The Burnzo Diaries: August 2023

Thursday, August 17, 2023

Remembering That Time I Tried to Stop a Shoplifter at the Wrentham Outlets

July 31, 2023. I hadn’t been to the Wrentham Outlets since before COVID and I was in the market for some new sneakers. Thus, I thought it was a good time to “hit up the outlets,” as the cool kids like to say.

The first thing I noticed about the gigantic outdoor Wrentham Outlet Mall, established in 1997 featuring such outlet stores as Nike, Old Navy, Burberry and Bloomingdale’s, was that it was a completely different scene from what I experienced a couple weeks earlier at the Emerald Square Mall (read about this in my blog HERE), which is basically located right up the street from the outlets, only about 15 minutes away. Where ‘The Emerald’ was basically a ghost mall (some even call it a “dead” mall), the Wrentham outlets were more alive than ever. It was around 4 o’clock in the afternoon in the middle of a Monday and there were TONS of people there and I mean TONS!

Most of these people appeared to be tourists and many of them appeared to be from foreign countries. They all smelled nice. Whenever I passed them by, I could get whiffs of cologne, perfume and/or body lotions—heck, maybe it was only their shampoo—but, whatever it was, it smelled great. They were all dressed nice as well. I’m talking designer clothing, designer sunglasses, designer purses, and designer sandals with well-pedicured toes and all.

Overall, the people at the Wrentham outlets were absolutely beautiful people. And I’m talking both the women and the men.

But especially the women. I don’t know if I’m going to sound like a male chauvinist pig when I say this, but I hadn’t seen so many hot chicks in one place at one time in quite a while. And a lot of them were dressed in rather revealing clothing. The style these days seems to be wearing extremely short denim shorts that ride up so high that you can begin to see cheeks, if you know what I mean.

Walking around the outlets, I felt both underdressed and somewhat outclassed or maybe completely outclassed. I was wearing a nice pair of plaid shorts that I got at Kohls, a Repo Man T-shirt (FYI: Repo Manis a cult film from 1984 starring Emilio Estevez and Harry Dean Stanton), a baseball cap that said O’Neill on it, Nike-brand prescription sunglasses and lemon-lime-colored Asics running sneakers, so it’s not like I looked like a complete slob or anything. Yet, I still felt underdressed and “below” all these people that were walking past me in their designer-looking clothing. I felt like I at least needed to be wearing a pair of salmon-colored shorts to fit in with these folks.

I went to basically every shoe store at the outlet mall. First, the Nike outlet, which was mobbed with people, and then the Asics outlet, the Converse outlet, the New Balance Outlet…

When I got to the Reebok outlet, I was hit hard with a flashback of an incident that happened to me at the Wrentham outlets, right outside the Reebok store about 20 years ago. One Saturday night, I think around the 2002 or 2003 area, I was at the outlets alone, shopping for sneakers (this was basically the only reason I went to the Wrentham outlets), and I found myself walking down the front walkway, adjacent the main parking lot, heading for the Reebok store.

Ahead of me, I saw a mall security cruiser pull up to the walkway. Two mall cops got out of the cruiser and confronted a man on the walkway holding an extremely large plastic shopping bag. They exchanged words for a moment, none of which were audible to me, but then the man suddenly dropped the bag on the walkway and started booking it away from the mall cops. Apparently, this guy was a shoplifter and he was on the run. Heading right towards me. Being pursued on foot by the mall police. But this dude was sprinting fast. They weren’t gaining on him.

I had about three seconds to decide what to do.

The scenario seemed familiar. I had seen it in movies and TV shows a zillion times. What would happen is some thief would run at the hero of the movie and the hero would trip the thief, the thief would fall to the ground, then be apprehended by the cops. It was that simple.

This was reality, though. And even though I had about three seconds to work this all out in my brain, I knew that this wouldn’t be as simple as the movies made it look.

I knew I was going to do SOMETHING. The thought of just letting this guy go didn’t even cross my mind and I don’t say that to make myself look like such a tough-guy hero. I simply don’t think I had enough time for fear and inhibitions to get the better of me. I saw a shoplifter running at me. Every movie and TV show I had ever seen told me that I needed to do something. So, yes, I was going to do something.

