Mr. Five-Finger-Discount — The Tag Slipped Off in the Aisle

Lyrics

Tuesday afternoon.
Two thirty-seven.
Mr. Five-Finger-Discount is at his work.
A freedom fighter of the makeup aisle.

The air smells expensive. A hundred perfumes fighting for space.
He moves with a practiced calm.
Sees the target. A nine-dollar lipstick.
Shade: "Rebellious Rose."
The cool plastic feels like victory in his palm.
A quick look left. A quick look right.
The little security tag, a puzzle he solved years ago.
A tiny, satisfying click that no one hears.
And into the red coat pocket it goes.
He whispers to the fluorescent lights,
"They make plenty of money."
A redistribution of wealth.
It's practically a public service.

It's a victimless crime, he tells himself.
A quiet little war against the man.
A perfectly balanced, ethical plan.
Just the quiet hum of disregard.
A nine-dollar hole in the inventory card.

He walks past the counter, gives a polite nod.
Doesn't break his stride.
On the glass, by the mints, he leaves a single, shiny penny.
His little tax. His little joke.
A fair exchange for the service he's providing.
He feels the small weight in his pocket all the way to the car.
A successful mission.
Another blow struck for the people.
Him, specifically.

It's a victimless crime, he tells himself.
A quiet little war against the man.
A perfectly balanced, ethical plan.
Just the quiet hum of disregard.
A nine-dollar hole in the inventory card.

Nine PM. The store is empty now.
The air smells of Windex and fatigue.
A girl named Sarah is closing out her till.
Counting the day.
The fives. The tens. The metallic tang of the coins.
She counts it twice.
Her heart does a little dip.
Nine dollars short.
Exactly one Rebellious Rose short.
Not enough to be a disaster.
Just enough to matter.
Just enough to be her fault.

The penny on the counter was swept up hours ago.
The red coat is hanging on a hook.
The lipstick is on a bathroom sink.
And Sarah is staring at the numbers.
Victimless.