Confessions

Between 1992-1995, I stole $30,000 from the County, and it felt good.

The County started this pilot composting program. They hired this guy — some wide-eyed hippie motherfucker with a creeper mustache — and pushed these cheap plastic composters on the Clintonian neo-yuppies of suburban Maryland. These were the younger years of the armchair environmentalist movement — back when the whole thing went mainstream, and we decided to care by recycling our beer cans, and making sure our yard clippings were put to better use, all while wearing our slave-made clothes and driving SUV’s that required a stepladder to enter. How little we’ve changed. Not that I care about the environment. But, still…

These ridiculous composters were about five feet wide and four feet tall, green, made out of cut-rate industrial plastic, and with holes punched in them (by Malaysian slaves?). The price tag — a whopping $20 per composter. Never say the County government didn’t do anything for ya!

They advertised the fuck out of these compost bins. And I mean full-frontal assault. Buy these composters or else you — and, I mean, you, personally — will have sodomized Mother Earth.

Then the County limited the retail outlets to three locations, of which our little niche specialty bookshop was one.

People came in droves. I would arrive to open up the shop at 8am and, every morning, there’d be a line out into the parking lot. People came and hammered on the doors after we closed for the day. We had to open early to meet the demand. The County backed up trucks to the side of our building and just dumped these cheap compost bins out onto the ground, one big, insane, pile of tightly wrapped plastic bundles. Before we even had a chance to sort them out and get them set up properly, people would dive on us. There were days that we’d sell the big truckload out — taking the orders right there in the parking lot — within 15 minutes. People fought over these things. It’s easily the most surreal retail experience I’ve ever had.

The County wasn’t allowed to take credit cards or checks for some insane bureaucratic reason. Cash only, folks! So everybody was throwing money at us. The cash register drawer would be bulging with composter money, which we handed over to the County every week. They, then, would send us a check for 10% or something. Even that paltry sum was enough to keep everyone happy, though. By the end of the day, we’d have to put all the overflow money — and, mind you, these were often twenty dollar bills — into a big strongbox in the office.

After the first couple months, it became clear to me that no one tracked this money. I’d hand over a duffelbag of cash to the creeper compost guy, and he’d drive away in his beat up little Toyota. There was no oversight at all. This was a complete free-for-all. So, of course, I decided to start pocketing some of the cash. Why not? Call it a bonus tax return.

As with all things I steal from my various jobs, I adhere to a strict formula — I only take 10% of what I could actually steal. I figure, well, I’m doing a bad thing, and I’m taking advantage of someone, so it’s my duty — a social contract, if you will — to look after my victims. You don’t want to knife somebody in the alley and steal $100. You want to keep them happy and warm and steal $30,000.

At the end of each day, I’d count down my drawer, close everything out, then count up the composter loot, and pocket 10% of the County’s money.

This sounds bad, I know, but it paid for college, a few extensive trips overseas, and helped fund my misguided, liberal arts loser life till about 2000 or so. Then there’s always the argument in these cases — who is the real thief? The kid who takes a bit off the top, or the cruel government that charges an 80% mark-up on some retarded bullshit? I have no regrets and, so, today I celebrate this larceny with you, my dear readers.