Why I Robbed a Jewelry Store

Not many would suspect it.

Me, a nondescript 18-year-old girl, robbing a jewelry store.

Normally, it’s a man who does such things.

I mean, really, robbing a store? Even though it is a jewelry store, and diamonds are, at least according to Marilyn Monroe, “a girl’s best friend,” but still… It’s still, just like, sooooo unladylike.

Seriously. Close your eyes and think about someone robbing a jewelry store. Do you picture a girl? Is that the first image that comes to mind?

Probably not.

I mean, come on, would Marilyn Monroe ever commit an armed robbery?

Probably not.

Nope. When I say “armed robbery” you probably start envisioning, like, some drug addict guy. A wild-eyed freak, a strung-out meth addict, or a pill popper, with missing front teeth, ratty clothes.

Or a thug covered in tattoos, with, like, tons of face tattoos, the type you’d see in a documentary about prison.

Or a criminal gang, professional crooks, with walkie-talkies, and ski-masks, toting guns and duffel bags, an idling getaway car outside…

Oh, or maybe you’re thinking of scenes from Michael Bay movies, all that sort of crap, right?

But no. It was me. I did it. Me, a totally unremarkable young girl.

…

Honestly, it’s the first time in my life anyone has ever cared what I did. I’m usually inconspicuous. I’m a plus-size girl, which kinda renders me invisible. No one ever really notices or pays attention to fat girls. Maybe that’s why I thought I could get away with it. I’ve always been adept at disappearing.

Okay, okay, so you’re probably like, “Why turn to crime?! Get a job, you bum!” and I understand that. But it’s not so simple. Let me explain...

My father died of a heart attack last year. Then three months ago, my mother had one of her feet amputated, due to her diabetes, so now she’s homebound.

I’d planned to go to college, to study nursing. Like, I’ve had a ton of practice, nursing, already, having cared for my mother, so I thought it’d be a suitable career. But after my father died, and especially after my mom’s operation, there were just too many bills, and college wasn’t an option.

And the costs kept piling up. Medical bills. Rent. Utilities. I’d been working at a fast-food shop, the only job I could get, to help with the bills, but the money I was earning hardly made a dent, and further we sunk into debt.

It’s not like we had much saved. My father was a construction worker, didn’t make much. My mother was a line chef at a hotel and didn’t make much either. Our family is scattered, living in different places, and they are also poor, so it’s not like we had a rich uncle to call.

Unable to pay rent, we were facing eviction. Our choices were, basically, to either go live on the street or to somehow pay the rent. Oh, and the back rent too.

So, after watching a movie about a bank robber, I came up with an idea. I’d do that. I’d rob a bank. I’d dash off with a boatload of cash, the type of cash that’d make all our problems vanish.

I thought that’d be the perfect place to rob, a bank, because that’s where the money is, right? But I couldn’t figure out how to do it and get away with it. I’m no criminal mastermind. And I don’t have any machine guns or gang members to help or anything like that. I’d also seen a video about bank robberies that showed how the banks position buttons underneath their counters that instantly call the police and that the bank employees will sneak a bottle, a bomb, really, hidden in the moneybag, and the bottle will explode when it exits the bank, leaving the robber and money splattered in a crazy, Carrie, horror movie type mess of red paint that takes days to wash off.

No thank you. I’ll give that a pass.

Then I thought of robbing an ATM. They’re everywhere, right? Why not just walk up to an ATM with a baseball bat or a hammer and smash it open?

I looked into that one too. The ATM machines are built with super-tough materials, like a black box in a plane, and are nearly impossible to open, simply just bashing them.

But robbing a jewelry store… I saw a couple videos about that, including a few where the perps easily escaped… Hmmm… A jewelry store, the thought got my mind spinning… A jewelry store… Just like in the videos… Me… Running in there… Just like those masked men did… Me… Smashing open a display case, snatching a handful of necklaces, rings, running off… That didn’t seem too hard. I figured I’m strong enough to do that… Maybe…

So I planned it. I picked out a jewelry store in the next town over. I studied the Google Maps, satellite street views, and I planned my escape route.

The hardest part was finding the right weapon. I really wanted to buy a gun. There is nothing cooler and badder than a girl with a gun, right? Even a fat girl like me could kick ass with a gun… But, sadly, I didn’t have the cash for a gun. Which was a conundrum in that I didn’t have the money to buy a gun, and that, of course, was the whole reason I was hatching the plan to rob a jewelry store in the first place. Ugh…

This being the case, I settled on a knife. But we only have kitchen knives and steak knives and those are too big and sharp to easily carry and conceal. Then I got an idea. I’d seen a documentary about 9/11, and it’d said how the hijackers used box cutters to seize control of the planes. Jeez, if a box cutter could be used to hijack a plane, it could easily be used to rob a store. And it’s also easy to carry.

That was it. I’d go in there, wearing a surgical mask, to cover my face, and then I’d break out the box cutter, brandish it, let the staff know that I mean business. I’d make them raise their arms, like the police does to criminals, and then I’d reach in my backpack, whip out a hammer, and smash open a display case, swipe as much jewelry as I can stuff in my backpack, and run off, jump back on my scooter, and disappear into the blur of traffic.

