Blood's thicker than a cheap discount store luggage lock (a.k.a. How I learned not to squeal)

I like to think of myself as an honest person, and if I’m being honest, then I must confess that my first brush with the law occurred when I was a mere 5 years old. It was nothing too bad mind you, but it was bad enough that I still recall it clearly. In fact, it’s my very oldest memory of being in really deep shit with my parents.

My mother used to have the bad habit of taking my brother and me along with her on her errands and then forcing us to wait in the dreadfully hot, boring car while she shopped. To be fair, she probably cultivated this habit in response to the fact that when she did actually bring us inside places, we tended to trail farther and farther behind her until we were alone and had captured a few precious unsupervised minutes.

On this particular occasion, my mom had taken us to a discount department store. We lagged behind and we soon found ourselves alone in one of the best aisles: the luggage aisle. (Best because it didn’t have any clothes and therefore nothing to try on). I can still remember my fingers idly tracing along the rows of suitcases, feeling the fabrics and pausing longingly each time I came across one of the absolutely fantastic, wonderful, alluring, shiny, MINIATURE LOCKS.

I have no idea why I was so enthralled by the luggage locks. But in my mind they were perfection and like a mischievous little magpie I needed to bring one home to my nest. And clearly my brother felt the same way, because he came up behind me and whispered “loooook,” pointing to a stray lock that had fallen to the ground. It was begging to be picked up. I wanted it and I wanted it bad, but I didn’t dare. My brother (two years bolder) grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket without thinking twice.

“Do you think…” I trailed off, too timid to even suggest what I was thinking.

“Of COURSE we can take it,” Sean interrupted. “Nobody will miss it. They won’t even know which suitcase it went to. C’mon,” he urged, grabbing me by that hand. “Let’s get one for you too.”

Our eyes scanned the floor of the shelf and before long, we found another lock. I joyfully snatched it up and pocketed it.

I was SO excited. So excited in fact, that we didn’t stop there. We found another lock and another and another until we weren’t just picking the stray locks off the ground – we were actually taking locks from the suitcases themselves and stuffing them in our jackets until they literally bulged with the contraband.

When we got home that night, we stole away to the back bedroom to gloat over our treasure. We were as giddy as trick-or-treaters picking over their loot; high on the delicious rush of good kids being bad for the first time.

I should pause here to mention the volatile relationship my brother and I had as children. One minute we would be best friends and thick as thieves (quite literally in this case). A heartbeat later and with no apparent provocation, my brother could be sitting on me and pummeling me while I clawed, scratched, and bit at him like a tiny furious animal, spitting out that I hated him. And then just an hour after that we would have made up over a shared blanket and a cartoon marathon.

So anyway, on this occasion we had been getting along superbly, united in camaraderie by our shared guilt. Until, that is, Sean decided that he deserved the bigger share of the locks. I insisted that they be split 50/50 and he insisted that his bigger pockets had carried more of the locks home so he should get the majority of them. He wouldn’t budge, and he was bigger and stronger than me. I was stuck.

Even at the age of 5, I had a shrewd don’t-fuck-with-me-I-don’t-negotiate-with-terrorists kind of attitude. So I did the logical thing to retaliate. I broke the cardinal rule of kiddom and ran as fast as I could to go squeal to our parents. I knew I would be in trouble too. But it was worth it. If I didn’t get my fair share of locks, neither of us would get any locks at all.

I burst into the living room like a firecracker. Before Sean even suspected what was about to happen, I had managed to blurt out “Sean stole the locks at Marshall’s and he has a whole bunch of them and he’s in the bedroom now and he stole them and there are SO MANY!” I started crying and hoped for mercy.

Now, I knew there would be hell to pay with my parents. And I knew that I would be getting a (well deserved) pummeling from my brother later. What I didn’t bargain for was that my mother’s response would be to sweep every last lock into a plastic baggie and march us back to the store the next day to confess.

As we waited at the front of the store for the manager, I swear every drop of blood in my body turned to liquid shame. Deathly shy under normal circumstances, I was utterly mortified at having to confess my crime to a stranger. I’ve never felt worse in my life.

When the manager came out, my mom pushed us forward while saying to her “my children have something to tell you.” I shrunk back, hiding behind my mom’s skirt in horror. She unsympathetically pushed me forward again.

I was terrified and trembling, and instinctively, my brother reached out and grabbed my right hand in his left. He would be brave enough and bold enough to take the bullet for both of us. He looked the store manager in the eye and held out the bag of locks in his tiny hand. “We took these locks from here. We know it was wrong and we’re very very very sorry.”

I was doing my damndest not to cry and was too ashamed to say a word. Sean squeezed my hand in support and I managed to whisper “I’m sorry too” before turning to bury my face in my mom’s side.

In the end, neither of us had any locks (although I wouldn’t be surprised if Sean had secretly managed to keep one or two), we were both grounded, and we both felt terrible. I learned not to snitch and I also learned that even if Sean regularly indulged in his sadistic whims to pull my hair and punch me in the face, he would always be there to squeeze my hand when I was sad and scared. A quarter of a century later, he still is, and I appreciate it as much as ever.

Thanks, Sean. I love you. Happy birthday.