The first time was a dizzying blur. Adrenaline?
Mike had boosted a great many things before: candy from the grocery store, porn magazines.
One time he chatted up the clerk, some teenager just like him - a townie girl - while stuffing an entire carton of Marlboro Red's up the sleeves of his leather jacket, one pack at a time.
On leaving the store, a gas station, he got in his boarding school roommate's Jeep and said "Tom, I just boosted a whole carton of smokes," as he unpacked them from his jacket, "let's get the fuck out of here."
Tom laughed. They pulled out. The clerk was none the wiser.
But this time the alarm went off from the Walkman tucked under his backpack and security was on him immediately. The rest was dreamlike: the back room, cops, the ride in the back of the cruiser, the jail cell, the florescent lights, the unsympathetic looks, the paper work, the phone call, the disappointed father.
Everyone asking, "what have you learned?"
To be a better criminal? Jail sucks?