But the question was what I should do. I didn’t think I was slick or tough enough to trip the guy. I didn’t know any martial arts, either, so “sweeping the leg,” Cobra-Kai-style, was pretty much out of the question as well.

Nope, the only thing I could think of (again, in about three seconds time) was to get right into the shoplifter’s path and try to bodycheck him.

And this is exactly what I did.

I got in front of the shoplifter and, for a split second, I could see a look in the man’s face, one that basically said, “Oh, you’re trying to stop me, are you? That’s what you think?” His eyes widened into an “it’s on” kind of look.

I braced myself for impact. And, boy, what an impact it was.

Keep in mind that this guy was a solid build, maybe weighing around 180-220 pounds while I was rather thin, weighing in at about 130-140 pounds at that point in my life (I was about 20 years old). Also, he was running at a full sprint. As for me? I was completely solitary, standing my ground with my arms out in front of me in almost a cross bones formation. I certainly didn’t have enough time to think about physics, not that I knew all that much about physics then anyway (I still don’t). My brain didn’t work out what would happen when this dude who was much bigger than me, running at full speed, would run right into me, the thin scrawny 130-pounder, standing absolutely still with no velocity behind me whatsoever.

Well, here is what happened:

The guy nailed me. And I went fucking flying. Backwards. I landed right on my ass and literally did about three backwards somersaults on the walkway there.

As for the shoplifter, he kept running, turned a corner and disappeared. The mall cops kept pursuing him. They ran right past me, said nothing and disappeared around the corner as well.

Despite getting nailed and taking such a tumble, it was a miracle (especially in retrospect) that I hadn’t been injured. I mean, that situation could have ended up so much worse, for both me and even the shoplifter. He could have nailed me, I could have hit my head on the pavement and I suppose I could have even died. Then, the shoplifter wouldn’t just be a small-time shoplifter anymore. He would be a murderer, not in the first degree of course, but he would have been a murderer and probably would have ended up serving some hard time. That is, unless, his lawyers could convince a jury that it was all my fault for getting in front of the shoplifter and it was actually ME who was doing the assaulting and the shoplifter was simply body-checking me in self-defense. I’m not sure if a jury would go for that back then in the early-2000’s, but these days it may be different because stopping shoplifters in this day and age is largely frowned upon. Shoplifting in many cities is basically only a measly misdemeanor as long as whatever you’re stealing is under a thousand dollars or technically it must be under $950.[i] You’re supposed to keep your distance and let them steal whatever they want and if you do anything to stop them, especially if you use any kind of force, YOU could easily end up becoming the bad guy doing something wrong.

Anyway, yes, other than maybe some bruising, I wasn’t injured in any significant way, at least not that I was aware of. I got up from the sidewalk, somewhat in a daze. I heard one bystander ask me if I was ok and I said “yes” and then proceeded to walk into the Reebok outlet. That’s right, there was nothing more to what happened. The cops didn’t question me or anything. The whole incident was over pretty much as soon as it started. Other than that one bystander asking me if I was all right, it was almost as though the whole incident never even occurred.

As for the shoplifter? Well, when I used to tell the story to people, I would say that, despite my attempt to stop the shoplifter being pretty much unsuccessful, I did SLOOOOW the shoplifter down and the mall police were able to catch up to and apprehend him after turning the corner.

However, I can’t say for sure that this actually happened. The truth is that I have no idea whether the shoplifter was ever apprehended. I assume that he probably was, but I never followed up on the incident. Again, I just moved right along like nothing had even happened, partially because I was so shocked and stunned due to everything happening so fast.

Now, if this same incident occurred today, a couple things would have happened differently. First of all, I’m pretty sure I would have gotten injured by such a hit. My body is not as young and elastic as it used to be. It has been ravaged by a bad case of Lyme disease and it doesn’t take much for me to get an injury. If I was, indeed, injured (and, again, I’m pretty sure I would be injured) I would likely be kind of pissed off about it and I would possibly pursue pressing charges, even though in this day and age maybe it was my fault for trying to stop the guy to begin with.

Also, if it happened today, I would probably try to get surveillance footage of the incident. In fact, I regret not doing this back in 2002/2003 when the incident occurred. Surveillance cameras weren’t as prevalent at the time, but the incident occurred in the very front part of the Wrentham outlets, so there must have been some surveillance footage of the incident. I would have been interested in seeing the footage, mainly to prove to myself that the incident actually happened the way I remembered it happening and also to confirm that I got hit as hard as I remembered getting hit.

