I was six years old and believed I had my morals in check. It is not stealing if you do not leave the premises with it, right? Right. How can you expect to bring a child into a bulk food store that has a plethora of chocolate bars, gummies in the most incredible shapes (a spaceship! Ronald Reagan!), and even bizarre tasting chocolate (that turns out to be "baking chocolate," but really is just a cruel joke), and not have him run wild and assume it is some type of cavity-carving orgasmic buffet? I filled the pockets of my elastic-waisted jeans and as I walked around the store had a lovely munch.
Suddenly, it was time to leave. My father and I were in the checkout line and in my pocket remained a slightly melted Oh Henry and a few Swedish Berries. During the car ride home I antagonized with my newly developed logic over whether or not I had in fact done something wrong. I reluctantly asked my father while trying desperately to hold tears back, straining my temples and cheekbones, and probably created the beginnings of crows feet that could potentially terrify my classmates (I hated them all anyway except for one wussy Indian kid and a huge black kid. My group of friends was like a Government of Canada advertisement back then). My father provided little solace. He told me I had stolen. My heart sank below my elastic waistband.
We arrived home and I stood on the driveway, regretfully accepting what I had done. I threw the Oh Henry and the Swedish berries over the fence into my neighbor's yard. Let them feel some of my burden. I was positive that God was going to strike me down right there. Sometimes I still feel that way.
