Always the class clown in elementary school and desperate for attention, my stepfather would refer to my incessant talking as "diarrhea of the mouth." I was an obnoxious little shit that would have been classified as having severe ADHD had such diagnosis been prevalent in the early 1980's. Always wanting to be in the spotlight, I idolized musicians like Michael Jackson and New Kids on The Block and was eager to give a karaoke performance at any given moment.
I can not remember a time where I was comfortable in my own skin. Always pretending to be someone else my entire dialogue consisted of quotes I had memorized from Back to the Future and Teen Wolf. I think my mother thought Michael J. Fox was a Christian because she allowed me watch anything that he starred in. She kept a fierce oversight on what media was allowed to enter our home and absolutely relished disciplining her children with kitchware.
The metal spoon was by far her favorite with the wooden spoon coming in a close second place. The spatula just wasnt angled quite right and the wisk would immediately bend into all sorts of innusable shapes upon impact. During the summer months she favored the flip-flop. It was portable, had great flexibility and stung like a yellowjacket.
My stepfather was only called upon to administer beatings if the crime was severe. Equally as portable as the flip-flop but having the benefit of being accessible in all four seasons, his go-to weapon for "expressing his love and care" was a leather belt.
I was arrested the first time in my life in 3rd grade. I thought the giant black balls attached to Kmart's ceiling were..... well, I have no clue what I thought they were but I sure as shit didn't think they were cameras. I shoved a pair of sunglasses that I thought would make me look cool down my pants in clear sight of no more than 4 cameras.
I made it 20 feet out of the front door before a security guard with a Burt Reynolds mustache and velcro shoes (probably stolen from Kmart) grabbed me by my shoulder. He emptied out my pockets once we entered the security office and found a pack of Marlboro Lights.
My mother arrived to pick me up a half hour later and shook a concerned head. After showing much appreciation to Velcro Reynolds for ridding the streets of scum like her son she grabbed me by the hand and led me out to the car. The only words she spoke to me were "wait till your father gets home."
My father worked three towns over as a police officer in a slowly regressing suburb on the doorstep of Philadelphia. He wasn't due home for 4 more hours but dammed if he didn't come home mid-shift, still in uniform, to give me the greatest ass whooping thus far.
He skipped the belt and went straight for the yard stick. After pulling my pants back up and waddling up the steps, I didn't even get my hand on the bedroom knob before hearing "KEVIN!! GET BACK DOWN HERE!! What the frig were you doing with a pack of cigarettes?!"
I'll never understand why my mother didn't tell him about both crimes at one time. A second beating ensued more fierce than the first. Only this time his aim was focused on the back of my legs for fear that my ass would be numb from the initial assult and maybe I wouldn't learn my lesson properly.
Shoplifting would eventually become a practice of every stage of my life. Unfortunately, with the way my brain is wired, I only developed a resentment towards authority figures and made a decision at that age to never get caught again. Since that day, I've never gotten caught again.