The Greatest Heist
How to legally dismantle any public-facing corporation
Humble Beginnings
Seven. Eight. Hrruuurrrnnggghh. Niiiiii…..ne. Damn. There is no ten.
It’s my first day back at the gym in months. I rack the humiliatingly light dumbbell, used for embarrassingly few total reps. I feel the crushing weight of absolutely nobody watching me nor giving a shit about what I’m doing. I’m the talk of the town.
I give myself some grace; pat myself on the back; let myself enjoy the pump in the mirror. Enough of that now, you rascal. Time to head home and drink my milky.
My sister texts me: You make queso, right? Oh, █████. Do you not know what you’ve done? You’ll look back on this one day as the moment everything went wrong in your life. My blog is coming for you.
I do make queso! I reply. Check out this hella sick blog post I wrote about it!
She ignores the link and still hasn’t subscribed to my blog. I’ve been roped into making queso for Christmas. I’ll have to head to the local grocery store first thing.
A devilish idea did dance in my mind at that moment.
No more delays, I say. It’s time to enact The Heist.
They won’t know what hit ‘em.
Unexpected Multitudes
As I pull into the parking lot in my douchebag car that I bought as a teen, I steel my resolve. I can do this! I’ve come so far. It’s not even technically a felony, I remind myself. But I know it should be. Once the world learns of my plot, it will be.
The doors open automatically, inviting me in. Will they be punished for what they’ve allowed me to do this day?
Good GOD.
The first hiccup in the plan. I knew this would happen, but I didn’t think it’d come so soon. Two greeters — TWO FUCKING GREETERS! How many times have I rehearsed this? None of that will work now. I have to think on my feet.
“Morning to you both!” I squeak out, my heart firmly lodged way the hell up in my esophagus. “Doing double duty, huh?” I’m proud of myself. One starts to respond, but is cut off by the other. They spend a few seconds — more vital than they know — poorly negotiating whose turn it is to speak. I wait patiently. I’ll let them take all the time they need.
This is going well. I head to the vegetable section, refusing to allow myself the paranoia of a glance over my shoulder. I feel the sentinels’ suspicious eyes bearing down on my back. They don’t know! They can’t know! I whisper.
They threw off the emperor's groove, but I’m back on track now. The vegetables demand careful inspection — I do have to make some delicious queso, after all — but most importantly, the second phase of my plan is about to begin.
“Excuse me, sir? Where are your Jalapeños?” I inquire of the kindly-looking older employee as he walks past me. He mutters something and points in the right direction, but I’m not brushed off so easily. Please help me; I am so stupid declares my face. He takes me there himself. I didn’t plan on his having a limp, but all the better for it.
Thirty-two. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five.
I’ve spent much more time than I expected… and I’ve already stuffed my pockets more than I ever dared dream.
Cheese Monger, Cheese Monger, Mong Me Some Cheese
Vegetables in basket; basket in hand; it’s time for phase three. I’m at the deli now, and lord, there’s a line. I knew this would be one of the most unpredictable elements of my plan, so I’m cool and collected. An elderly woman is finding it difficult to explain, to the several employees who are helping her, what exactly she’s looking for. She wastes several minutes of not only the employees’ time, but that of all those behind her. Is she on a heist of her own? If so, she’s playing by different rules. First: no collateral damage.
It’s finally my turn. I’ve done my homework; I have all the intel I need. I play my part perfectly: “4 ounces of Land-o-Lakes White American please.”
“We don’t do ounces; what’s that in pounds?”
I know you don’t do ounces, cheese mongrel! You are putty in my hands.
“Er, sorry… a quarter pound please.”
The man rustles around his stock drawer for quite some time — forty-five seconds exactly — before returning with what he believed to be bad news: they’re all out of that cheese! No matter; you’re being so much more helpful than you know. I “settle” for Cabot.
More than eighty already.
I have what I came for. I need to get out now.
