The scene was Mammoth Mart in Waterville, a store that was destined to become King’s, which would become Rich’s, which would become a vast empty building that nobody knew what to do with.

It was the end of the disco era and life was good. You could listen to the radio without being asked to shake your groove thing and you were no longer required to wear bell-bottom jeans that would get stuck in your bicycle chain. Rock ‘n’ roll was making a comeback. Then the ’80s happened, but never mind that for now.

I was a kid who had come into possession of a device called Mr. Microphone and I couldn’t have been happier. With Mr. Mic, I could transmit my voice onto the radio, an ability I saw as potentially life-changing. This would surely be the launch of a fruitful musical career during which young women would assail me with their undergarments and such. I was eager to get started.

As far as I was concerned, the only thing that stood between me and Andy Gibb-caliber musical stardom were the three C batteries required to operate Mr. Microphone and which — can you believe this crap? — didn’t come with the device.

My Grit paper sales gig hadn’t been proving lucrative and I was short on cash. What was to be done? When you’re 11 years old and falling under the spell of the promises whispered by Mr. Microphone in the night, the answer is obvious. If you need something that badly, why not take advantage of a little five-finger discount, if you get my drift, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

I conspired with a friend (I was going to let him play guitar in my band, but he wouldn’t be allowed to collect any of the flung lady underthings) to shoplift one package of four C batteries. Why not, right? Mammoth Mart was a gigantic retailer that would clearly be around forever. With millions in their bank vaults, surely they would survive the theft of one measly pack of batteries.

Sadly, I spent so much time rationalizing the larceny, I put no actual thought into the planning of the heist. Within seconds of pocketing the batteries, a store security guy sprang out of the shadows to apprehend us. In my memory, the security man wore a short-clipped mustache and a trilby hat while carrying a magnifying glass for the collection of clues. In reality, I believe he was actually a frumpy little dude in a baggy sweatshirt who collared kids like me for minimum wage.

But whatever. We were caught. Collared. The gig was up, see? We were taken into a little room and interrogated under a bare light bulb for hours, worked over by beefy men with truncheons and a taste for administering pain. Or maybe we were just given stern lectures and warned about the consequences of our actions. It was very much an after-school special kind of scene and one that left me feeling a deep sense of shame and remorse.

Plus, I still didn’t have batteries for Mr. Microphone, which is why my rock ‘n’ roll career never got off the ground.

I think the temptation to steal is the kind of thing you grow out of. When you’re young, the concept of honor is in its infancy, if it exists at all. Things like empathy, conscience and dignity are still being formed and all you know about right and wrong comes in the shape of empty words from the lips of droning adults.

Or maybe that was just me. The fact is, most of us don’t steal because we’ve developed a sense of honor and fair play. When the self-checkout line at Wal-Mart allows you a free can of tuna fish, you go back and scan it again because you know that sandwich would ultimately taste like pure guilt. When a checkout clerk gives you too much change, you promptly give it back. We’re good people, even if our Mr. Microphones don’t work.

Most of us, that is.

One recent afternoon at Wal-Mart, I witnessed two women attempting to shoplift mascara (or some girl gunk, anyway) by slipping several packages of the stuff into a purse. They eyed each other as they did so, and whispered conspiratorially back and forth. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. They were very much like me and my long-ago partner in crime, only these ladies were pushing 30; they weren’t kids still young enough to believe that the only consequence to stealing is the potential for getting caught.

I waited for Inspector Clouseau to drop out of the ceiling to apprehend the gals, but he never did. I have no idea whether they left the store with the goods or had sudden bouts of shame and put them back. I remember reading that something like $35 billion worth of goods are swiped every year in the U.S., which means a hell of a lot of people are out there with sticky fingers and underdeveloped morals. Which just goes to show … I don’t know. Something.

While you’re mulling that, I imagine you’re also wondering what I was doing in the makeup aisle at Wal-Mart in the first place. Funny story there. Embarrassing story.

Unfortunately, I’m out of space.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. He will take confessions daily at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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