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It's 2001. I'm working at a large, very well known electronics box store chain in the music and software department. We hadn't yet been bought out by a different, equally large and well known electronics box store chain so we hadn't yet implemented any of their mind-bogglingly absurd security procedures, and thus were just left to do our jobs as we were originally hired to. Next to my department was the cameras and cell phones department, wherein worked a buddy who formerly worked in my department. One evening, a good hour or so before closing, he calls me over quietly. From his vantage at the cell phone booth, he can see directly down the console software aisle, and he points straight down it at someone. There, at the far end of that aisle, probably 30 feet away from us, was some kid in his later teens, grabbing PS2 games and shoving them down his voluminous track pants, the leg openings held closed by extra elastic bands.
Understand that all console software was housed in bulky, locked Plexiglass security containers that roughly triple the volume of the DVD-sized games within. Besides requiring a special unlocking doohickey to open, they also contain security strips that you can't remove without destroying the case.
So there he was, shoving game after game down his pants. Front, back, sides, wherever there was room, down another one went, clacking against the ones they slid down on top of. We could only look at each other in mute disbelief. We didn't need to speak, the questions were obvious to both of us. How did he expect to move with his pantlegs wobbling about, clacking the contents noisily together like sacks of loose Lego? And even if he did somehow manage to ninja his way silently to the front doors hoping everyone mistook his lumbering gait and bulging, lumpy pantlegs with medically exceptional and oddly specific fat deposits, how did he expect to get past the security scanner without setting it off like an air raid siren? Was he hoping the sheer volume of security tags would just cause it to spontaneously explode so he could escape in the ensuing panic? We actually wanted him to try and get away with it just to see what would happen. (Our policy was that we couldn't stop anyone 'til they'd left the store.)
Sadly, we never got the chance. Suddenly he noticed us noticing him and promptly began evacuating his trousers -- of games, not waste material. At least I hope it was only the former. Out they came whereupon he set them down in a pile on the floor. Then he took off. We went over to examine the pile. 27. There were 27 games there, all in their security cases. 27 bulky security cases with games shoved down his pants.
We gave each other a look. "I'm not touching it."
Understand that all console software was housed in bulky, locked Plexiglass security containers that roughly triple the volume of the DVD-sized games within. Besides requiring a special unlocking doohickey to open, they also contain security strips that you can't remove without destroying the case.
So there he was, shoving game after game down his pants. Front, back, sides, wherever there was room, down another one went, clacking against the ones they slid down on top of. We could only look at each other in mute disbelief. We didn't need to speak, the questions were obvious to both of us. How did he expect to move with his pantlegs wobbling about, clacking the contents noisily together like sacks of loose Lego? And even if he did somehow manage to ninja his way silently to the front doors hoping everyone mistook his lumbering gait and bulging, lumpy pantlegs with medically exceptional and oddly specific fat deposits, how did he expect to get past the security scanner without setting it off like an air raid siren? Was he hoping the sheer volume of security tags would just cause it to spontaneously explode so he could escape in the ensuing panic? We actually wanted him to try and get away with it just to see what would happen. (Our policy was that we couldn't stop anyone 'til they'd left the store.)
Sadly, we never got the chance. Suddenly he noticed us noticing him and promptly began evacuating his trousers -- of games, not waste material. At least I hope it was only the former. Out they came whereupon he set them down in a pile on the floor. Then he took off. We went over to examine the pile. 27. There were 27 games there, all in their security cases. 27 bulky security cases with games shoved down his pants.
We gave each other a look. "I'm not touching it."
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