We visited the convenience store every day, and the temptation to steal had never occurred to me before. But today was different. Today, I could get away with it.

It’s a funny little story, considering the fact that nobody ever caught me. As such, my parents could not discipline me, and I learned a considerably different lesson than most would have.

My family and I pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store. My seven-year old body could never handle such a perilous task as walking across the lot—or so my father believed; he grasped my tiny hand and led me, like luggage, as we walked inside the store.

My father released me finally, and I was free to wander the store under the provision of staying “within eyesight,” which was effectively impossible to disobey; the small size of the store ruled out any potential blind spots. My mother accompanied one side of the store, grabbing the beer, and my father stood on the other side, grabbing a pack of cigarettes. I lingered in the isles, deciding what sweet, sugary candy I would pick out today. The whole routine tied together as a neat, daily family tradition.

Today’s choosing was a handful of soft mints, fifteen cents a pop. They were my favorite candies, distinctive by their chewiness, but exploiting my sweet tooth wasn’t the only option; I could let the candy rest on my tongue, slowly dissolving as the minty aroma coldly rushes through my nostrils.

I showed my parents the candies and asked them in an innocent tone, “Can I get these?”
“Not today, Bryan,” my father grimly replied. I hadn’t actually imagined they would say no.
And so, as we proceeded to checkout, I reluctantly accepted defeat. But then I noticed the stack of merchandise directly below the cashier’s desk. Among these items were the delectable, minty, chewy sweets I lusted after. As my parents made the purchase, I realized that the stack was a complete blind spot.

The temptation shook me too long to resist. I had to have one, just one. Without thinking, I casually slipped one of the candies into my pocket, being careful to maintain my bored-like facial expression in order to avoid arousing any suspicion. We soon left the store, hopped in the van, and took off. Sitting in the back, I crouched down, opening the soft mint and quickly sliding it into my mouth. Crime tasted delicious.

But would someone check the security cameras later, I wondered, and discover my theft? It was less of a concern so much as it was a curiosity; I couldn’t bring myself to picture the cops scrambling to bust me, and thus it had never occurred to me a real perceivable danger. I cast the question out of my mind immediately.

And soon after, within a day or two, I had forgotten the incident completely. No parental guidance, no moral rebuttal, nothing seemed to lead me to reconsider my actions. I was a criminal, and I was completely fine with that.

I don’t have many regrets, but this is one of them. After much time had passed, I began to view the theft more or less as a sad attempt in pulling off the perfect crime, for little reward. It was a strange feeling; I wouldn’t actually describe it as remorse, but rather as frustration. I didn’t bother to tell myself that I would never steal again, because that was the obvious part. But then it occurred to me how, in my world of being a good person, I decided to commit the one and only crime of my life, which is something that should’ve been so severely horrible that I would hate myself for doing it. And I didn’t. I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Really? You broke the law, stole candy, and for what? Are you going to tell your kids about this, someday? How about your wife? Or your therapist? What a waste of time.” Some people would call it dropping the ball.

I decided it’s easier to just not commit the crime, period. Still, the sweet taste of crime will forever exist in my memories.