naked notes

“This is a robbery you mutherf*cker!”

That’s what popped into my head as I imagined my friends robbin’ and stealin’. I imagined Becky (names have been changed for this story) holding a gun to the bathroom attendant while Nancy (names have been changed for this story) rummaged through the bathroom looking for the loot, cursing up a storm. But that’s not how it happened. It was easier than that. It was easy and guiltless Becky and Nancy said. Things were tough, so why not take what they wanted they said.

Shit, I thought. I’ve got Bonnie and Clyde all up in my living room.

It was easiest to stake out a bar or restaurant, they said. Restaurants in particular had the best stuff. All they had to do was go into the bathroom, look around for a stack piled up against a wall or in a basket—usually they’d find it under the sink—and depending on the size of the purse one or the other happened to be hauling around, they’d grab the stuff and go.

“I mean really, look at this!” Becky said. She proudly pulled three rolls of toilet paper out of her handbag. “Usually I just take one or two, but this bag fit three!”

My friends had resorted to stealing. They’d just gotten back from brunch in our Park Slope neighborhood and were relaying to me the ingenious ways they were grifting the system. I couldn’t stop laughing. “You stole toilet paper?” The stuff was cheap to begin with. “A roll of Marcal never sets you back more than a dollar.” I said.  “Well that’s a dollar I can spend on something else, like a drink at the bar.” Becky said. “You know what else we did last night?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. This shit was funny, but it was also kind of sad. The last time I’d stolen anything, I was about 12. The Snickers bar I’d stuffed up into my training bra fell out of my shirt right as I was walking out of a mini-mart. The owner saw the Snickers hit the ground and he came running. I tried getting away on my old 10-speed, but he caught the back of my shirt, pulled me off the bike and screamed bloody murder. I cried like a baby. I was afraid and ashamed. I was a kid, I didn’t know any better he said, and then he let me go. I hadn’t stolen a thing since then (the author is lying—she stole highlighters from her old job, and she stole a ream of paper for her graduate school applications—okay and maybe sometimes she eats a few grapes when she’s shopping in the produce isle). I was disappointed in Becky and Nancy and I didn’t really know if I wanted to hear about the rest of their shenanigans (Another lie. She wholeheartedly encouraged them to spill it).

“We figured out a genius way to save money going to the bars.” Becky said. “You’re going college-style and getting drunk before you get to the bar?” I asked. “No,” Becky said, “Something even better.” The girls looked at each other knowingly and started giggling. “You know those Sigg water bottles?” “Uh-huh.” “Well, we filled one with vodka and took it to the bar with us.” Becky said. “No one gave us a hard time because they thought it was just water.” “We figured we’d buy fewer drinks, save money and still get drunk at the bar,” Nancy added. “Well that’s pretty smart.” I said. “No, actually, it wasn’t smart at all,” Nancy said. “We got wasted. We got really wasted because we bought beers, and then we drank the vodka, and then we ended up buying more beers.” “We got wasted. And we spent more money doing it.” Becky laughed. “And we stole more toilet paper.” Nancy said.

I’m not going to lie. This was kind of hilarious, in a sad little way, just hilarious. Unlike me, the ladies weren’t willing to give up brunch or nights out at the neighborhood bars. Despite the little money and large school debts they had, these New York rituals were what made living here special to them. “We spend lots of money at the bars; we pay insane amounts of rent to live here, why shouldn’t we take a little something back?” Becky said defiantly. I didn’t know what to say. I just knew I was out money because I bought toilet paper in bulk on a regular basis. It never occurred to me to just take it because it happened to be there and I was struggling and I felt owed it. I’ve known people who’ve stolen the sauce at Arby’s because they loved the sauce and the chain refused to give out the recipe. I’ve known people who’ve stolen the red candle holders from old Pizza Huts because they wanted to collect them and they got a cheap thrill out of taking them. I’ve known guys too cheap to buy ketchup and watched them steal packets from McDonald’s to keep in the fridge. But I’ve never known anyone who stole because they felt entitled or wronged. Not that it matters, or that one kind of theft is better than another, or that I can even take the moral high ground considering that the ream of paper I stole got me into grad school. Nothing is black and white and people all across America are upset and feeling screwed by something; someone. But there’s no tangible thing we can take it out on. So I guess we’re all acting out in funny ways.

I feel like we’re in this mess together, because poverty, after all, is the great equalizer. We’re all shopping at C-Town now; those of us in our 30s are no longer above $3 Buck Chuck ($4 here in NY) or a six-pack of Coors—Duvel, Chimay, DeKonig, Opus One, Chteau Lafite Rothschild Pauillac—those days are gone; ricotta gnuddi from the Spotted Pig has been replaced by grilled cheese sandwiches made in the toaster oven at home and though shopping at even Target prices is delightful, we examine the contents of our closet and think, eh, I don’t need another sweater, I’ll make the one I have work for another year. But sousing and stealing, has it really come to this? We ain’t got a pot to piss in, but we’re not above swipin’ the shit we wipe the crap with. Boy oh boy. Yep, these days we’re all actin’ a little funnier. Welcome to the darker, sillier side of The Great Recession.

Category: NY Finds

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