I know exactly how many times I have stolen and what I have stolen and I’m not proud. The two times, as a kid, I took from places like Newberry’s and Orbach’s, and both times caught, were a great lesson. So, I would never do that again. Stealing towels from hotels with my father was a given, and I stopped that a very long time ago. I could and would also steal ashtrays, usually for my dad, from a restaurant in Europe maybe.
I’ve known some kleptos in my life. Some real ones.
It scared me when I was stolen from. Personally stolen from. When I was 15-years old and lying in my bed in a mono-induced near-coma, a friend darted around my bedroom. I followed her with my eyes because I couldn’t even lift my head, that’s how ill I was. She touched everything in my room, holding her notebook and schoolbooks in her hand. There was no reason to be holding all of that, as she had just arrived to visit me. Something seemed so shady about this visit. This friend would walk all around me, from one side of the room to the other, and would touch some items like my Indian print, one-of-a-kind dress. Suddenly it was folded and put in between her books. I had witnessed the abduction of my favorite dress! Too shocked to say anything, I let her leave. With the only strength I had, I reached over to turn my radio back on. Peggy Lee’s “Is that all there is?” played over and over and over as I remained a hostage in my Rip Van Winkle state. I never confronted her.
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