Risky Business

I’m bluffing with that second option, if I’m being honest. Unless she’s swiped more than a thirty-five-dollar stuffed animal, we won’t press charges. The amount of money the park would shell out over the hassle of paperwork is more than the value of the stolen item. Especially when for the local cops, it’s pretty much the same deal. They’ve got real crime to stop, not piddly shit. But we will escort her off-property and ban her from returning.

I expect her to deflate. Or I expect her to bow up a little more in a final act of defiance. What I don’t expect is the sly, knowing grin that blooms across her fake-tanned face, nor the evil delight dancing in her eyes. “You don’t know who I am, do you? You really don’t?”

Disquiet settles in my stomach, but my course is set. I’m done with this. With this woman, with her disrespecting park employees, and with the still-growing crowd that’s starting to take sides. Loudly.

“Leave her alone! You can’t prove nothing!”

“The bird’s literally in her bag. Just show the receipt.”

“Look, Karen—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Augh! Karen? Did you call me a Karen?” she screams, stepping close enough to get in my face.

I take a deep breath, which doesn’t settle my ire but rather helps the growing embers bloom hotter. “I apologize. You’re right, you are far too young for that. So . . . McKenzie, McKinley, Brinleigh . . . whatever they call bratty young women who think they can take whatever they want and get away with it—”

I don’t get to finish what I’m saying, which would probably be for the best except my words are stolen by the woman slapping me solidly across the face. I feel the inside of my cheek slice against my teeth, and I can taste blood as a collective gasp of shock goes through the people around us.

Before I can react, the circle is broken by security finally arriving. They must’ve seen the slap during their approach because before I can explain the situation, the two guards grab Shoplifting McKenzie. There’s a scuffle, insistent demands of ‘get your hands off me!’ and ‘get on the ground, stop resisting’, and I try to stand back and not get in the way.

But it’s hard to do nothing. My fists clench at my side, especially as the woman screeches louder and louder, flailing about on the floor like a fish out of water. Her antics become more desperate, her dagger-like nails scratching the guards and her sneakered feet kicking out at the guard trying to take her purse. Freddy Freebird goes flying, as does a stack of souvenir T-shirts, a wallet, and various purse contents. A tube of lipstick rolls along the floor, and for some reason, that feels like my cue.

“Enough!” I bark. The crowd jumps, but the woman ignores me, still fighting as though it’s for her life and not a misdemeanor shoplifting accusation with a tacked-on assault charge. Because after this, we’re absolutely calling the police. Escorting off-property isn’t nearly enough after this.

The guards spin, struggling to corral the woman, and before my brain makes the decision, my body is on top of her. I pin her down, allowing security to focus on handcuffing her.

“Get off me, you pervert!”

“Be still and let them handcuff you. I don’t want you to get hurt.” It’s the complete truth, but even to my ears, it sounds like a heartless lie considering I’m snarling and my voice is hard.

She wiggles beneath me, but the guards are quickly successful. “All clear, Mr. Steen,” one of the guards says, panting heavily. “We’ve got her.”

I get up, catching my own breath and in shock at how something as normal as a shoplifting stop turned into something so dramatic. They pull her up by her arms, but she’s not what I’d consider ‘under control’ since she’s still shouting and kicking out as the guards walk her away toward the on-site security office.

“Oh, y’all done fucked up now! You just wait! I’m going to own this place!” She flicks wild eyes to the crowd. “You saw that. They assaulted me. This is illegal detainment! If I disappear, tell the police who did it.”

I sigh at her dramatics. How in the hell does she think she’s the victim here? Barbara’s in tears, two security guards are covered in red scratches, and I can taste the blood on my tongue. Hopefully, it’s not bad enough that it’s showing when I open my mouth. The last thing I need is to say something while looking like Dracula.

And the merchandise she stole is still scattered about, proof of her misdeeds.

Work isn’t done, though. Instead of yelling in frustration, I switch back into my fake as fuck customer service voice and address the crowd. “Sorry about that, everyone. Please go back to enjoying your day. Might I suggest a snack at the nearby Boston Tea Party, or a ride on the Founding Fathers carousel?” The options are more orders than suggestions, and I move toward a few people, gently steering them with outstretched arms and a big smile that hurts my face, reminding myself no teeth, no teeth and probably looking like a creepy bastard because of it. “We need to clear this area.”