Would I do it all over again? I mean, would I again try to stop the shoplifter today? Well, like I said before, the law is a lot more uncertain these days. You try and stop a shoplifter in the year 2023 and it seems like you can easily turn into the perpetrator. All store employees are trained to NOT confront shoplifters and civilians are basically told the same. If you do try and stop a thief and the thief gets hurt, you could be held liable for the injuries and you could even maybe be charged with assault or worse. Seriously, Google the question, “Should I stop a shoplifter?” and most of the articles that pop up will tell you it’s not worth the risk to your own safety, of course, but also not worth the risk of liability. Why? Because the force you use could easily be deemed too excessive. Even if it’s not your intention to injure the shoplifter, it could easily happen in your attempt to stop them and then, boom, suddenly the force you used, however minimal, could be seen as “excessive.”

That all being said, I think I would have to still do something. For my dignity’s sake. Because, honestly, if I hadn’t done anything way back in 2002/2003 and I had simply let the guy run past me…well, I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself. I think it would have haunted me, likely to this day, if I had done nothing. I would have felt like a total coward. So I’m glad I did something, even though that something kind of made me look ridiculous in the long run, going flying 10 feet or so, falling on my ass, doing backwards somersaults on the pavement etc. What I did was messy, certainly not slick like anything you see in the movies, and I’m not even sure I slowed the guy down and/or helped the mall cops in their apprehension of the shoplifter, but at least I did SOMETHING.

Sometimes I wonder if surveillance footage of the incident still exists. I wonder if the mall cops used it as evidence in their prosecution of the shoplifter. Maybe they always wondered who the mystery man was who tried to stop the shoplifter, got body-checked and went flying onto his coccyx. Maybe they wanted to give me a big award or something. Maybe they wanted to give me a free shopping spree at the Wrentham outlets where I could buy all the sneakers I wanted. Maybe they wanted to give me the keys to the city or…well…the town of Wrentham. Maybe they wanted to make me Time magazine’s “Man of the Year.” Who knows, maybe even the President of the United States would have wanted to meet me.

Or maybe the incident fizzled out as quickly as it fizzled in. No charges were pressed. They let the guy go. That is, if they even caught the guy to begin with.

I also wonder where that shoplifter is today. In the slammer for something else? Or did he change his ways? Did he feel bad about body checking me? Who knows, maybe he felt so bad about hitting me that he swore to never do crimes ever again and subsequently went on the straight and narrow. Maybe that was my purpose. Maybe I was placed there at that time to wake the guy up. Stealing is one thing, but hurting people? That wasn’t the man he was and he felt terrible about everything. And now, who knows, maybe he found Jesus and became a priest. All because of me.

In other words, it wasn’t my purpose to stop him that night. It was my purpose to change his life around.

Wishful thinking? Maybe. It’s probably more likely that the shoplifter is still out there in the world somewhere being a total asshole and general menace to society.

…

MATT BURNS is the author of several novels, including Weird Monster, Supermarket Zombies! and Johnny Cruise. He’s also written numerous memoirs, including GARAGE MOVIE: My Adventures Making Weird Films, MY RAGING CASE OF BEASTIE FEVER, JUNGLE F’NG FEVER: MY 30-YEAR LOVE AFFAIR W/ GUNS N’ ROSES and I TURNED INTO A MISFIT! Check out these books (and many more) on his Amazon author page HERE.

Other trending articles by Matt Burns that may be of interest to you:

A Love Letter to the Emerald Square Mall (about the death of the shopping mall age)

The Strange, Surreal Moment of Being Called a DILF Inside a Panera Bread Restaurant on a Wednesday Afternoon

NEVER FORGET the Fun-O-Rama (a traveling carnival memoir)

Weird Times en la Weirdioteca

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s Charlie (a story about Burns’ recurring nightmares featuring Charlie Chaplin)

Some Wicked Good Times: A Love Letter to Newbury Comics

Video Store Memories

I Dream of Dream Machine (a memoir of the local video arcade)

Skateboarding in the 1990s

Revisiting the Blair Witch Project

WAAF Goes Off the Air

PROXOS IN THE PLEX: A Goldeneye 007 N64 Retrospective

100 DAYS of ZELDA: Revisiting Ocarina of Time

I USED TO BE A GAMER: The 8-bit Nintendo Years

RIP PowerBook G3

Getting Your Screenplay Done

Making Your Good Writing Great

Writing the Trilogy

Writing the Sequel

No-No, Learn to Love the Rejection: Some Sage Advice for Writers in Search of an Agent or Publisher

The Story Behind Supermarket Zombies!

