Pigeon Problems

Shoplifting isn’t something that’s come to my attention since I was a teenager and heard about some friends getting busted for it. But now that I work retail, it’s suddenly a relevant issue again.

In one of my first Cabela’s shifts, I was getting trained on how to “flex out” an area that’s low on merchandise so that it appears to have an abundance of merchandise, when my trainer suddenly stopped and stared over the top of the aisle we were in.

“Just a second. We gotta do some loss prevention,” he said conspiratorially.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Look over there. See those kids.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re gonna try to steal those pellet guns.”

“Really? Pellet guns?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s, like, the most targeted item in the store. They will just walk out with a pile of them. Not even hiding what they’re doing.”

I looked at the kids. There were two of them, maybe 12-years-old. They were in front of a display of pellet guns that look exactly like police-issued Glocks.

“They won’t do it themselves. Those are the scouts. They’re on the phone with their buddies outside, telling them what kind of antitheft devices are on the guns.”

Indeed, I see that one is looking at the wires locking the guns to the pegs, and the other is talking on his phone. Sure enough, after a few minutes, a crew of seven teenagers rolls up and gathers in front of the display. They are an entirely different species than the scouts. The scouts were brats, but these new ones were hoods. Big 16- and 17-year-olds that get people dialing the cops when they march down the block.

A couple of them focus on the guns while others provide cover, standing guard at either end of the aisle. They see us looking, but they don’t seem to care.

“That’s right. We see you,” my trainer murmurs. I think he’s about 20 or so, barely out of his teen years himself. “They don’t like being watched,” he continued. “So we just let them know we see them and ask if they need help finding anything as a deterrent.”

I’m thinking: Great plan. They can clearly see you’re not about to do anything, and we’re standing 50 feet away with an aisle and small display between us.

One of the teens starts tearing at the antitheft devices. Another employee is watching from behind the gun counter, an old dude who’s rounding out retirement with a couple shifts at Cabela’s, and he calls out, “Anything I can help you with?”

The teens don’t even look in his direction. One of them grabs a gun and starts yanking on it hard, trying to see if the display pegs will come off. He starts wrenching it with such violence and determination that the entire shelf and aisle are shuddering.

My associate says, “We got ‘em locked up pretty good. They shouldn’t be able to get them loose.” Meanwhile, the jangling of metal on metal and the creak and squeak of the hard plastic cases is becoming a spectacle.

One of them pulled out what looked like needle nose pliers. I’d had enough. My trainer tried to stop me, saying, “We just watch them. We don’t…” but I was already on the move.

I was pissed off. Bullies trigger me. My young colleague and the frail old guy behind the gun counter are clearly afraid to do anything, and I suppose I can see why. Yeah, they may just be teens, but they’re big ones, a couple running over six feet. Too intimidated to approach, the employee’s have to simply watch as these thugs brazenly try to rip off the store.

I would dearly love to be in my security role or the 1960s. In either setting, I would put one of these kids on his ass and tell the rest I’m ready to help the next customer. But Cabela’s has a policy of nonconfrontation. We are not allowed to lay hands on anyone, follow them out of the store, or stand between them and merchandise. In fact, we are not even allowed to imply that someone is stealing or intending to steal. We can only offer to help them find what their looking for and hang around nearby. At Cabela’s, this loss prevention strategy is called Extra Customer Service.

Well, I am nothing if not exceedingly Extra.

I bulled right into the center of their little pack, not violently, but I was all shoulders and elbows on the way in.

“Hey, boys!! You got pigeon problems!?”

The all stop and look at me, and the ringleader puts his pliers in his pocket.

“What?” he mutters.

“Pigeons!!” I said. “Do you got pigeon problems!?”

Look, I’m not going to put a double exclamation point on every sentence, but if you’ve never met me in person, you need to know this: I’ve got a voice that could knock down a barn, and I cranked up the dial on volume and enthusiasm. I was aiming at something between a Jim Carey monologue and a Pro-Wrestler’s pre-match rant.

None of them replied to my initial inquiry.

“Sorry. I’ll start over. My name’s Adam! I work here! How you doin’!?”

I put out my hand, and one kid shakes it out of reflex. The others stand there: sullen, silent, stewing. I am undeterred.

“Not hand shakers, huh!? Cool! Anyways, I just figured you must have pigeon problems standing here looking at all these pellet guns.”

I paused.  

“Nobody wants to say anything, eh. That’s all right. That’s just fine. I can carry a convo. See, I just figured you must be dealing with some pigeons, maybe some gophers. I mean, I suppose you could be using them for grouse when you’re huntin’ big game. You know? So you don’t scare off the other animals? But… y’all don’t really strike me as outdoorsmen. Am I right? How about you? You big into hiking, fishing, hunting… that kind of thing? You, right here in front, son. I’m talking to you. I’m asking if you’re a hunter. Well, how about it? Are you a hunter?”

These guys don’t seem to like direct questions at all. The one I singled out just mutters. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. No offence, you understand. I just got kind of a nose for these things over the years. So since you’re not hunting, I figured we must be dealing with pigeons or some such vermin. And these guns here will certainly take out a pigeon.”