Cream of Deceit
On my way to the self-checkout, I seize an opportunity: a single shot-sized bottle of Fireball, the last of its carton. Plop it goes into my basket. A delicious, cinnamon-tinged twist in the plan.
I’m checking out now. Beep. Beep. Unrecognized item in the bagging area. Wait. Beep. Beep. Approval needed for restricted item.
I don’t reach for my wallet. Not yet. It’s not time.
I pretend not to notice the clerk ambling over. I write a nothing text to nobody; so focused am I, you see. This text is so important! “Excuse me, sir, can I see your ID?” I let his question hang in the air for one second — two seconds — can I do THREE? — before finally finishing my text, feigning surprise at his presence. “Oh, sorry!” I stammer. My wallet drops to the ground. I’m so clumsy today… or so it seems.
Tick tick tick tick.
By the time the clerk is done with me, I’ve lost count. This is bad.
One last item: the heavy whipping cream. Wait. This isn’t the plan. It’s leaking. And the leak has hardened. I can’t make queso with this. But I can use it anyways. I call the clerk’s attention and explain the situation — such a thorough explanation I give — and he takes the cream and throws it away.
I finish paying —they’d never expect me to pay — for the rest of my items and forget to grab the receipt.
Tock tock tock tock.
I needed to be gone by now. Every second I spend here is of the utmost value. Have their internal alarms gone off yet? Am I about to be swarmed by armed guards? It doesn’t matter: I have another job to do. I need to get more cream.
The Final Test
I’m paying for just the additional cream, now. I’m at the other end of the store this time; the masses have thronged at my previous checkout location. Thank you for shopping at Kroger! I shove the cream in my bag and calm myself for the final step.
I just have to leave.
“Sir, could I please see your receipt?”
You and I are going to die today, aren’t we?
My heart has surged past my throat and is now dangling out of my mouth, tendrils flailing as it beats furiously, willing my body to do anything and everything and nothing at once. I swallow it; turn; face my greatest challenge yet.
“Sorry, I don’t have it.”
Wrong answer. It’s suspicious that I knew this immediately. I should’ve fumbled around for a while and— wait. That’s it. THAT’S IT! I can use this. I own you now, gatekeeper. You’re complicit and you don’t even know it. You brought this on yourself. You were born for this moment.
If I play this right, I could get more out of this than every previous step in the plan.
“Hmmm. Well, where did you buy the rest of these items?”
I struggle. The description of the checkout machine that flows from my mouth is elaborate and detailed. If we’re facing this direction — it’s the one in the middle — because the one to the right is broken — it’s one of the 20 item ones, not the express lane — the guy there will be able to vouch for me.
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TOCK TOCK TOCK.
I cannot tell you how long she spent verifying my claims of legitimacy; how many seconds, minutes, or even hours of footage she pored over to determine whether I stole those items. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. I paid for everything! Watch the feed all you want, narc. Trace my every step; please, please do this. You are only fattening my pockets. They burst for your diligence.
Laughing All The Way to The Bank
I walk out. I’m free. I’m clear! No one knows what I’ve done, but they will feel the pain.
Back in my car at the far end of the lot, I tally the score.
Ten from the greeters… thirty from Sr. Jalapeño… could’ve gotten more from the cheese monger if that damned woman hadn’t hit him first… smart thinking with the alcohol, that’s twenty more… The Gatekeeper must’ve lost at least a hundred to my schemes.
Holy shit, it’s over double what I’d hoped for: more than three minutes!
The greatest time theft in history is complete. Ocean’s Eleven? Hah! Make way for Josh’s… One. I’ve emptied the corporation’s coffers. A Kroger executive feels his mortality for the first time, but he doesn’t yet know why. All that’s left is to cash it all in.
I… can cash this in, right?
An employee’s time — excuse me, employer’s time! — is something that can actually be stolen… right?
i had no idea where this was going at any time 😄 this was incredible.