Lockdown on Aisle 9
One man’s stand against crime, chaos, and civilizational collapse
It’s a hundred-yard dash from my apartment to the downtown dollar store across the street. One hundred yards is a relatively short distance, but it’s quite far if a violent madman is chasing you. I know this because I played high school football.
Outside is a low-level urban war zone. The type of place where you run the risk of being chased by a violent madman.
That’s why I try to be as efficient as possible when running errands-get in, get the shit I came for, and get the hell out. Keep your head down, eyes low, hands in pockets.
I set out for the downtown dollar store with one objective (purchase a big pack of canned Diet Coke) and one deadline (closing time, in approximately 17 minutes). It should have been a simple mission. It never is.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…
An old Black woman in a wheelchair was parked in front of the entrance to the downtown dollar store, like a troll demanding its toll.
As I approached, she asked, “Sir, yes, sir-could you spare a dollah, sir?”
I smiled and said, “Sorry, but I’m poor too.” A half-lie.
“Not a problem, sir! Thank you, sir!” she said, unfazed by my blunt nonchalance.
I thought that would be the weirdest interaction I had during my late-night beverage run, but that’s only because I’m optimistic (sometimes to a fault).
While I was checking out, a shoplifter — caught in the act — was trying to escape the store. Two security guards were blocking the front door, determined to detain the dastardly devil. The shoplifter tried to bum-rush past them, but when that didn’t work, he started throwing punches.
I casually called 911 and told them, “Send cops now.” I hung up. As a matter of principle, I always decline to leave my name and number.
Everyone in the store was silently watching the altercation, but my 911 call broke the spell, snapping everyone back to reality. The cashier made a proper 911 call (i.e., she left her name and number). There were maybe a dozen other customers inside the store-they wielded their phones, dialing 911 and/or filming the shoplifter.
The exhausted woman behind the cash register was solely responsible for running the entire store, alone at night in the insidious big city. Ironically, the store was understaffed in the first place because management had started cutting hours due to frequent shoplifting. That’s one hell of a way to get promoted to manager.
Based on their informal communication with the cashier, I inferred that the two plainclothes security guards were her friends or relatives who were volunteering to protect her during the night shift (maybe they’re her uncle, brother, brother-in-law, etc.).
It occurred to me that the downtown dollar store probably averages at least one shoplifting spectacle like this every day.
A young couple walked into the store, pushing a baby in a stroller-that’s when the security guards locked everyone inside the store and refused to release anyone until the cops arrived (illegal).
The shoplifter, seemingly defeated, wandered away from the front door, back into the labyrinth of metal shelves.
The older of the two security guards asked, “Police coming?”
“They coming,” said the cashier, “they said-wait, where’d he go?”
The shoplifter had disappeared between the tall rows of shelves.
The younger security guard asked, “Is the back door locked?” He didn’t wait for the cashier to answer and sprinted to the far back corner of the store.
I could hear him yelling, “Back off, bro! Don’t you touch me, don’t you even think about it!” I couldn’t hear whatever they said after that.
The younger security guard jogged back to the front of the store and yelled to the older security guard, “We’re good!”
“Where’s he at?” asked the cashier.
“He’s still back there. I think he went to the cereal aisle. Is he the same one from yesterday?”
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“No, I ain’t ever seen this guy before.”
The man with the baby stroller politely asked the security guards if they could leave.
“Nobody leaving ’til the cops get here,” said the older security guard. End of discussion.
There was no getting off this train.
The shoplifter charged the front door once again, swinging his fists at the security guards, who held their ground and shoved him back toward the maze of shelves.
Frantic, frustrated, and flustered, the shoplifter said, “Yo, what’s the big deal? It was just shoplifting!”
This reductive comment ignited my civic fury. I looked the shoplifter dead in the eyes and said, “Well, actually, the problem is you assaulted those guys.”
The shoplifter got defensive, swearing he “ain’t done nothing” and that “this some bull-shit, for real.”
When the police arrived, the younger security guard reported the shoplifting, but I made damn sure the officers knew all about the assault too.
The old woman panhandling outside followed the officers into the store and corroborated my statement: “I seen it too!”
One officer looked over and asked, “What did you say?”
“Sir, mistah officer, sir, I seen it all! It was full battery-assault on both them men.”
The officer looked through the front window to the spot where she had been parked-a clear sight line into the store.
The woman looked over at the rest of us and declared, “Case closed!”
I wish I’d seen the moment when the police handcuffed the shoplifter. Unfortunately, the shoplifter fled into the rows of shelves, and the officers finally apprehended him out of my view.
As the officers perp-walked the failed shoplifter through the store and into the backseat of a police cruiser, I clapped and cheered and jeered. The failed shoplifter glared at me the whole time.
I bought my Diet Coke and went home.
Wow — the security guards were going to let the bastard get away with assault! All they cared about was petty theft. If it weren’t for me (and the wacky wheelchair woman), that violent madman would still be out on the streets, free to continue terrorizing my fellow citizens.
This is my neighborhood. These are my neighbors. I don’t know anyone’s name, but they’re still my neighbors, goddamnit!
There is a policeman inside all our heads.
Macro-change starts with the micro-individual. As a matter of principle, I can’t allow any level of antisocial behavior to occur within the borders of my own residential zone. My territory.
Later that week, the sheriff announced a new multi-agency task force to combat the widespread retail theft epidemic.
Vindicated.
It’s a thankless job, but somebody has to do it. I’m a silent, watchful protector. This city doesn’t deserve a hero like me-but I deserve this city.
Thanks for Reading!
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— M. St.
Originally published at https://beyondboredbymst.substack.com on September 14, 2026.