The Story Behind The Woman and the Dragon

NOTES:

[i] Ohanian, Lee. “Why Shoplifting is Now De Facto Legal In California.” Hoover Institution, 3 August 2021, https://www.hoover.org/research/why-shoplifting-now-de-facto-legal-california.

Why didn’t she wait for me to put the johnny on?

I’ve been putting it off for a while now. I know I have a couple things that need to be looked at. Minor basal cell carcinomas. Nothing crazy like a melanoma, at least I don’t think so. I need to make the call and set up an appointment. But I hesitate. No, not because I have white coat syndrome and fear doctors; ok, I do have a touch of the old WCS, but that’s not the problem here. Why am I hesitating then?

Because of trauma. That’s why. A traumatic experience that happened about three years ago.

It was supposed to be a routine appointment. I wasn’t nervous or worried about it at all. I needed more of the cream that was effective in getting rid of the basal cell carcinomas on my skin. I would tell you the name of the cream, but then you’ll look it up and discover that it’s the exact same cream that is used for treating genital warts. I assure you I was not using this cream for genital warts. It was for my basal cell carcinomas. Some sort of immunotherapy stuff. Better than the chemo cream that is often used for basal cells. Or at least in my opinion this immunotherapy stuff is better than the chemo cream.

The appointment was at about 2 o’clock in the afternoon or sometime around then. And we’re not talking at a small neighborhood dermatologist, either. This was at a reputable hospital that I won’t name in a city that I won’t name. In other words, this was a place that didn’t mess around and that’s why I liked them. Every other dermatologist I had been to needed to biopsy everything first and then, one-by-one, they would do a burn and scrape surgery and/or a Mohs surgery and the whole process of removing one basal cell carcinoma, let alone several, seemed to take for eternity. At this unnamed hospital, though? No bullshit, folks. They prescribed me the cream and they basically said put it on everything suspicious and see you in a few months. It was that simple. And, like I said, the cream was effective, too. That’s why I had gone back for this appointment. I needed more of the cream!

Well, as it turned out, there was a price to pay for that cream. A BIG ONE. O Lord!

As soon as I arrived for my appointment at 2pm, it was immediately apparent that they were very busy and behind schedule. I waited for more than a half hour—it could have even been 45 minutes—for them to call my name. This was no problem, though. Waiting for almost an hour was a small price to pay for getting me some of that nice skin cream. The BIGGER price came later. THE BIG ONE.

“Matthew?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I said and then I followed a nurse down a maze of bright, cold, sterile hallways.

Once in the room, which was basically a former hospital room with an actual bed instead of your typical medical exam table, I had to wait another 20 or 30 minutes to be seen. I think I spent the time listening to a podcast on my iPod or something, but that’s extraneous information that you don’t need to know about.

Eventually, a young, pretty Asian woman came into the room. See, this was a hospital where there are many med students and I think this young pretty Asian was a dermatological med student.

“Hi, Matt,” she said to me. And then she said, “Oh, you’re still dressed?” or something along those lines. Don’t hold me to these exact words because it was three years ago.

Apparently, the nurse who had shown me into the room was supposed to tell me to undress all the way down to my undies and she was probably even supposed to get a johnny for me. Yes, the johnny. If the nurse who had shown me into the room had actually done her job and told me to undress and also handed me a johnny then I would have had plenty of time to disrobe at a comfortable pace, get my druthers about me, put on the johnny and chill for a bit before I was even seen by the doctor or whoever this young pretty Asian was (again, I think she was a med student). Why is this all important?

You will see in just a moment!