“We don’t got no pigeons, man!”

Okay, I think to myself, one of these turds has got some spine. He’s the biggest one, and he’s putting a clear note of challenge in his tone. Probably the Chief Pissant of the crew or perhaps a lieutenant. He’s towering over me at about 6’2” and already over 200 lbs. Gonna be a real monster when he eventually hits incarceration. But he’s never dealt with my brand of crazy. I stepped to him, zeroed in with wild-eyed intensity.

“Well, isn’t that something. No hunting… no pigeons… What are we doing here? Sounds like we don’t need any pellet guns then, eh?”

“Skunks, man. I’m gonna take out a skunk!”

The others titter at their champion’s bold addition of skunks to the equation. He’s clearly mocking the animal kingdom theme I’m hitting, and they like it. But I doubled down.

“Skunks? Skunks? Skunks?! You don’t wanna be taking on no stinking skunks, man! Did you know they’re a part of the weasel family? Maybe you didn’t, bein’ a city boy and all. Dude, let me tell you, you don’t want to mess with a skunk. Forget about the smell, they’re all round bad news. You look at ‘em and say, Look at that puny little thing, but they’re like the Honey Badger, they don’t care. One minute they’re just like, Dum-dee-dum-dee-dum but you get one in a corner and… WHAM!! it’s on.” Then I suddenly flexed and bellowed like a juiced up maniac right in his face: “RAAAAH!!“

He backed right up against the aisle behind him. But, intense as it was, I was all smiles and chuckles again in the blink of an eye.

“Right? It’s, like, you’re thinking: Ha, ha, stupid little skunk, and then boom, it’s on. With these guns here… maybe a headshot could take down a skunk. Maybe. Oh! Tell you what you need, you need a live-trap. Got those right over there two aisles down. Best part, they can’t raise their tails to spray when they’re in there. Did you know they gotta lift their tails to spray? They gotta lift their tails to spray. We got kill-traps too, but I gotta warn ya, the clean up is reeeeeal stinky. I actually like the smell of skunks. Most people don’t. I do. Weird, eh? So, anyways, live-traps are the way to go. You wanna go look at some live-traps?

I pause. They say nothing, but I single out Chief Pissant. “Son, I’m asking you a question. Yeah, you. You said you got skunks. Wanna come look at some live-traps with me? I’m talking to you now, son, you gotta give me something to go with here. It’s a conversation, you understand.”

“Naw. I don’t need no traps.”

“Look at this, suddenly our man’s got no skunks. Awesome. Got that one taken care of. So…” I clap my hands and rub them together vigorously. “We wanna get back to those pigeons?”

I pause and they say nothing. I can see them exchanging glances with each other, like, Should we get out of here? He’s not going away.

Indeed, I am not.

“Oh, you know what? I think I pieced it together. I know what you guys are really doin’ here. I can see what you’re up to. Oh, yeah. I see.” I let them chew on that for a couple Mississippis. “You’re not sayin’ you’re gonna take out some pigeons cuz it’s illegal to do it in the city. Very clever. You know, you’re wise beyond your years. Yeah, it’s illegal to just start whackin’ pigeons with a pellet gun, so you’re playing your cards close to the chest. I feel you. That’s a smart move. Never know who’s gonna rat you out, right? All right, you keep your secrets. But, uh, here I’ll play along. If a young man were to hypothetically draw a bead on some feathered vermin with a pellet gun, this hypothetical guy would want to take a closer look at that weapon before purchasing it, right?”

I wait for a reply, but they don’t seem to realize what I’m offering.

“This again. Boys, I’m asking you a question: You wanna take a closer look at these guns? Isn’t that what you want? I saw you wiggling this thing, maybe even yanking it, you wanna take a closer look? It’s all wired up here, but I got little doohickeys I can unlock them with.”

One of the punks in the back finally woke up. “Yeah, man. Unlock it.”

“Sure thing, my young friend. And you know, I really gotta apologize for this whole inconvenience. We have to lock these things up six ways from Sunday because…” I stop speaking and make a great show of looking around cautiously to make sure no one’s listening, though many patrons and employees clearly are. “Listen,” I drop my voice conspiratorially, “I’m telling you guys this, I don’t tell everybody, but I’m telling you guys, you understand? Kids’ll come in here, and…” I take another peek around “… and try to steal these things.” Back to full volume. “I know. I know. Hard to believe, but it happens. Kids these days. Am I right!? Anywho, like I said, the locks are nothing to me. I’ve got all the keys. ‘Course, these here guns aren’t toys. I’ve seen one drill a hole in a pigeon the size of a quarter! So it’s store policy not to sell ‘em to minors. Only majors, right?! Heh-heh. So we go through that whole thing where we ID people, even though we can tell their over 18 just by looking at them, but we gotta do it anyway, right? But, I mean, you got here somehow, I imagine in a vehicle, so that’s no problem, right?”

Silence reigns.

