Growing up in my South Jersey world of benign neglect, one rite of passage was learning how to shoplift. Because our mothers so often left us in the care of older siblings who were loathe to have us tagging along, these older brothers and sisters were the ones who double-dog dared us to pocket a Hershey bar from Ben-Dor’s Pharmacy on Haddon Avenue, or a Sky-Bar from Cumberland Farms. I don’t remember being particularly skilled at the sleight of hand it took to pocket a candy bar, but I was willing to give it a go if it meant some "cred" with my elders. Outside, when I pulled a mashed Almond Joy from my pocket, the gang of older sibs and pals jostled me admiringly. Noogies were given. I wasn’t a baby anymore—I was one of them. 

Fast forward to eighth grade, when my career as a very petty thief came to an end one Saturday at the Cherry Hill Mall. We girls had been dropped off to spend our allowances. What we really planned on doing was meeting some cute boys from Haddonfield and smoking Winstons in what we hoped was a languorous manner. I had a terrible crush on a boy named Randy (or was it Andy?). He suggested we go to Spencer’s Gifts, aka The Land of the Lewd.

The strobe lights were flashing as we wove through the black light posters. All was a blur until Randy/Andy held up a box and smirked at me. Pictured on the box was a woman wrapped in a turquoise towel and turban set. The game was a sexed-up version of “Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” except instead of a donkey and an assortment of tails, this game contained paper breasts that were to be pinned on the woman. Randy/Andy dared me to steal some “boobies,” as he called them.

I probably didn’t even flinch. Nor did I display any stealth, because I hadn’t even neared the front door when someone’s closeness was felt and I was guided to the back of the store, threateningly. 

“Now yurr gonna geh-it gurl,” the man breathed at me.

They must have called my mom, mustn’t they? I’m thinking they didn’t. I’m thinking they just scared me and shamed me. I was mortified and embarrassed in one neat package—mortified to be caught stealing, embarrassed it wasn’t diamonds I’d been caught with, but paper breasts. I deflated right then and there, which is quite significant when you’re small to begin with. My pilfering days were over. 

But enough about my thievery, what about your's? Is shoplifting a rite of passage everyone has tried at least once? And how does that childhood experiment go from the pocketing of a Tangee lipstick at Woolworth’s to the full-blown breaking and entering of your house or mine?

Everyone, and I mean everyone, is talking about the scary spate of daring daytime burglaries that have rocked our little Mo’town world recently. The police blotter has always been filled with shoplifting incidents at the mall, but burglaries? In our backyard? Say it ain’t so, and then let us go back to living in our bubble.

A book published in 2011 called The Steal: A Cultural History of Shoplifting, by Rachel Shteir, traces a very long history of the “five-finger discount,” from Eve through mythological Greek gods to modern times where the famous and the not-so-famous have been caught with sticky fingers. 

Shoplifting is a billion-dollar-a-year industry filled with practitioners who are more likely to get caught than they are to profit from their larceny. I witnessed this firsthand several years ago while protesting a parking ticket in Mo’town’s municipal court in Maple Shade. I watched in disbelief as a roster of repeat offenders paraded before the judge. His voice was flat and weary as he intoned over and over again:

“This is your third (fourth, fifth, etc.) shoplifting offense? Are you represented by counsel? Talk to your lawyer and I’ll call you back.”

The thieves stood blankly in front of the judge, softly answering his questions. Oddly, the perpetrators didn’t seem ashamed or cowed in any way, yet there I was, arguing a $50 parking ticket and feeling like Saddam Hussein. When my name was called, I reverted to that stupid teenage girl, my knees shaking as I approached the bench. What happened next was totally unexpected. The previously inscrutable judge was now yelling at me.

“Mrs. Mason! You’re wasting the court’s time with a parking ticket? Unbelievable!” he bellowed at me.

“There were extenuating circumstances, Your Honor,” I whined meekly.

“There are ALWAYS extenuating circumstances, Mrs. Mason. Go talk to the prosecutor.”

I couldn’t talk to the prosecutor because his son and my son were friends. Instead, I told my boring story to several other, more impartial authority figures and within minutes, my ticket was excused. I almost wept, so elated was I to return to the world of law-abiding citizens, to put my criminal past behind me.

I have no idea what happened to the repeat offenders. I assume they kept on offending. As I’ve read the police blotter lately though, I find myself wondering how people who break into other people’s homes rationalize what they’re doing. Is it all about the lousy economy, or is it really about the lack of a moral compass? And is taking home some Post-It notes from work the same as hoisting a hammer from Home Depot? Yes, yes and yes.

Wrong is wrong. I’ve been there, you’ve been there—either as a child, a teenager or an adult. We know it’s wrong for someone to break into our homes, but isn’t it just as wrong to cheat on our taxes or bring home a box of staples?

As a reformed juvenile delinquent, I’m just asking.