So, anyway, I emphasize the fact that this young pretty Asian was in a hurry and waaaaay behind schedule. She didn’t have a moment to waste. So when she told me to undress to my undies and get into a johnny, I had to haul ass getting undressed. She didn’t even leave the room while I stripped down to my boxer briefs. Instead, she hung out in the corner, turned away from me, tapping her foot, checking her watch and twiddling her thumbs. While she HAD given me a johnny to get into once I was undressed, she DID NOT wait for me to get into it. Nope, as soon as I was undressed, she jumped the gun and began checking me over. Again, I stress the fact that she did not wait for me to get into the johnny.

In other words, she took my “boy” by surprise and “he” was confused as to the nature of this situation. Who is my “boy”? Well, without getting too specific, let’s just say he lives “downstairs” in my trousers. You know what I mean? Oh, this is so embarrassing. Should I even continue writing about this? Ok, I will.

While the “situation” was purely medical, my…er…boy…got confused and interpreted the situation as sexual. I had no control over what was happening and this is completely the young pretty Asian med student’s fault for not allowing me to take a few deep breaths and put a johnny on before she began examining every inch of my near-naked body. A professional would have waited for me to put the johnny on, but she apparently couldn’t wait the one or two more seconds it would have taken for me to put said johnny on. No, she basically pounced on me like a jackal as soon as I stripped down to my underoos.

It happened so fast. I swear I had no control over the situation!

She commenced the full body skin exam, analyzing me and making notes and gently touching me here and there. There was some light poking. And…almost…prodding.

I immediately knew that this “situation” was only going to get worse. I was so caught off guard, or, to put it more precisely, my “boy” was caught off guard. I could feel definite movement down there. Something had been activated. Blood was on the move, flowing with purpose. I can stop this, I thought. I’ve stopped it before. Why would this time be any different?

But this time WAS different. Why? Because everything happened sooooooo fast. I didn’t have enough time to take control over what was happening. My boy had a mind of his own. He was so confused. I tried, boy did I try, to talk him down and convince him that this was not what he thought it was.

“Goddammit, boy, this is a dermatologist appointment, not what you think it is!”

“Not now, Matt, I got business to tend to.”

“No, you dummy! Are you hearing me right now?! It’s not what you think it is!”

“Whatever Matt. Silly Matt!”

At that point in time, my boy and I might as well have been two separate entities with two separate brains. There was no convincing him to stand down. There was no turning him back.

The pretty Asian med student kept examining me. And all I could do was stand there, helpless to do anything about my boy whom I could feel continue to grow in length and width.

“Let’s seeeeee,” the med student said. “Oh, you have some acne here. Or is it eczema?” she said. She was referring to bumps she saw on my back.

“Forget about that shit!” I wanted to say. “We got a situation here!”

I could feel things growing and swelling all the more. I did not want to look down and see what-must-have-been a noticeable bulge by now. How obvious was it? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. No, I think it’s obvious, I thought to myself. There’s no way she won’t see this thing.

“Definitely seems to be some kind of rash on your back here,” the young and pretty Asian med student said.

Did she notice yet? Is she freaked out? Or maybe she hasn’t noticed and when she does, she’ll scream and run out of the room. Can I get arrested for this kind of thing? Is it considered an assault?!

“Ok, get on the bed now and lie belly-up,” she said to me.

Oh shit! Now I’m done for!

I headed for the bed, hoping that the walk would maybe cool things down with the boy who lives downstairs in the dark basement. Wasn’t happening, though. I still didn’t even have an ounce of control over my boy. He had usurped my authority. Shit, this was mutiny!

I lay on the bed with my belly up. I could feel the bulge intensify all the more because now not only was I naked except for my undies, but I was lying on a bed in my undies, belly and, thus, bulge-up. How could I blame my boy for mistaking this purely medical situation for something sexual? This couldn’t get any more “hot,” quite frankly. I mean, I was in my boxer briefs, bulge-up, on a bed and there was a pretty young Asian med student essentially “playing doctor” with me or so it felt like. Might as well just address the elephant in the room here and call a spade a spade. This was hot, I tells ya! Hawt!

I finally took a glance down to the situation and my fears were confirmed. There was quite a bulge down there for sure. I don’t think my boy was at 100% at this point, but I couldn’t tell for certain. It felt like he was at the very least 75% activated. But, again, I was in such shock that I felt numb and couldn’t tell for sure. For all I knew I was at complete Washington monument status.

