back room banter.

  After lunch, I was taught to use the checkout register. I guess I was moving up in the world. Vince was assigned to the fresh fruit and vegetable section. He was to pick out the items that had become too rotten to sell. I was starting to worry about Vince quitting. He seemed to be getting the crummy jobs.

  Checkout isn’t so tough. You just slide the product over a glass screen, making sure the little code thingy is in the right position, and beep, it’s rung up. A screen above the cash register and on the credit card reader identifies the item and the price. Isn’t technology wonderful?

  I was checking out a lady with a huge basket of groceries, and as I placed an enormous watermelon on the scanner, the screen read, “lemon—50 cents.”

  “Wow!” I said. “That’s one really big lemon!”

  The woman never missed a beat. “Yeah. I guess your stockers mislabeled it.”

  “Price check on register twelve,” I broadcasted over the intercom.

  By the time I finished ringing up her basket, I had found six other mislabeled items. Coincidence? I think not. These folks are really clever. They’ve figured out how to cheat the store but left a way out if they get caught.

  I quickly learned there are rules of etiquette at the checkout stand. A robust woman had just emptied her cart on the checkout stand but left two heavy containers of purified water in the cart. After I had checked everything but the water, I leaned over the counter and innocently said, “Ma’am, I’d like to see your jugs.” The look she gave me would have peeled paint. You gotta be careful what you say.

  A middle-aged couple came through the line. The woman was pleasant looking, but her tummy definitely protruded. Wanting to bond with my customers, I said with a knowing smile on my face, “How soon is the baby due?”

  The woman looked up, horrified, burst into tears, and ran out of the store.

  I looked quizzically at her husband. He leaned over and whispered, “She ain’t pregnant.”

  That evening, as I shared my day’s events with Maggie, she informed me that you should never, even remotely, suggest a woman is pregnant unless you can see her giving birth at that very moment.

  Live and learn!

  A guy came through with a piece of fruit that had no little sticker. Hoping to avoid a price check wait, I asked the shopper, “Honeydew?”

  He looked me in the eye and grinned as he replied, “Sometimes honey do and sometimes she don’t.”

  Checkout humor.

  Another guy who looked a little “swishy” came through the line. “Paper or plastic?” I asked.

  He gave me a little wink as he replied, “Honey, I can go either way. I’m bi-sack-ual.”

  Just as I was about to complete my shift for the day, a really big woman with really big breasts came through my line. Now you would expect a woman who tips the scales at about 280 would have hefty knockers, but what was unusual was that these babies stuck straight out. I mean it looked like Madonna’s ice cream cups on steroids.

  Now I don’t consider myself an expert in women’s mammaries, but I am sixty-six years old, and in my experience, the breasts of women of this size could be called droopy or saggy but never, ever, perky.

  As I was contemplating and staring, the woman piped up indignantly, “Hey, Buster, you staring at my boobs?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “I couldn’t help but notice their perkiness.”

  “Pervert!” she screamed. “I want to see a manager.”

  When Gil walked up she bellowed, “This man was making sexual advances toward me. I wanna report him to the police.”

  Gil took a look at the big hooters pointed in our direction and said, “Walt, you think we can find this woman a cop?”

  “Probably can,” I replied as I pulled my badge from my pocket.

  We escorted our buxom belle to the back room where a female security girl found a pound of bacon tucked under each boob.

  Bringing home the bacon suddenly had a new meaning.

  When I returned to the checkout stand, another cashier had taken over my spot. “Walt,” she said, “why don’t you take over the express register on number three for the rest of your shift?”

  All was going well until I saw my dear old friend Mary approaching my register. “Hi, Mr. Walt,” she exclaimed. “I want you to check me out.”

  As she was unloading her items on the counter, the man behind her was juggling a gallon of cold ice cream from hand to hand. He tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Lady, this is the express checkout. Twelve items or less, and I counted sixteen items in your basket.”

  “Oh, come on now,” Mary replied. “You gonna bust my chops ‘cause I put a couple extra boxes of Ex-Lax in my cart?”

  “Rules are rules, lady,” he said. “You need to move to another line.”

  “Or what?” she demanded. “You gonna report me to the mall cop?”

  I could see her face start to turn red.

  The man was determined to stand his ground. “What’s right is right,” he said with an indignant look on his face.

  The indignant look became one of fear as Mary put on her nasty face. “Mr. Walt,” she said, “you better get this little prick outta my face before I do some rearranging on his!”

  I was afraid I was going to have to arrest my old friend for assault and battery when I noticed register two had opened up. “Sir,” I said, “register two is open. We can help you over there.”

  A look of relief came over him. He hated to lose face, but he knew he had bit off more than he could chew. Tangling with Mary is kind of like playing football. You better know when to quit.

  The next day, Vince got to stock shelves, and I got to man one of the ‘giveaway samples of stuff we hope you will buy’ displays.

  My job was to cook little sausages in an electric fry pan, cut them in bite-size pieces, stick little toothpicks in them, and beg people to taste them. Most people declined. Not that I blamed them. They looked like little boogers on a stick.

  A man dressed in a shirt and pants a size too large for him came by and took the sample I offered. “Not bad,” he said. “Do you mind if I try another?”

  “Nope, help yourself.” He ate second one and left
.

  Another guy came by, grabbed a sausage, and plopped it in his mouth. “Yuck,” he said. “Tastes like crap.” He spit it in the trash can.

  No accounting for taste.

  Dolly was an aisle over, handing out samples of some kind of glop on a cracker. I noticed my baggy drawers guy was sampling her wares as well. Try before you buy, I thought, but then I noticed that his cart was empty.

  After gobbling a couple of crackers, he disappeared around the corner.

  After two hours of sausage hawking, I needed a potty break, and I called Vince to relieve me so I could relieve myself. When I returned, Mr. Baggy Breeches was sampling sausages from Vince. It had been over an hour since his first visit and his cart was still empty.

  I approached and held up my badge and asked the man to accompany me into the break room. He hadn’t broken any laws, and I hadn’t seen him pocket anything, but his behavior was definitely suspicious. Maybe he was casing the store.

  In the back room, I sat him down. “Okay, what’s your story?” I asked.

  The man seemed genuinely humiliated. He hung his head and told me how he had lost his job, his apartment, and his self-respect. He was living on the street and was feeding himself by making the rounds of the grocery stores and other establishments handing out samples.

  It certainly wasn’t illegal, and my heart ached for this once proud man who now had to grovel for his basic needs. I thought about all the lowlifes I’d seen that day, inventing ways to rip off the system, and there before me was a man ashamed at having to take a free sausage.

  Lady Justice, we could use some help here.

  I told him about the lunches at the Senior Center that were available for those who couldn’t pay. I handed him a twenty, and as he shuffled off with bowed head, the old adage struck home, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”

  Vince had been stocking shelves and was now working in my aisle. He was on a small three-step stool stocking items on the top shelf.

  As I was just getting ready to put another batch of sausages in the skillet, a woman in one of those handicapped scooters with the cart on the front came roaring around the corner. She barely missed me and my skillet of hot grease. Vince wasn’t so lucky. As she blazed past him, the wheel from the scooter caught the leg of Vince’s ladder, and he came down in a heap. Boxes of cake mix came crashing down on top of him.