In addition, what I thought would make my plan even better, was that I often cut my hair short. Since I’m a big girl, with short hair, and if I wore baggy clothes, they might think the suspect was a man. Then the cops would be searching for a man, and not me.

…

For the next week, I practiced the robbery in my bedroom, like an actor preparing for a role. I mimicked walking in, waving the box cutter, smashing the case, snatching the jewels, and running off. I envisioned it. I timed it. I estimated it would only take two minutes or so. Then I could ride away and pawn off the jewelry, be back home with a fat wad of cash.

When the day came, I thought I might be nervous. But I wasn’t. I slept well the night before. It was calming. Liberating. I’d pull off the smash and grab and we’d be free of stress, at least for a time.

Riding my scooter, that cool, sunny spring morning, to the store, I listened to “Bad Guy” in my earbuds and pictured myself as a badass, a warrior. I was wearing all black, black mittens, black sweatpants, black sweatshirt, and a black beanie. I felt strong, powerful, but at ease.

I parked my scooter on the sidewalk and stormed into the store. Then I broke out the box cutter from my sweatshirt’s pocket, gripped the square of cold metal in my palm, and approached the counter containing the prettiest and biggest gold chains. The chains were neatly aligned in parallel rows. Price tags, astronomical amounts, denoted under each. Each was worth more money than I could make in a year. Not only that, but the gold was hypnotizing, how beautiful it shone in the soft, buttery yellow light of the shop. The gold so bright that flecks of light flickered off it in explosive little lightning-like bursts.

I clicked the box cutter’s blade up, raised and pointed the small silver triangle of death at the counter bitch’s face. The counter bitch, a stout middle-aged lady with an oddly shaped haircut that seemed a tad too long on the right side, had been leaning forward on the display case, staring and thumbing at her phone.

The counter bitch was wearing a mask too, so I couldn’t see the expression her lips made, but I could picture them making like an “O” because of the guttural gasping sound she made as she looked up from her phone and her eyes landed on the box cutter. I did my best imitation of a man, growled in a husky voice, told her to raise her arms and step back. Then I clicked the box cutter closed and slipped it back in my pocket.

Slinging my backpack into the crook of my arm, I quickly zipped it open, lifted out the hammer. It was a small hammer, the type for typical home repairs and such, but I figured it could do the job. And it did.

I was surprised at how easily the hammer sunk through the glass, shattering it like a thin sheet of ice.

Then I dug into the case, grabbing heaping handfuls of gold, flinging and stuffing it into my bag. And somehow I noticed the gold didn’t seem as shiny once it was in the open, once it was out of the case and in my bag. It was also heavier than I imagined. My bag seemed to weigh 200 pounds as I zipped it shut.

My bag bogged me down, and I felt like I was walking in a swimming pool. But I pushed forward, made my escape. I was surprised that I’d gotten this far. It seemed as if I might succeed, I might actually pull it off.

…

However, once I passed through the doorway, touched the outside air, there was a pack of the jewelry store’s staff surrounding my scooter. The jewelry store employees had angry eyes, and if they weren’t wearing surgical masks similar to mine, I’m sure I’d have seen them scowling at me.

They swarmed, formed a circle around me, a perimeter of humanity, a fleshy fence from which I’d have to cut and kick and chop my way through. It was then I wished I were a true badass. I wished I were really a kung fu, action star, and that I could have knocked them all down and out with only a single kick or punch.

I could have tried, I guess. I could have taken out my box cutter. I could have tried to cut my way through them, stab and slash them. But, truth is, I don’t have it in me. That day was the first time I’d ever committed any crime. Like, it’s one thing to swipe some jewels, but to maim or kill? Nah, that’s not me.

My backpack felt heavier and heavier, like it might pull me down, through the sidewalk, down through the ground, to the center of the Earth, and, for a second, I hoped it would, just to get me out of there.

But it didn’t and it wouldn’t. So I let the bag slide off my back. And I stood there, like a caged animal, encircled by the staff. One of them then barked at me that the police were on the way.

After hearing that, I made a half-hearted effort to run for it, but then two of the staff locked arms and blocked my path before I could get more than a couple steps.

Then I heard the police sirens, the cops roaring in. The cops came out screaming, pointing weapons, and it crossed my mind they might shoot me. But they didn’t. In fact, upon seeing me all pathetic and surrounded by the store’s staff, they actually began to laugh as they moved in, seized and handcuffed me.

It was probably the first time they handcuffed a girl in mittens.

My plan was a total failure.

I confessed to everything. That I’d done it because of my family’s predicament. The judge was an old bird-faced man who spoke slowly, and he took pity on me, since it was my first offense and probably, too, he couldn’t help but have some sympathy upon seeing my mom, and her footless leg.

(Not only that, but my mom, while reaching for a tissue, fell from her wheelchair and tumbled to the floor during one of my hearings. Thankfully, she was okay, but it caused quite the stir…)

((Thankfully, too, following my arrest, my mom was able to move in with a cousin in another county and found work at a hospital.))

In the end, I got 5 years in jail, two of the years suspended, although I might be released after one year, with good behavior.

The jail has job training too, and I’ve enrolled in a program to become a certified nurse’s assistant.