I lost my virginity when I arrived in Tulsa. I was mid-twenties and naïve. Oh. Wait a minute. I don’t mean that “birds and bees” stuff. More like the “virgin snow” reference, as in – undisturbed new territory.
The U-Haul was barely unpacked before I became a big-city crime victim.
Like I said, I was naïve. Didn’t know you had to protect your stuff because, if you didn’t, others might take advantage. It never really occurred to me that people would do things like secretly take stuff that belonged to others. I was a classic knucklehead.
Oh, sure. I knew what burglary was. On my first job at Allen’s IGA in McAlester, I was a fifteen-year-old flatfoot, following boss’s orders as I stalked a woman around the aisles watching as she stuffed a pot roast into her cavernous purse. Apparently, all I learned from that was – if you steal, you’ll get caught at the checkout counter. (She even had a jar of asparagus stalks in that handbag. Fine dining on the carryout program, I suppose.) My boss Marshall was a pro. She paid extra cash for nearly $50 worth of purse-carried items.
Growing up in a small town can contribute to a sense of personal security. Under a certain size, the newspapers call them “communities.” That’s the truth, in my opinion. Small towns are simply communities of common-minded people and that’s the reason I still have a fondness for those places.
My favorite example – one I’ve repeated often enough: We had just purchased a house. I mean JUST purchased. Moved in, unpacked enough to set the alarm clock to make it to work on time the next morning. Bzzzz. Shower. Shave. Drive to work. I had barely arrived at the office when I got a phone call from the realtor who had worked the sale.
Mrs. Realtor, on the telephone: Larry? I hate to bother you at work but I just drove by the house, and your front door is wide open.
Me, still trying to figure out who this caller is (it’s early, the day after moving in…): Open?
Mrs. Realtor: Yessir. The door is open. Wide open. I would have stopped and closed it for you, but I was running behind this morning and just now got to the office myself.
Me: Oh. Well, that’s okay.
Mrs. Realtor: I was thinking you might want to run by and close it. A dog or a squirrel might run right in and then you might have a mess on your hands.
A mess. Catch that? She was worried about a mess. Nothing more. I thanked her and hopped in my car, whizzed over to the house and drew the door tight. I didn’t lock it. Wasn’t my habit. Dogs and squirrels can’t open securely closed doors. Dogs don’t have thumbs, and squirrels are too short to reach the doorknob.
Did you notice? Mrs. Realtor made no mention – whatsoever – of thieving humans. That’s the thing about small towns. Oh, sure. There are some incidents. They just don’t happen frequently, and when it happens, everyone in town knows who did it. Later, those folks are arrested again, chastised again, and then again, everyone gets their stuff back. It’s inconvenient, but nothing permanent.
The point of the story?
My move to Tulsa and the loss of my victim-virginity wasn’t the end of it. In no time, I became a victim-floozy. Park the car at the shopping center: return to a break-in and loss of cheap in-dash radio. Leave the garage open: return to the loss of toolboxes and still-to-be identified items. (Never know what you’ve lost until you need it and go to the garage to get it.)
I finally got it.
Tulsa is not a small town. Tulsa is different from small towns. People steal in Tulsa.
Here is the deductive reasoning. Broken Arrow is no longer a small town; hence, people steal in Broken Arrow.
So here I am, working a 12+ hour day, removing all the antique and collectible books from the shelves, stacking them in the office. The decorative bric-a-brac that contributes to the feel of the shop, those odd-ball things I’ve collected over the years? Those are on-shelf temptations. Not to book-people. Not to readers.
But the Main Street Tee-Off event crowd isn’t composed of readers.
So, I have to shake off my small-town upbringing and my general belief in the goodness of my fellow humans. I’ve got to work extra late this week and then extra hours next week, restoring the items to the shelves, just because I’ve learned (finally) that some people cannot be trusted. (Several of my neighbors were victimized last year, and I probably was as well. Too naïve to realize it, I suppose.) I’d leave the front door open if it was just dogs and squirrels. I’ve come to trust their judgment.
None of this is your fault, I know. I only mention it here in case you drop by and wonder what has happened to the shop. You’ll notice, and here is my explanation.
Folks casually visiting the shop for the first time Thursday evening won’t see any of the nice First Editions or the leather bound volumes dating to the 1700s.
But, I’ll have cookies.
Come visit!
McHuston
Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main St. Broken Arrow OK!
