I had never been the kind of person who needs to be escorted through a public space by a security officer—swiftly, uncomfortably—by my elbow. He led me to a back room, where the store's head of security interrogated me. I sat, my pathetic stolen goods on the table, answering questions with something approaching honesty. I told him, no, I didn't steal often (not true), and I never took much (true). No, I didn't know I could be shipped away (true). I worked at the BBC (true). I had taken only three other tapes (not true). I did it because, well, stealing made me feel like I was getting even (true).
In the end, they did not press charges. I guess the sight of the trembling American girl, eyes wet with remorse, was enough to beg mercy. My punishment was embarrassingly mild: I had to pay for the three tapes and pledge to return the others.
But walking away from HMV, from which I'd been officially banned, I felt lighter. Sharing my secret made me feel cleansed. The nagging suspicion of youth is that every transaction, every relationship, involves a sucker. Pocketing stray, useless bits of the city—socks, books, even cottage cheese—had let me feel the sucker was not me. Getting caught showed me who the real chump was.
