Just by me looking at him, my eyes must have sent a signal to his sub-conscious, he walked back into the shop, repositioning himself next to the bric-a-brac display. He reached into his matted, distressed looking jacket and pulled out the thin shining necklace that was previously on display.
This man had been in here earlier that day. He had locked onto me as soon as he marched through the door. All items in his periphery irrelevant. The first thing I noticed about him when he looked at me were his harsh eyes. “Have you got a tenner?” I was used to people coming into the shop asking to change their notes into change. “We have it in change, I think ... ”
“A note will do as well.”
I paused counting the change inside the cash register, realising this man’s first question should have been taken entirely on face value. “We can’t just hand over money.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t.”
His eye held the harsh look like I had at one point in time taken money off him to go buy a drink and I never paid him back. I almost reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I felt silly - the fact I had to remind myself I owed this man nothing. “Sorry, I don’t have any change on me.”
“Come on, mate. What about your colleagues. You’re all so tight in these places.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, a small glint in his eyes appeared like a foam of desperation. If I spoke to this man like anybody else and told him we don’t just give out money, I may as well talk to the counter, he wouldn’t understand. I said, “Try asking at other shops down the road.” It felt like a cop-out but it was my only way of getting him out of the shop. His grey stubble and worn tattered jacket gave him a rough look. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the state of his jacket was a product of the environment he surrounded himself in. Rough living and broken relationships. “This is a charity shop?” he said with a hurt in his eyes like a charity shop was supposed to help with the struggles of anyone who wandered in.
I kept silent and attended to another customer who needed help bagging an item, hoping by the time I looked up he would have gone. I had sympathy for anyone who was struggling for money but this man didn’t give me the feeling of genuineness.
I was stationed round the back of the shop for the rest of the day, checking donations and pricing. I walked to the top of the stairs an hour before closing time and the shop busy with late afternoon foot traffic that occurred at school finishing time and when people left work early. I caught a glimpse of him. It was almost like he was floating through the crowd of shoppers. Trying to get to the door. He stood outside facing away from the shop window and a bus stopped outside. The tall red wall of the side of the bus singled out the man’s presence even more, like he was in front of a red curtain on a stage. He’d performed his act but he knew his audience wasn’t convinced. He pulled open the inside of his jacket, I couldn’t see from my angle what was inside as I watched from inside the shop. He adjusted something and it was as if he felt my gaze piercing his neck. My conscience giving rise to his. He turned around and walked inside, not putting his eyes on me. And he placed the necklace back on the stand: the man’s conscience kicking in like a lifeline for his morality.
I often heard about items getting stolen from charity shops. Unfortunately, theft was a more common occurrence in a charity shop than I first realised when I started working there. What led people to go and steal from a place that exists to help other people who are less fortunate than themselves or aren’t as healthy as they are? I chose to believe the story I told myself: that the people who stole were not aware of their actions. Almost hoping drugs had altered their actions, skewing their moral compass. The items this man wanted to steal from the shop were not used for material gain but something more desperate. To steal from a charity shop, I figured it must be for reasons that outweighed the urge to not corrupt your morals. Desperation is like a drug I suppose.
I let the man walk out, his pockets empty. His eyes seemed softer as he walked out, even though he still hadn’t made that tenner. He’d paid back his ill will.
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