The Book Was Titled 'Steal This Book', and I Was a Good Boy Who Did As I Was Told

I'm thinking that I might buy a copy of Abbie Hoffman's 'Steal This Book'.

It may sound crazy to buy a book called 'Steal This Book', but I have a reason to buy it: I lost my old copy, a paperback that I stole fair and square when I was about 12 years old, and I would like to replace it.

Abbie Hoffman told me to steal his book, titled 'STEAL THIS BOOK'

I wasn't a bad kid

Why did I steal that book? I knew that stealing was wrong, of course it was, and still is.

Looking back, I can see that I wasn't a thief as much as I was a clown or a jester, testing my version of comedy in real life. It's not a crime if it's funny, I must've thought. More precisely though, I was coerced into the crime by the society that had created me, and being too young to know any better, I was led to believe that being bad was somehow good, and that the outlaws, rebels and dropouts on television and in the movies were the real heroes of the new world that I lived in.

I Am Not a Crook

I mentioned how I wasn't a thief, and it's true, I'd never really stolen anything before, but after six or seven years in the public indoctrination camps, I had learned a thing or two about the society that I was being conditioned for. We all had learned the unspoken rules of our society, and every child knew the simple hierarchy; There were the cool kids, and then there was everybody else.

A Gathering of Delinquents

It was somewhere around the monkey bars on a sixth-grade playground where I heard the tale from a fellow who had allegedly stolen a copy of Steal This Book, and with my very own eyes I had seen the prize. I could hardly believe that such a book even existed, but I had glimpsed it, just for a second, before it disappeared so cooly, vanishing into the cool kid's coat, and immediately the forbidden book was borne into infinite adolescent fantasy for the few who saw it during that brief moment on that wild urban frontier.

That fellow who had flashed the book, being a known cool kid, had shown me the way.

It was clear what I had to do if I was going to fit into this wilderness of tough boys in the gritty early 70's, and then survive to tell about it here. I would have to steal that book from a real book store.

My Plan

My plan was simple, and consisted of three parts:

• Steal the book

• Don't get caught

• Show it to somebody, flashing it proudly as my own badge of coolness

Shoplifting. I knew I could get away with it, because I knew that nobody would expect anyone to steal books. People don't steal books, they steal money and cars and things, and I was just a kid, a nerd walking into a bookstore.

Grand Theft Book

So it was that after school that day I moseyed into a bookstore and easily liberated a copy of Steal This Book, and nobody suspected a thing. It was so easy, I felt guilty. I walked in, the book said 'steal this book', and so I did, and then I walked out, nobody got hurt.

It all happened quickly, but now back on the sidewalk, I was scared.

I made my way back to the vacant lots that were part of my turf and ducked into a thicket, finally daring to look at the cover of the new book that I had just stolen. It was heavier than I'd expected it to be-- much heavier.

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Guilt

I rationalized as I sat in my hidden thicket, and reasoned that-- even if I did get caught with the book, and accused of stealing it, that I couldn't possibly get in trouble for it. The title of the book was STEAL THIS BOOK, I would explain, and I would feign innocence based on that single premise. I was being a good boy, doing as I was told. Hadn't the very author of the book given me permission-- nay, demanded that I steal his book? Just like "CAUTION- HIGH VOLTAGE- KEEP OUT!" was written by the adults who know how to tell everyone else what to do all the time, wasn't "STEAL THIS BOOK" written by an adult as well?

I was just following orders!

"Don't Get Caught"

Now that I had the new book, I had a new problem. There was no place in my house to hide this book where my mother wouldn't find it. She knew everything in that house, and she would find it. She would smell it, and when she found it, she would read the title, and she would know, because she knew me. She would get my joke, but my mother, she would not laugh, because she would know exactly how I got the book. She would know, and then she would look at the price tag and know full well that I didn't buy it, because she knew that I didn't have money. I was a kid. A guilty kid.

I would have to hide the book somewhere else.

I crept into the woods where the grown-ups never go and soon found a log where I stashed the book, throwing a handful of leaves around and artfully laying a stick or two over the whole thing. The old log was a crime scene now, and I was a criminal, hiding evidence. Coolness eluding me, and I was scared, simply. My crime, compulsive yet mandatory, felt wretched and low. Why couldn't life have remained simple, when a cool kid could lift that same log looking for snakes or scorpions, wicked things that had frightened the adults naturally for so long?

Time Served

I stayed quiet about Abbie's book, and nobody could know what I had done. They would talk, and I'd surely be caught. Maybe I was cool, but I didn't dare prove it by boasting about it. Steal This Book was the last thing I wanted to talk about, and nobody knew.

It was a few weeks later when I finally got brave enough to go back in the woods and check on the book under the log. Rain and time served under that damp log had given the poor book a rough appearance, and instead of gleaming like a freshly stolen copy of Steal This Book, it looked more like something that was an ugly, guilty secret, something that an uncool kid would stick under a wet log because he was afraid he'd get caught with it.

It was then that I concocted a whole new story, the script for what it meant to be cool.

A cool kid doesn't steal a book and show it to his friends, but instead, a truly cool kid will steal a book, never read it (cool kids don't read), stick the book under a log in the woods and never tell anyone.

Such a concoction would get me by mentally at that age, anything but to accept the guilt, shame, and failure that the book had come to actually represent to my young self. I was paying for the book, and learning early on that nothing comes for free in the world, it's always a trade of equal value, balanced and true.

The book had become costly, and it had shown me that I actually feared the lawful world around me too much to be a real cool kid.

The book taught me that I cared what my parents thought about me, surely too much care for me to qualify as a genuine cool kid.

I felt shame for having stolen the book, a shame that actual cool kids would certainly never feel.

Dear Abbie, I'm Sorry I Stole Your Book

Dear Mr. Hoffman,

I did as you asked, and I stole your book. It's not your fault, but the book made me feel like a bad person, even though I never even read it. I'm sure it's a good book, and I will probably be buying a copy soon. I just thought you should know that I was a pretty cool kid, but since I didn't get caught, nobody knew how cool I really was. Not even me.

Best Regards- Paul

innocent

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images above are mine unless otherwise marked, and thanks to Wikimedia Commons for the appropriate drawing for the story

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