Issue date: 11/10/09 Section: Entertainment

I was seventeen when the crime that flew by like a flash occurred in my life. I was obviously way too young to be working at night alone and vulnerable. The ice cream shop I worked at - called P.J Madison's - was the first gelato ice cream shop in our area. From morning till night, the shop was always busy. Something original about this ice cream shop was our uniform, a P.J Madison t-shirt, pajama pants, a pastel-colored bandana tied around our head, and slippers. I can't fathom the reason why my boss, being the bonehead that he is, allowed me to close down the store that night alone. Any other night I really liked to be alone; I wished for it really. I felt more control of how evenly everything was flowing. Customers were satisfied, and I was getting tips, tips I didn't have to split with anyone. Most importantly, being alone meant no witnesses. I could sample all the flavors as much as I wanted. My favorite was pecan pralines, so sweet, creamy, and loaded with caramel.

It was getting late, and I was about to finish mopping. All the chairs were flipped upside down on the tables. Clearly, the store was about to close. If you have ever worked in restaurants, you know how it feels when a customer comes in right as you're closing. It's very annoying. As soon as they walked in, I had a gut feeling about them. I ignored it. Big mistake! It was an older couple, a husband and wife, maybe in their late sixties or early seventies, and another man around the same age in a wheelchair. My gut feeling was almost more like a voice saying that these old geezers are up past their bedtime. Old people can't have ice-cream, but usually we had mostly children and teenagers that came in for the tasty gelato. Then, I thought (ironically) maybe they'll leave a nice tip.

I went ahead and helped out my odd customers, a few samples were tasted, and decisions were made. Nothing extravagant, just a scoop each, and I was handed a crisp hundred dollar bill. I handed the man his change. He then handed me five twenties and asked for his hundred dollar bill back. He asked for the change in all five's. So many exchanges were made in such a short amount of time. Overwhelming thoughts were bouncing around in a bubble of mathematical solutions, but at the same time I tried to keep track of the currency being swapped. However, I had not calculated this back and forth exchange correctly. They never left a tip. I followed them to the door and locked it quickly. I switched the open sign over showing that we were now closed. Staying calm, I counted the money left in the register. Two hundred and sixty dollars were missing! How can this be? I knew what had happened. I had been the victim of a con artist.

Continued...

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