“This again. Guys… throw me a bone here; I feel like I’m doing all the talking. When I stop, you start. That’s how it goes, right? Taking turns? So… again… I said something like: Showing some ID shouldn’t be a problem, and then you go… I’m waiting on you, boys. You, front and center… let’s buy some guns!”

“I didn’t bring my ID.”

“Didn’t bring it? Oh, geez. That’s a kick in the keester. You know, if this is a different world, and it’s you and me standing here, and you wanna buy something… You just hand me cash, I give you the merch, and we’re all good. That’s how I roll. Bit of a libertarian myself. You boys libertarians?”

If possible, they responded even less than before.

“Quiet again. Maybe you are and you don’t want to say in front of the cameras. Again, very cagey, my young friends. There’s cameras all over this place. Real obvious ones, hidden ones you’d never see…” They start looking around. “Oh, yeah, they’re on us. You can’t so much as tweak a cheek without three cameras catching you. Downright Orwellian, am I right? Sure, I am. So… that’s probably it for this section then, eh? Seein’ as I’m the only one who brought a valid, government issued ID. How about this: We go take a look at them traps? Live and kill. So far as I know, those guys in Ottawa haven’t taken away your rights to trap yet, so let’s have at it. They’re right over there. Two aisles that way. Just meander over, I’ll be right behind you. In fact, I think you’ll find I’m pretty knowledgeable about dang near everything we got in the store, and since we’re getting on so well, I’ll just come along and give you a rundown on anything that catches your fancy.”

I can see it dawning on them that I am 100% prepared to follow them through every department of the store. Oh, yes, my young friends, I am with you, like a bad case of hemorrhoids.

“Okay… no one’s heading over to the trapping section. All right, all right, all right. Guess we wanna stick around here. Well, let’s just go right back to where we started, shall we? Pigeon problems. You guys got time for a story? Sure, you do. Back when I was about your age—jeepers, that’s gotta be… more than 30 years ago—my family moved to this neighborhood called Christie Estates. You know where that is? It’s up by the 69th Street train station. Mind you, we sure didn’t have a train station back then. All buses. Took an eternity to get anywhere. Anyway, we had pigeons getting into our soffits. You know what soffits are? Soffits are that area under the part of the roof that extends out beyond the wall of your house. Most of the time, they’re made of a kind of perforated aluminum that matches the siding. You know the stuff I’m talking about?”

At this point, the first of the lads began to leave, and they peeled off one by one. But, not wanting to leave them hanging with an unresolved anecdote, I trailed after them as we made our way to the exit.

“You probably never noticed soffits before because they aren’t the kind of thing a person notices until there’s a problem with them, or you’re installing them, or removing them, or what have you. But, let me tell you, when you get a couple pigeons walking around in there, it sounds like P.T. Barnum and his whole dang circus came to town. So dad green lights me to start assassinating the things out my bathroom window, and I’m, like, Game on, man! He even borrowed a pellet gun from a friend that would put those little ones back there to shame. Like, 750 feet per second, 22 cal… I don’t even know if those crazy things are legal anymore. Anywho…”

At this point, me and my young acolytes parted ways. They began to filter through the cashout area and into the parking lot. Unfortunately, I was not able to tell them about the significant damage a 22 cal pellet does to a pigeon when it’s rolling along at 750 feet per second, nor about the creative ways of disposing of pigeon carcasses when you’re in the middle of a suburb. Perhaps they’ll come back, and we can pick up where we left off.

I haven’t seen those particular boys again, but I have seen many other lads who show all the outward signs of needing some Extra Customer Service. The radio I have to wear mostly chirps about the menial tasks of running a retail operation. But every now and then, a panicked voice says, “Store team: We have five young customers who’ve just entered the store. They are wearing hoodies and carrying duffel bags, and they are heading to the hunting department. I think they could use some Extra Customer Service.”

And I, grateful for a break in the monotony, mutter, “Thank you, Lord, for this bounty I am about to receive.” Then I hit my radio button and say: “Adam, here. I would be thrilled to give them some Extra Customer Service.”

I have since added several elements to the Pigeon Filibuster. I can sustain a Mike Tyson-like lisp quite convincingly. I may pilot that one this week just to mix it up a bit. Sometimes, I’ll mention the option of going with slingshots rather than pellet guns, being sure to cover the vagaries of the glass bead / ceramic ammo they come with. It’s steel shot or nothing with those things. I’ve dead-centered a gopher with a marble from a slingshot at full draw and watched it scamper off unharmed. Oh, and that takes us into the world of gophers! You guys got time for a story? Sure you do!

Even the most brazen of thieves prefer to operate in the shadows. They try to avoid detection and attention. And if there’s one thing I can do, it’s draw a great deal of attention.

I am the Terminator of Loss Prevention. I can’t be bargained with. I can’t be reasoned with. I don’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. I am loud, cheery, and untiring. I will free associate story upon story till we kill the lights and lock the doors.

I will Customer Service you until your ears ring and your head aches. You will wake up in a cold sweat from dreams of pigeons, gophers, and bald men in green shirts.

Come and visit me at Cabela’s, my young friends. I’ve been stocking ammo all day, and I would love to stalk you throughout the store with my relentless Customer Service.