Sticky Fingers

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

My maternal grandmother, Edna, had sticky fingers. All of us grand-kids loved to swap stories of her shoplifting. We regarded this habit of hers with a mixture of horror and awe. Our favorite haunt when we visited her in her trailer by the beach was Thrifty’s. It was a drug store much like today’s CVS, but it featured a huge counter where one could buy a cone or cup, as well as a gallon of their house brand ice cream. Edna would root around in the store for what felt like an eternity, slipping one item into her purse, sliding another underneath her shirt. 

“Put that down in your pocket, and it can just stay there.” She would say handing one of us a tube of lipstick or some other small sundry. 

I was deathly afraid of getting caught, but I always did what I was told, the end goal being a double scoop of vanilla ice cream in a sugar cone. 

She was a stern character, and I learned early not to cross her. She did not appreciate me once pointing out that I saw her flip a Yahtzee die in order to score triple sixes. She really loved games, and really loved to win, and was not afraid to cheat to do so. I learned to let her have her way to keep the peace. She did not have an easy life. Maybe when you are one of eleven children, a win–any win–is one of the only things you can claim for your own

I also love games, and I LOVE to win, but I am not about to flip over an unwanted die to do so. I am also not one to cut the line or nab a candy bar. I did not inherit my grandmother’s larcenous tendencies. It would annoy her to know that I am a relentless goody two-shoes. I once walked out of a department store carrying a portable television and was about to load it into the car when I realized I had forgotten to pay for it. I went back in and had to explain what happened to a skeptical clerk and ask if he would please charge me for the machine.

So I don’t have my grandma's checkered past, but my close proximity to Beverly Hills has led to a preoccupation with the local news that has me teetering on the edge of propriety. I love the papers. There are three: the Beverly Press and the Beverly Weekly, which are distributed on Thursdays, and the mack-daddy, oft-ad-studded, much-awarded, Beverly Courier, which finds its way onto driveways early on Friday mornings. 

I have to have them. Like a proper thief, I have learned to case the neighborhoods. Traversing the big beautiful tree-lined streets, looking for signs. Ah, I see those folks are still out of town. That car is in the exact same position, its wheels cocked slightly leftward, and last week’s papers are laying about soaked through and rendered illegible by sprinklers. I see a fresh Weekly and I scoop it up and tuck it into my pants, Edna-style. Check one off of the list. 

Then I forage on, searching for signs of construction or abandonment. Homes are not empty for long in that neighborhood, but on occasion you can look past the hedges into a window and see all the way to the back of the house. No furniture or draperies, no sign of occupation, just vast empty rooms gaping up into lonely cathedral ceilings. On a lucky Thursday I might cadge a Press from the driveway of such a home. Other times, Roxy and I have to keep hunting. I once saw a man run over his Courier with both wheels of his car. I took the damned thing for its protection without a twinge of guilt because that was just rude.

I CONFESSED.

I confessed this habit to my friend Judy Maggio, and she felt confident that since the papers are free to the public it is not stealing. I am not so sure. I mean, I wouldn’t cut their flowers for a bouquet or snap a chunk of cactus from their decorative pot to plant at home. I never take a paper unless I am pretty certain that it will go unread, but still…

I take them.

All three have dedicated space to the listing of upcoming events, mostly plays or concerts but also the occasional lecture. There are restaurant reviews and shots of local politicians breaking bread with various constituents. This is where one can read about little Debbie of Oakhurst Street advancing in the National Spelling Bee or that the girls high school basketball team is headed for the finals. Beverly Hills is essentially a small town. A small town with deep, deep pockets. They were thrilled to announce an increase in the Arts budget of about $500,000–bringing it up to nearly $3 million. That’s some serious arting. The council is diligent about its usage and weighs in on the details. They recently approved the new theme for the 2023 holiday season. It will be “Up, Up and Away Holidays!” The trees will be wrapped in tinsel, and great giant packages will be lofted up onto street signs. The town will light up in earnest, hoping to draw more shoppers and diners into its heart. Hanukkah colors and themes will be incorporated, but no mention was made of other religious observations for this occasion. 

One local resident has repeatedly petitioned the city council to install a “Love and Kindness Park”. The council has heard her out several times. She thinks it will be a great place to expand our collective spirits, and she hopes that maybe folks will want to get engaged there? That one felt like a non-starter from the get, and not surprisingly got fairly well quashed this last go-around when the Council president stopped tiptoeing around the subject and flatly stated that she is not looking to add more parks.

DO NOT FALL ASLEEP.

Speaking of which, do not fall asleep in a Beverly Hills Park. I watched recently as three vans pulled up to the scene of a man sleeping under a ratty blanket, the drivers jumping out to assess the situation. In mere moments, the back doors swung open and the man’s shop cart of belongings were stashed inside one of the vehicles. I walked on before I saw them interact with him–I had papers to steal–but on my return not twenty minutes later he was gone. Not a trace of his lost, messy and tired personage remained. I don’t know what happened, but I suspect that if you fall asleep in that small town you wake up in a big one far, far away. Chicago maybe, or Detroit. 

In the spring there was a fascinating debate about a proposal for a new hotel project called “The Cheval Blanc Beverly Hills”. There was to be a vote on the matter in May, a referendum on all the things that cities big and small have to consider. Tricky subjects like growth, environmental impact, revenue streams, traffic, and encroachments. Things got a bit heated. Names were called. ‘YES’ signs were stolen from lawns and ‘NO’ signs were defaced. 

THE LETTERS.

There were lots of letters to the editor around then, many of them taking up for the hotel and extolling its virtues. It was not hard to see even for a paper-thieving interloper like me that these were a bit dodgy. Many missives were hard-selling the revenues, and it smelled a bit of corporate sponsorship and influence peddling. Then there were folks who sat down and penned lengthy opposition papers. One fellow declared, “Perhaps those backing the Cheval Hotel think the public will believe anything, but we won’t. We can learn the truth, the facts, for ourselves.” This is true. I can point to three papers to prove it. The facts have been made known, only the many and varied differences of opinion remain opaque. 

My favorite letter came from a weary fellow named Ari, who went out of his way to state that he was a longtime resident, not a nay-sayer, and most definitely not affiliated with a union. He just felt unconvinced by the projections and was deeply concerned about the environmental impact and harm to wildlife. He had recently been dumped by a friend who saw his name listed as a donor to the ‘Vote NO’ campaign. That made him sad. The paper accidentally printed one of his paragraphs twice. Here was the lead sentence:

“Reminder: We still need to live with each other after the vote.” 

Ari concluded his letter with these words:

“Vote. And remember to tell your kids that others in the community are equals in this process, and we need to respect them too.” 

I think I love you, Ari.

I was really surprised that the ‘NO’s took the day. There is a recount being taken, but it looks as if the builders lost their bid. That is a rare occurrence in this part of the country. The west has historically shown little appetite for preservation and not much regard for wildlife conservation, but the citizens have spoken. I am sure that the fancy pants developers will live to fight another day in the biggest little town around. 

I cannot wait to read about it.

On we go …

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