I Was A Cat Burglar (For A Day)

It’s time for another “For A Day” tale, for those of you who know what that means. For you newcomers, it’s where I share a crazy story from my past that puts me about as close to the job function or lifestyle in the title as I ever want to get.

But this tale will be a little different this time around because sadly, this one should never have happened. Especially considering that it has been a recurring theme for many decades.

But enough talk. Let’s get to it, shall we? Time to tell you how…

I Was A Cat Burglar (For A Day)

Tallahassee, Florida 1993

As many of you know, I am an avid reader and have been all of my life. And although my music and dating lives took away from much of my reading time, I still found as many opportunities as possible to frequent a used bookstore called The Bookshelf.

Located a short walk from Florida A&M’s campus, I often made that my spot, dropping off a few books I had been reading to trade in for more. As a result, I got to know the owner, a retired homicide detective, and his wife quite well.

After college, I continued my visits, especially on the weekends. I spent a great deal of that time talking to the owner, his wife and his mother, who only worked there to occupy her remaining years in a useful capacity. It wasn’t long before Randy (the owner) and his wife Kaye asked me if I was interested in working there on Saturdays. I had become a close and trusted friend to the family, and they knew that by me working there, I’d be where I wanted to be anyway. This also freed them up to do other things.

Of course, it was a no-brainer for me. Getting paid to be around books.

In time, I had become such a trustworthy employee and friend that Randy and Kaye often referred to me as their son (they already had two other adopted young men my age). He even took me to a police auction and let me choose a car, which he purchased, to get me around town without having to share one car with my wife.

Now that’s family…

It didn’t take long for me to get to know all of the regular customers by name. I had even memorized the comic book subscribers’ choices so fluently that I could load their reservation folders without needing to refer to the order books. The only reason I referenced them was because they often placed special orders. Other than that, my main job in addition to book sales was evaluating, pricing, buying and shelving incoming used books, which I often received in small bags and boxes.

All went smoothly and I usually got all books shelved before closing. That is until the week came where they took in an inordinate number of used books from a slew of customers who brought them in dozens of large boxes.

The store was closed on Sundays, and I often used that time to sleep in, so I asked if I could come in during that time to catch everything up. Randy had no problem with it, in fact he liked the idea. He knew I would dust, sweep and mop to clear the residue from all of the old books.

Besides, he always created ways to throw a couple extra dollars my way.

Now that’s family…

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It was my 3rd Sunday working. I agreed to go in at 6:00 a.m., even though he said I could report whenever I pleased. I worked until around 10, oftentimes telling hopeful customers that we were still closed once they parked in front, seeing the store lights on. Every now and then I’d let a regular in to pick up their order, with promise of payment the following Saturday. Randy was cool with that. It was a family shop and trust went a long way. Besides, who was stupid enough to hold out on a former detective who knew the entire police department?

On this day, I had brought in my dual cassette / CD player along with about 10 CDs, which I sprawled across the counter. I had just popped in the latest Shanice Wilson CD, to which I performed my one-man ballet, chock full of pirouettes and leaps from book genre section to section, alphabetizing and shelving new material.

The sun had risen and as I grabbed my next pile of categorized books, I noticed the silhouettes of various figures moving outside of the building.

I looked at the door entrance and spotted a police officer standing sideways. When our eyes locked, he pointed downwards. Nodding in supposed understanding, I slowly dropped down behind the counter, wondering how an intruder had made his way into my shop. I knew the music wasn’t that loud, but then again…

After about 10 seconds, there was rapid knuckle-knock on the door’s glass. I peeked up above the counter and he motioned again. That’s when I realized he was instructing that I open the door.

Five minutes later, I was standing against the outside window, surrounded by a semi-circle of officers, trying to explain that I worked there.

Does this scene sound familiar? No? Remember my photography incident? (Click here to read, “Shooting In Black And White”, but don’t worry. If you select it, that post will appear in a separate tab for later reading).

Although innocent and pissed, I was a bit nervous. There was no internet back then and I wasn’t very trusting of law enforcement, having been harassed by police officers on more than one occasion. I had also known about cases of black people shot and killed, having been mistaken for criminals and/or falsely accused. And let us not forget, allegedly resisting arrest. No, you young readers aren’t the first. This problem has a long, ugly history.

Per my suggestion, they made several unsuccessful attempts to reach Randy to verify that I worked for him. And it seems they were insistent upon making a public spectacle of me as church buses with familiar faces passed by slowly to see what was going on as I was being frisked.

If you’re thinking that’s what I get for not spending my Sunday mornings in church, you’re right.

Even though I told them I was an employee, gave them my boss’ name, title and phone number, I was detained for a good half hour. Never mind the fact that:

• I’d been dancing around the store.
• I had the keys to open the store.
• There was cleaning equipment laying around, obviously in use.
• I had snacks sitting on the counter.
• I had my music all around the counter. Boombox playing.
• The store sat on the corner with windows all around and a clear view from the public with the lights on, hiding nothing. Nothing at all.
• The fact that one of my customers, who was a chiropractor (and yes, white) two doors over, berated them for treating me unfairly and adding that they wouldn’t be doing this to white employees. (Yes, just like the other incident).

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To this day, I never learned the identity of the “concerned citizen who was just doing his civic duty and called the police”, but I had my beliefs. There was no need to file a formal complaint because all they had done was keep me outside, uncuffed. But that didn’t change how I felt and the fact that I had not been given the benefit of the doubt, despite clues that even the Keystone Cops would catch.

All I know is that it didn’t sit well with Randy at all. I wasn’t told what happened, but knowing him, somebody caught it. I had faith in that, and Kaye subtly confirmed it.

I also know I was tired of it and wondered if my children would have to walk on eggshells when they were old enough to be stopped and questioned for a BWB (“Breathing While Black”).

That’s why I had many conversations with them about how to conduct themselves when confronted. Or when pulled over. What and what not to say and do.

My best friend similarly had the police called on him (in the same area), falsely accused of theft and made to strip naked and bend over as they searched him for money he never took from a cash register he supposedly reached towards during a transaction at a pizza restaurant. It was revealed that the employee miscounted her drawer. Yes, he took legal action and won.

But we don’t hate the police, nor are we “anti-white” as some would claim because of tales like these. I was raised to embrace all cultures and to trust the police, as I raised my sons.

What we are is tired. Sick and tired.

I know that there are people don’t and won’t try to understand. And they may blindly justify these actions, despite a probable “crime scene” put together by pre-schoolers.

But they probably never have or will be subjected to such a situation. Neither will their children.

And if by chance it DOES happen to them, I’m sure they’ll get an apology.

I sure as hell didn’t.

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In memory of saxophonist Don Myrick of Earth, Wind & Fire’s Phenix Horns. On this day (July 30), 30 years ago, Officer Gary Barbaro shot and killed Myrick during a narcotics investigation after mistaking a butane lighter for a gun.

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