The Gift

 

    The kid was twitchy in a way that was not easy to diagnose. He pushed open the double doors of the Arts Center and stumbled onto the slate floor of the foyer, eyes busy, rocking his weight from one foot to the other, wearing kneeless jeans and a dark brown Big Dog tee-shirt. Nervous. Out of place. A six-pack of Mountain Dew beyond bucket-of-hormones wired. Up to something. Stoned. Tweeked.

      “Hi. You got anything for two dollars? See, like I am supposed to meet my brother out front, but he is not here yet and it is cold and I have two dollars and I thought maybe I could pick up something for my Mom who is working at Taco Bell today and we don’t have much of anything anyway and so if there was something that I could get for her it would make her happy and do you have anything for two dollars, maybe in the back room or upstairs or downstairs or something?” His speech was fast but slurry, with just a hint of Elmer Fudd in his pronunciation of the letter R. 

     The place was piled high with high-ticket arts and crafts. I had stainless steel wine racks at five hundred each and salmon-shaped olive plates for fifty, hand-knitted muffs for twenty and sterling necklaces starting at a hundred but nothing for two bucks, not much that I could discount down to two bucks as a present for a single mother dodging grease at minimum wage to feed two kids.

    “Well, I do have some of these hand-turned wooden tops that usually go for five dollars, but I can let you have one for two, if you thought your Mom would like something like that.”  I picked one, snapped it into life between thumb and business finger. It whirled away on the glass counter top.

     “Nah. Don’t think so. I used to play with those when I was a kid.” He headed for the back of the display area. He was still wearing dark blue ski gloves with one thumb chewed-off.

      “When you were a kid, huh? What’s your name? How old are you son?”

       “Brian and I’m fifteen.” Same age as my son. “You sure you don’t got something here, maybe in those closets over there?” He paused his scurrying, patted his foot in time to an internal tune. “Or back in the kitchen?” It was getting a bit obvious that the kid was wanting me to leave the room, turn my back, close my eyes, but I wasn’t biting. 

     “What do you want for Christmas?”

     “Oh, a computer, probably, but I won’t get it. Rent comes first.” 

      Just the day before, a member of my Board of Directors had mentioned that something, anything, had to be done about the growing pile of old electronic equipment that was clogging the bookkeeper’s den up on the third floor. (Every modern business seems to have a like assortment of planned obsolescence.) In the surplus was a functioning P3 box and small monitor.

     “OK, let’s work a deal. I have an extra, older, computer that we at the Arts Center can give to you, if you want it. It is up those stairs. While I go up to get it, you are going to have to mind the store. Don’t rip me off while I am gone.”

     “I am not a thief.” He looked in my eyes and said it flatly, like he was offended at the suggestion that he might shoplift.  

      It took two minutes to lug the box back to the main floor and the kid seemed genuinely pleased with the transaction. It was a good swap. I had recycled thirty pounds of gizmo and he was on his way to becoming a hacker. I told him it was way too close to closing time for him to lug the box home and be back in time for the monitor, that I had a whole other life to live, to come back after school on Monday and we would complete the deal.

    He didn’t show on that Monday, and it was probably for the better that he didn’t, because, in the interim, I routinely reviewed the eye-in-the-sky security system that protects the art and, sure enough, just as soon as I turned my back to fetch his Christmas present, Brian  had  bustled over to the public donation box, adroitly removed the back panel, removed a five dollar bill, replaced the panel then scurried back to his original spot.

      I was very disappointed and real close to being pissed. A kid can get away with just about anything at our house as long as he/she isn’t lying. Brian had ripped me off, lied to me, and accepted a gift in the process.  I told my workmates to send him to see me when, or if, he returned.

     Brian came back on the second Monday while a rock and roll realtor and I were discussing boom and bust economics. He sprang through the entry doors, into the gallery and said “Hi. Do you have the monitor for me?” I excused myself from the conversation and walked over to him.

     “Come with me, Son. See those little round balls up on the ceiling? See that one, and that one, and that one? Those are video cameras.” His eyes darted toward the donation box, then fixed on mine.

    “Yeah. So?”

     “Well, Brian. I have you on tape, ripping me off at the same time I was giving you a present. Now we have a couple of ways we can deal with this. You lied to me. You are, indeed, a thief and you are definitely nailed. I could take the pictures to the police and they could come to your house and pick you up and you could talk with them about being a f***ing thief, or you and I could go down to Taco Bell and talk with your Mom, or you can walk out of here, now, and never, ever, come back in here.  If you do come back, I promise you will regret it.”

     He stood there looking at me and I was reminded of story told by an older cowpoke who said he had quit a job after looking a thousand pound steer in the eye and realizing that there was nothing looking back at him. 

    Brian was that steer. He knew he was nabbed, but he just didn’t have the wattage to process the information. He did have guts though.

    “OK. I’m going. Can I still have the monitor?”