King Missile, specifically John S. Hall, encouraged my bad behavior. “Take stuff from work,” he urged over a discordant sax.
Pens, pencils, paper clips, three pounds of hamburger? Okie doke.
It’s the best way to feel better /
About your low pay and appalling working conditions.
Sometimes such theft is unconscious, and once discovered, the items aren’t worth returning. You wind a rubber band around your hair or slip a pen into your purse for an off-site meeting and accidentally take it home where it gets lost in the shuffle. But for a few weeks when I worked in a hotel pastry kitchen, I used our walk-in cooler as my personal grocery store.
Student loans are no joke, especially coupled with the low wages of back-of-the-house staff. I passed up invitations to movies and concerts to save money. My husband took on the heavy financial lifting during my schooling and part-time employment, so I couldn’t bring myself to ask for more help. Every time I went food shopping, I kept sinking further into debt, yet I couldn’t fill the fridge. How were other people feeding families much bigger than mine?
When I was touring upscale markets in tony Streeterville (culinary school field trips were the best), I dreamed of creating innovative dishes with the finest ingredients. Savory tart crusts with truffle butter. Chocolate ice cream with fèves tonka and a hint of orange. Tiny cheese plates for amuses bouche, featuring uncommon selections from around the world.
There was a 70% failure rate among restaurants at the time; it’s still one of the riskiest enterprises to operate. Then again, I’d always been subject to delusions of grandeur. Being unable to determine where my next meal was going to come from shouldn’t have been a surprise.
Take a case of white-out; you might need it one day /
… It’s your duty as an oppressed worker to steal from your exploiters.
My life of crime started with drugs: a server introduced me to the espresso machine. At least I can name an accomplice. (I was young and impressionable, your honor, I thought this was common practice!) After that first hit had me flitting like a hummingbird, I didn’t know how I otherwise survived those 4am shifts. From then on, I considered a mocha latte a necessity on par with sharp knives, steel-toed shoes, and pants. While the milk steamed, I nicked a few slices of bacon from the restaurant kitchen’s line, which I’d stuff with cheese into a fresh-baked croissant. (Well…who hasn’t pilfered bacon at the first opportunity?)
Then I started slipping a few hard-boiled eggs into my apron. Made sandwiches inside a 30-degree cooler and ate them behind a metro rack. Slipped a strawberry into my mouth for every dozen I sliced up for guests.
At one point I was desperate, unsure how I’d make rent. With the utmost stealth, I snuck into the coolers and storeroom with a small tote bag. It had the image of a man in ill-fitting cloth bloomers and the caption, “You moon the wrong person at the office party and suddenly you’re not professional anymore.” Inconspicuous.
I bagged a head of broccoli, a few potatoes, and the ingredients for meatloaf. I’d gone past paper clip and bacon strip territory, and the guilt felt gritty on my skin. I watched from outside myself, my conscience staring me down from the cooler windows. But then I reminded myself of the toxic environment that kitchen staff are expected to tolerate. The occasional 12-hour days and double shifts when your only other co-worker calls out sick at the last minute. The sexual harassment that’s as commonplace as #10 cans from Sysco. Bosses who feign back problems when you ask for help with the former and make empty promises to protect you from the latter. If you’re going to work me ’til I drop and diminish my worth, I figured, you can ignore my little grocery sack too.
I tucked my floppy white toque and apron on top of my loot. Just bringing my uniform home, everybody. Nothing to see here.
Of course the head chef saw. He nudged the polyester out of the way with his pen, took notice of the neatly wrapped foil packages, and wagered what was very likely an acute look of panic on my face. He simply nodded and told me not to let anyone else catch me. I’m still grateful for that simple mercy.
Not long after, I traded commercial kitchens for office administration, as much for peace as pay and benefits. I inched my way out of my mess, finding creative ways to cut corners without resorting to petty larceny, like taking penny-pinching advice from magazines and making friends with the dollar store.
Things are better now in terms of salary and working conditions, but worse in the checkout line. Two boxes of cereal cost as much as my cell phone bill. A week’s worth of groceries used to run about $110 but now it’s double that. I’m not one step away from joining the Freegans, but I’m also not buying any international cheeses or fancy ice cream, much less one with fèves tonka in it.
Why buy a personal computer …? /
… I took a whole desk from the last place I worked.
Though I’m still underpaid, this time there are a few big differences. My library colleagues are hard-working and full of integrity, who respect me and my contributions. For close to ten years, our budget never increased, though our tech needs and student demands have, and our journal publishers keep raising their subscription rates. Yet my boss fought to get me an income boost. He understood the importance of a decent wage despite the university’s current challenges.
Even though I’m in charge of ordering food for events, and could easily bump those pizzas from fourteen inches to sixteen in order to “accidentally” leave us with leftovers, I can’t bring myself to give in. I never thought I’d say this about an employer, but I respect them too much to stiff them.
Perhaps King Missile isn’t the best influence when it comes to professionalism, but they were right about one thing.
Life is good.
Centered text are lyrics from King Missile’s song/spoken word poem “Take Stuff From Work”, written by John S. Hall.
Jenny is currently living a crime-free life in Chicago, and would like to remind everyone that the statute of limitations for petty theft is 1 year and 6 months, which expired over fifteen years ago. She still enjoys a good meatloaf and refuses to try casu martzu. You can find her fiction and essays most recently in Underland Arcana, Lit Mag News, Microfiction Monday, and Across the Margin. She even wrote a novel she thinks is reasonably neat. For links to those and more, check out linktr.ee/JenniferWorrell.
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