$3.01

The following is an open letter to the nefarious crimelord who drove off with $3.01 worth of fuel the other day. He most probably will never read it, but I suspect that he really, really should.

Dear Bandit,

I fully comprehend the wild abandon/lack of a fiver that inspired you to desert the gas pump this recent dusky eve. I've been tight for cash myself, and can see how you, noting my inattentiveness, strolled off into the twilight without recompense for your pathetically small amount of 87 octane. It's an opportunist's world, and you pounced, leopard-like, on my lack of vigilance in order to secure your evil and clandestine acquisition of enough gas to get you 30-45 miles, at absolute best, down the thoroughfare, before having to repeat the exercise. I am your humble servant, having had to, at great expense to my ego, accept your bold gambit as an irrevocable conquest over my watchfulness. Well executed, my sly devil; I blush. I am, forever more, your familiar in iniquity, and admirer in the ways of cozening the system, that I might one day aspire to your great deceptive summit.

Nevertheless, my scallywag, it’s high time we had a chat, you and I, about you, and your future as a criminal. I understand that, for certain people, there is an understandable compulsion to steal when the opportunity presents itself. I was busted for shoplifting cassette tapes, when I was twelve, and luckily so: I had purloined about a thousand dollars worth of knickknacks prior to the event, and was wending my way down the road that takes such a one from a juvenile delinquent to an adult delinquent, and hence the one-month-grounding smackdown from my parents was fortuitous. So your petty theft is neither shocking nor alien to me.

And yet, I must ask, my maniacal villain, if petty thievery is your game, your trade, your vocation, your very niche in this life. If it isn’t, and you merely stole less than one-and-a-half gallons of gas due to the euphoric rush of the moment, then well done, my roguish scavenger. I was, at the time, most likely doing other things, and you, arch-fiend, busted out my inattention. I hope you enjoy that endless expanse, or at least forty minutes, of open road that your buccaneer's cache is going to get you.

But I suspect that this isn’t the first time you’ve ever stolen anything, or even stolen anything from my store. And that’s what troubles me, my despotic nemesis--your lack of ambition. Frankly, since the massive spike in gas prices, I’ve been dealing with $40 and $50 drive-offs, people who have developed cleverly articulated schemes in which they strike during peak hours, in which I’m more likely to authorize their sales without looking in their direction, and then set the nozzle on the ground, to prevent the piercing wail from my register that lets me know that they’re done pumping and need to come inside to pay. That’s a good scheme, and one that I’m unlikely to apprehend, if it’s performed well. Are you taking notes, my vengeful felon?

And so, my iniquitous adversary, I want you to do something for me: either look yourself in the mirror, or find a support group, or both, and say aloud: I will steal five dollars worth of gas next time, I will steal five dollars worth of gas next time. You, know, baby steps, insidious menace. Because what you’ve done, in present state, is so laughably underachieving that I paid your tab. That’s right: your debauchery was so unwicked and so unimpressive that a guy that works an unenviable service wage job reached into his pocket and picked up your bill rather than write your scandalousness off on his company. Do you feel like creation’s biggest loser yet? You aught to. You just made a convenient store clerk feel superior. And that’s a hard thing to do.

So allow me to recap, my malicious miscreant: selfishness and opportunism are par for the course of the human experience; there’s little sense in disputing that. But sneaking away from three Washingtons? Please. If this were a matter of actual and true desperation for the person needing the fuel, I’d have simply given it to them, and paid it as I did. But if skipping out on that bill is a point of pride for whoever did so, I have a bit of advice: reach for the firmament next time, my friend--$3.01 just isn’t going to cut it. Your subterfuge hasn’t even made me angry; I merely sighed and then giggled.

You cruel gangsta, you.