TOUGH LESSONS AMONG TOUGHSKINS

    

Back to School at Sears 1980's

 The year was 1980. I had not been in South Florida long.  I was working on my second checklist (salaried) job in the Cutler Ridge SEARS store, one of many in the Miami Zone, only a few miles North of Homestead, Florida and Key Largo.  It was a long way from my West Kentucky roots.

Cutler was classified as a company “A” store, one of the largest in terms of assortment, square footage, and volume, and the culture both in the workplace and general population was a substantial departure from the laidback lifestyle and rural environment of West Kentucky.  Spanish, from a large population of Puerto Rican and Cuban immigrants, was spoken as often as English.  Demographics for the marketplace also included a substantial mix of a Black and also South American customer base, along with a slim majority of White native Floridians  and the snowbird retirees of all ethnic backgrounds living their dream of spending their golden years in the South Florida sunshine..

You would think a “hardness” from time in the Army, a year of which was in Vietnam with the Big Red One, would have prepared me for whatever the challenges of a diverse customer base and the “big city” would hurl in my path.  But, that was just my naivety and cultural upbringing producing a state of complacency-- and a false sense of confidence-- to handle whatever could be thrown in my general direction.  

During our annual “Back to School” circulars, I thought I had seen crowds while in my past assignments in Paducah and Bowling Green, Kentucky.  Here, it was just nuts.

The children’s department central cash wrap was perhaps 30-40 feet from the exit doors, and the line of Moms stretched on either side half way down the store, arms loaded with “Toughskin” jeans, Sears proprietary “Alligator” polos and T’s.  More than a few grandmothers in that line, too.  I had never seen anything close to a swarm of impatient women of this number, and I admit to being in a bit of awe.

I was partnered with the Security Manager for the store, Glen Brookins.  Glen was a former policeman with the Miami Police Department.  His size, and his professional demeanor and background were no nonsense and any time he made a “stop” or inquiry, that person knew instinctively that he was not a guy to mess around with.  On a personal level, he was funny, gregarious, and a friend whose company I cherished and a man whom I would be proud to call my friend.  

“Brooky” as his closest friends referred to him, took me under his wing to educate me about why the Cutler Ridge store was classified as a “high risk” environment retail store.  The very first thing he insisted upon, when we were the staff on floor duty, was for me to always attach handcuffs to the back of my belt before I made my rounds.  Always.  And anyone observed committing theft from the camera security room or anyone reported by code over the intercom by associates---after approaching and verifying the crime---was to be handcuffed and led to the security office to await the arrival of a patrol car.  People in Sears and other retail outlets probably find this incredulous and extreme.  So did I.  For a very short time.  Some experience of a violent nature seemed to present itself regularly during my three plus years there as one of the checklist managers.

So here the staff rookie was during the madness of a back to school rush that any retailer would  relish in today’s outlets.  Four associates behind the center aisle cash wrap could not keep up.  Feeling the frustration in the lines of moms and matrons alike, I assisted bagging for a while, until it became apparent that any extra body behind the cash wrap simply was impeding the progress of check-outs.  I moved to stand and watch, down a bit and across the aisle, on the periphery of the men’s department. 

I sensed some movement in the racks and stacks behind me, and became aware of a man furtively looking around and trying to stay concealed as he made his movements from one four-arm costume rack and circle rack to the next.  He stopped beside a display of leather gloves next to the men’s wallet rack, and only seconds passed before he stuffed an expensive pair in the waistband of his shorts and underneath his untucked shirt.  My first thought was that he was going to look pretty strange walking down the street in cut-off jeans and a tank top wearing a pair of black $50 leather gloves.  My next thought was to respond to his apprehension.

He was a man of about 25-30 years of age, about 6 foot tall, and athletically built.  As he made his way at an angle away from the exit doors and towards the end of the long line waiting to capitalize on the “Back-to-School” bargains. I checked to verify the handcuffs were at the back of my belt under the suit coat, and having the angle to intercept him before he could progress away from the melee, I positioned myself to make the stop.

