Christmas Story Part I

I remember it well. The worst day in my life. I was twelve when my dad was sent to the nick: five years for drug dealing. Life was tough in our town since the big factory where dad had worked all his life closed down. The company had moved its manufacturing to Romania and to Vietnam. There was already unemployment in the town and the closure put many more men out of work. Dad had some redundancy money, but it was soon gone. He was advised to go to the Tech for retraining, but he was depressed and started to take drugs, pot, crack or whatever was available. He was very short of cash and took up an offer from an unknown man to do some dealing. Dad was not street-wise at all and knew nothing of the drugs trade and the nasty individuals in it. He was caught by the flic and ended up in clink. They were after the big boys but dad could not identify any of them. He took the full rap instead.
By then my brother, Gérard, had joined the army and left home. He was a lot older than me but we were always very close. There was my sister, Claudine, who was bit younger than Gérard but she died of meningitis when she was seventeen. I think that brought us ever closer. Gérard was always more grown up than dad, and I always felt more secure when he was around. Mum never said anything, but I guess she felt the same.
So now there was just me and mum. I was scared, I can’t lie, and wondered how we would cope. I was a skinny kid. She was a thin lady and one of those people who always look anxious. She was always keen to work and enjoyed her job as a waitress in the Café Olivier near our apartment. To make ends meet she also cleaned offices in the early mornings, in evenings and weekends. She was always tired and I was always uneasy, but we kept going.
I was picked on by kids at school because I was small and as they all knew about dad. This was thrown at me all the time. Bullies would push me over and kick me, not to do serious harm but to let me know my place. “His old man’s a jail-bird”, said smirking Emile Lukas, as he put the boot in. It was sure painful but nothing broke. The good thing was that these kids were in gangs and the bullies tended to want to fight each other. Emile was the leader of one of them and one time he had a mega fight with Marcel Pignac, another little Caesar. There was no glory for those scumbags in kicking a skinny kid like me. I also learned quickly to keep out of the way of trouble. I knew I was no tiger and thought of myself as a fox. Tread carefully and pick your time to make moves. Other kids called me chicken because I would not do things like standing on a railway line for as long as possible as a train was approaching at speed. That crazy game had got so bad that the train drivers were threatening to strike if the flic did not stop it.
I had a mate a school called Chas. Like me he kept a low profile. Chas was an expert at shop-lifting. He showed me the ropes.
“Avoid the supermarkets as the small food shops are much easier. There is usually just one person at the till. Sometimes they have to go to the store room, and you can take what you want before they get back. At other times there may be another customer who wants to buy a lottery ticket, and they don’t see what’s going on.
“I occasionally do supermarkets. It’s risky but I get a buzz. I get near a family with kids and try to look as if I am with them. Even better if there are two families, because each one might think I am part of the other, if you see what I mean. The mums do not take notice of me as they are looking for things to buy and trying to watch their kids. I pick up stuff and slip it into my bag. I go for light-weight expensive items like steak, charcuterie, salmon or fruit tarts; I avoid cheap tinned food and spuds which gets heavy in the bag. There is a separate entrance in Intermarché near the pharmacy. When leaving, go into the pharmacy as if you are looking for something and then sneak out of that entrance.
“It is better to go at busy times and in isles where most of the customers are. If you are all alone in some corner, it is harder to hide what you are up to.
“Mum knows I nick stuff. She don’t care a monkeys.”
Chas did not confine himself to food stores but was also good at taking trainers and sports clothes. I never went in for that. It was only essential foods for me to help mum. She must have known I was nicking stuff as she would see things in the fridge. But she was too flaked out and depressed to say anything, and let me make my own way about.
Following Chas’ advice I started to do supermarkets. It always worked, and I was even cool enough at times to buy something at the pharmacy on my way out to look really legit.
Things changed later that year as an organised gang from Trouville moved in and started to shoplift all over town on a big scale: booze, fags, expensive meat and non-food items. I was approached by a gang member but said no, as I hate gangs. All this led to better security in the stores. One day as I was leaving the pharmacy at Intermarché after a bit of “shopping”, I was stopped by a security guard, a huge great Polish guy. He led me outside and handed me over to a cop, who was leaning on his police car. A police woman got out of the driver’s seat and joined him. They took my bag with the items in it and asked my name and address, which I gave them: “Jean Leroux, 405 Laplace Résidence.”
“Do you have a receipt for these items?” “No”. “So you pinched them.” “I must have.”
“Where’s your dad?” “He’s not around.” “Is he by any chance the Jacques Leroux who is in le Marais for a drugs offences?” “That’s him.” “Where’s your mum?” “She will be at work. But this is nothing to do with her.”
The police woman chipped in, “Oh yes it is. Where is her work place?” “The Café Olivier.” “We are taking you to the station to interview you and we need a parent there. We will call in at the café and ask her to join us.”
So after a while, we all ended up at the station and there was also a social worker woman there. I admitted the shoplifting.
(To be continued. What will happen to Jacques? Will he go back to shoplifting? What has happened to Gérard? What sort of Christmas for Jacques and his poor mum?)

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