Also, the flap to my fly on my boxer briefs had opened a bit and there was clear…um…jewels on display and I’m talking of the family variety. If I reached down and fixed the flap to my fly, I would have drawn too much attention to the general area. I had no choice but to simply pretend everything was fine and normal. Nothing to see down there! But there was so much to see. Would she see it?! Had she already seen it?!

The pretty, young Asian med student never acknowledged my “boy” in any public manner, ‘public’ meaning she never commented aloud that I had a suspicious bulge, one that had likely manifested due to sexual arousal. I suppose it’s possible she never knew what was going on or at least never thought that anything out-of-the-ordinary was going on. There is probably a .5% chance she just thought I had a big package and that was that. She may never have noticed that the package in my boxer briefs started out small…er…I mean, modest (it’s never “small,” at least not in the way you’re thinking) and then suddenly ended up really big. Yeah, maybe she thought I was big the whole time. Maybe she thought I had a naturally large package, which would be a good thing, I suppose, at least as far as my ego is concerned.

But this is highly unlikely. I think she must have known what was going on (i.e. that I was getting aroused), then hurried to finish up her exam and then quickly left the room. Because this is exactly what she did: she was really rushed in getting the exam done and then she booked it out of there. Granted, she was behind schedule and likely in a rush anyway, but I feel something else was going on. It seemed like she wanted to get the hell out of Dodge ASAP.

“I’ll send the doctor in!” she said as she disappeared into the hallway outside. And then I never saw her again. Also, this is when I realized she wasn’t the real doctor.

A few minutes passed and, by the time the real doctor entered the room, I had calmed myself with deep-breathing exercises and my boy was under control from that point forward. I noticed the (female) doctor was kind of smiley while she spoke with me. I found this odd, because during previous appointments she was usually rather serious and stoic. Had the young pretty Asian med student discussed the “situation” with the doctor beforehand? Did all the dermatological nurses, doctors and med students gather in the back office and have a big laugh over the fact that there was a patient in Room C who had an uncontrollable Iwo Jima memorial moment?

The doctor was in the room for about three minutes and all she did was say that she would prescribe more of the basal cell carcinoma cream that worked for me in the past and that was that. Couldn’t we have just done this over the phone? Why did I have to be humiliated in the process?

Oh, something I forgot to mention is that the doctor had an entourage of med students with her while she was in the room with me. Not the Asian, though, as she was probably crying alone in a bathroom stall somewhere because of the horror I had subjected her to (look, I’m sorry but all she had to do was give me one extra second to put the johnny on and we could have avoided all this). I mention this entourage of med students (all female, by the way) because, when the doctor left the room, I noticed that one of the students was lingering in the corner. I saw her there in my periphery. What did this girl know? I wondered to myself. Had the pretty Asian med student told her all about me? Was she lingering so she could catch a glimpse of the dolphin show taking place in my boxer briefs when I got up to put my clothes on? Or maybe the Asian had raved about how big my package was and she told her fellow med student to stick around, linger in the room with me a while, and then her fellow dermatological colleague would see an amazing North Korean Intercontinental Ballistic Missile parade.

I got up from the bed and walked over to my clothes that were on a chair. I’m not sure if the med student in the corner of the room was checking me out, but I didn’t care anyway. My boy was fully settled down at that point and my degradation had long reached a saturation point where there was no more humiliation I could have possibly felt anymore. “You want to see my package?! Here it is! Tell the whole world! See if I care!”

I left the dermatologist that day completely mortified and, more importantly, completely traumatized. And now I have to go back to the dermatologist; I really have no choice because I know I have at least a couple new basal cell carcinomas. Believe me, I’ve tried every natural approach to getting rid of these basal cells—making homemade creams with baking soda, Vitamin C, A, D etc.—but NONE of them work.

What are the odds that such a mortifying incident may reoccur? Hopefully slim. But I’m still scared, just like any other trauma victim would be. I likely would have been back to the dermatologist already had it not been for the “incident.” I may have even been back several times. I would have kept on top of all my basal cell carcinomas. But, now, I may have allowed some mysterious speck on my body to go unchecked and, who knows, it could be a melanoma. Do you hear me?! I may die of a melanoma. And why?

All because she didn’t wait for me to put the johnny on.

Why didn’t she wait for me to put the johnny on?

…