Doug Blough

Before I make my shocking confessions — of which the statute of limitations has long since passed — I'll state that for countless decades, my honesty has defined me. If a cashier makes a mistake in my favor, I must set the record straight and give the potential profit back. If a faulty newspaper machine gives me a free paper, I'm compelled to put the correct change in the slot. I'm honest to the point of OCD.

That said, I wasn't born that way and was actually a master thief through my formative years. I remember my first heist at a little family store in Hollsopple, Pennsylvania, called Brunos when I was probably 8 years old. My little sister Joy and I accompanied dad there and I slipped a pack of white-tipped, cheap cigars into my jacket pocket. I remember being in our old cellar with Joy trying to light one in Dad's “bucket-a-day” hot water furnace when Dad came down and caught me. It's easy to blame him for my continuing life of crime for his seemingly lack of interest in where the cigars came from. It still mystifies me.

Then in fifth grade when I fell in love with Patty Kapitan, I stepped up my larcenous game. The family was shopping at a Grants Store in Johnstown when I spotted a leaf-shaped, jewel-studded brooch on a jewelry counter. It seems like it was around $17, which in today's market would be like $250,000. “Patty will love me back if I give her this” I surmised and cobra-quick grabbed that brooch and slipped it into my coat pocket.

Well, Patty loved the brooch but the next day in school she returned it to me because her mom said it was far too expensive. Defeated, I gave the brooch to my stupid sister. Again, my dad's lack of curiosity about where this expensive jewelry originated is dramatically disquieting in retrospect. Dad was an honest man who didn't openly encourage thievery, but seemed amazingly disengaged.

Shoplifting became my specialty in teen years and I can remember one evening with my buddies, filling my pockets with stolen baseballs at Gee Bees shopping center. My pals were delightfully shocked when I walked up to the burly security guard and said, “Excuse me sir. Is shoplifting a big problem at this store?”

He huffed up like Don Knotts and went into this whole diatribe about two-way mirrors and plain-clothed security guards and, “Believe me son, no one gets away with a thing in this store.” The irony was the entire time he was bragging up their security, I was fingering the stolen baseball in my jacket pocket. When we got outside, I got further laughs when I wound up and fired the baseball far into the parking lot.

My slippery routine wasn't foolproof though, as I was caught shoplifting three different times as a teen. Once I outran that burly security guard through Gee Bees and twice I avoided police intervention with sad stories about how I was in need and saw stealing as my only resource. Little did those shopkeepers know Mom was home cooking a big supper and Dad didn't have a clue what kept happening to all his spare change from his drawer. Dad was no Columbo.

I don't know what it was about a boy raised in a Christian home who never even swore but didn't think twice about employing a five-finger-discount. I was astute at transaction deception too. I hung out at the Eagles in my mid-20s and figured out when I'd write a check for $10 utilizing the squiggly little lines on my 1, it made it appear as a 2 to Jimmy, the aging bartender with poor eyesight. My fancy ones were mistaken for twos and my change often came back doubled. Larceny and elder abuse is not an attractive duo.

I know that now and could be trusted guarding a Brinks truck. Back in the day though, I would have stolen it, driven it home and Dad would've thought, “Hmmm, I didn't know he was looking for a used car. Looks like a sturdy one.”