“Sir, I believe you have something concealed and that you have not paid for.”  We were face to face standing in the middle of the aisle.

He studied me for a moment, and then, without further hesitation, produced the leather gloves.  I thought of Brooky’s  directive about the handcuffs, but the demeanor of the man and his look of absolute shame made me have second thoughts. I was an idiot.

Instead of being confrontational, he gave no resistance to the stop. To my great relief, I might add.

 

O.K. I thought, nice guy.  The cuffs would not be necessary.  I could just take him down to the Security Office and talk with him further before advancing the process.

“Sir, I need you to accompany me to the office so we can talk a little further.”  I began to turn, opening up for him to proceed, right hand pointing up the aisle. 

We only traveled a short way up the aisle away from the “Back to School” rush. I never saw the right cross coming. But it was devastating and took me to one knee.  He turned and started back up the aisle towards the Children’s Central Cash wrap at a slow jog. I instantly popped back up to my feet, head still swimming a bit, and the fight or flight instinct took over any possibility of rational and coherent thought.

He made it roughly a third  of the way up the line before I tackled him from behind.  

I am not being totally honest. That is not descriptive enough of the event. I should have said, I tackled him, sliding our prone bodies across the tile and underneath the legs of a half dozen moms and grandmothers resulting in a pile the Miami Dolphins defensive line would have been proud of on a goal line stand.

I was on top of him and had him pinned down.  A couple of matrons, unintentional victims of our struggles, had us both pinned down. They outweighed us by about the equal of a couple of Kenmore side by side refrigerators. 

As a high risk store we often had policemen performing off-duty security on our payroll.  They were always in full uniform to act as a deterrent for shoplifters.  Earl Steinmetz was the most regular of the police employed by the store and he arrived at our “pile”, assisting women to their feet until he finally reached and tapped me on the shoulder and told me that he had things from there. I was hesitant to let go, but Earl's second request was more urgent, and my assailant and I both rose to our feet. Earl took control and handcuffed the man, now once more, compliant, and led him away.

The women at the check-out were giving me a pretty thorough going over. I was glad I couldn’t understand most of them.  I had screwed up and I knew it.  There were curses I had never even heard or thought of before.  Most in Spanish and some in English.  

A couple of the women spun their heads 180 degrees and their eyes glowed red like demons in the night. Or maybe my head hadn't cleared yet. Ladies on the other side of the cash wrap had eyes as big as Weatherbeater paint lids. One was indecent with laughter. 

And I knew the store manager was going to hear from them and have my rear end for it.

But---as I began to realize my jaw was hurting from the blow I had received---at least I would have the pleasure of seeing this guy in court and brought up on shoplifting and assault charges.

The day in court was a scene that I would see play out on a number of occasions during my time in Miami, and had seen played out once previously in Bowling Green.  He was released and not charged for agreement to be a C.I. for the detectives that interviewed him. I felt cheated.  I wanted him punished for that sucker punch.

I got what I expected from Porter McClean, the store manager, but with a little surprise.  Formally, I was informed of my poor decision in response to my assault and the way I had chosen to respond to the perpetrator.  I got a pretty severe tongue lashing over the damage to the ladies in my apprehension efforts and was given a list of phone numbers from several of whom I was to call and apologize.  Most were decent considering my lack of judgment, but there was one I could not understand, but the venom was unmistakable and kept me expecting an outbreak of boils for a number of years.

There would be many more occasions where physical assault was delivered by potential thieves in Cutler Ridge, and forcible apprehension given in return.  And, a couple of times when weapons came into play by the perpetrators.

I had gotten a tough lesson among the Toughskin jeans.  Things were different here.  I would have to be different, too.  And I was, for the next three and one half years until my promotion to a Regional Merchandise manager/buyer for all the stores in South Florida and Puerto Rico.

Copyright by the author, Keith Wayne Ragan May 1st, 2021