While I was homeless, I had to make choices I’m not proud of — choices I thought I needed to make to survive. I had no money, so food became a puzzle I had to solve every single day. And the answer seemed obvious. Alex had taught me the fine art of boosting, and unfortunately, I was good at it.
It started small: cheese, bread, a drink. Just enough to get through the day. But each time I went, the list got longer. Boosting came too easily. I could walk in, take what I needed, and walk out. No one saw me. No one stopped me. The adrenaline rush hit every time I pushed a full bag out the door. It was almost fun.
Soon it became a ritual. I’d drop Rowan at his day program and head straight to the grocery store with a mental list of what I needed to survive. Being without enough food made me anxious. I hated it. I made too much for food stamps, and food banks handed out cans that needed to be opened and cooked — not exactly helpful when you’re living out of your car.
By the time I found an apartment, I was a pro. I started filling entire carts and walking straight out the door. Hundreds of dollars in groceries. Then hair products, makeup, plants, cookware — anything that would help me build a life in my new place. I’d load the cart to the brim, stroll out like I owned the place, and dump everything into my car. Clothing stores were the same. One store’s alarm system didn’t work, so I walked out the side door with full carts of clothes for Rowan and me. Easy. Too easy.
The last time I hit that department store, cruisers pulled into the parking lot as I was leaving. I panicked, dumped everything into my trunk, and sped off. I knew I couldn’t go back. They knew my face. They knew exactly what I was doing. In four short trips, I’d stolen entire wardrobes for both of us — and burned that bridge forever.
I told myself I wasn’t hurting anyone. Big chain stores expect shoplifters. They budget for it. That’s what I repeated every day as I dropped Rowan off and hunted for the next store I could steal from.
And then the day came when I finally got caught.
I’d hit the same grocery store at least a dozen times, each time walking out with a full cart. That last day, I loaded my reusable bags with everything I could grab — pans, utensils, makeup, hair products, even a few plants I thought would look nice in my apartment. I walked around the checkout area like I’d already paid and headed for the door.
I had just reached the parking lot when I heard, “Excuse me, ma’am.”
My stomach dropped. I turned and smiled like nothing was wrong. He motioned me back to the sidewalk. Then he said the words I’d been outrunning for months: “You didn’t pay for your items.”
I panicked. I pretended confusion. I told him I had an emergency and rushed out by mistake. I offered to go back in and pay, but he said I couldn’t. He asked for my ID. In my head I was screaming: FUCK FUCK FUCK.
I handed him my license. He wrote down my information, handed it back, and told me to leave and not return.
That was it. No arrest. No cuffs. Just a warning.
I walked to my car shaking, furious that my bags were still in the cart but smart enough not to ask for them. I drove home and looked around my apartment. Half the things in it were stolen — the clothes, the plants, the pans I cooked with. All taken out of desperation and bad decisions.
That was the day I decided my boosting days were over. Next time, I wouldn’t be walking away. I’d be riding in the back of a cruiser, and that wasn’t a future I could survive.
It wasn’t pride that ended it. It was the fear of losing everything I’d just begun to build,
K.