The midnight Main Street U.S.A., devoid of tourists, was just that – a Main Street U.S.A.. I leaned against a lamppost crowned with a Mickey Mouse, smoking. The whole block was mine alone. They said it was because a colleague tested positive. Anyone who had contact with him had to be isolated, leaving a troublesome shortage of security staff. But for me, this solitude was a welcome change.
As I was about to drift into a hazy sleep, a sound stirred me awake. A rustling, a clattering of something falling, right there in the toy store marked ‘MIDTOWN HOUSEWARE’. My first thought was a Toy Story characters’ party, but that seemed unrealistic. There was only one realistic possibility.
I just hoped the thief wasn’t foolish enough to expect cash in a closed park’s souvenir shop.
I stamped out my cigarette and moved towards the store. Peering through the glass, I saw a figure moving in the darkness. I clutched my baton in my left hand, flung the door open with my right, and shouted, “Freeze!” while flicking on the lights. A man, frozen in place, stared at me, clutching a slinky dog, which was smiling at me.
“Hands up,” I commanded.
The suspect, a Chinese man around thirty-five, with dark skin and a sturdy build, reminiscent of a lesser Jet Li, was no doubt a formidable opponent.
After a moment’s hesitation, he raised the slinky dog above his head.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Stealing the dog,” he explained. “But I could’ve paid for it.”
“I’m security, not a cashier.”
“I know, that’s why I had to steal.”
“Just the dog?”
“Just the dog. I take it and leave. The money’s already in the register.”
A glance at the cash register confirmed a 500-dollar bill.
“How is it stealing if you paid?”
“I have no receipt.”
He had a point.
“What’s so special about this toy?”
“It’s your park’s exclusive.”
“Stealing just because it’s exclusive? Sounds like a busy life.”
“It’s for my daughter. She loves this slinky dog. I promised to give it to her for her birthday.”
“For your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Hold that dog above your head and come over here.”
He walked over, a calm stride. I braced myself, half-expecting him or the dog to suddenly attack, but he just walked.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“A little.”
I fetched two cans of beer from the fridge under the register, turned off the lights, and sat on the curb outside the store, motioning for him to sit beside me. He placed the slinky dog on his lap. We clinked cans, drinking in silence.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Four.”
“You couldn’t explain to her? With the pandemic, Disneyland is closed. You can’t buy it now, maybe wait a bit?”
“I can’t say that to her.”
“Why?”
“Look, I have the slinky dog now, right? If you want something bad enough, it’s attainable. Disneyland being closed is no excuse.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said. “It’s just illegal, that’s all.”
“The law is my problem. When I promised her the slinky dog, I didn’t exclude breaking the law.”
“You don’t care about possibly going to jail?”
“That’s also my problem.”
The cold beer trickled down my throat. “What about your wife? What would she think?”
“She died when my daughter was born.”
“Hasn’t anyone else told you? There are at least three thousand ways to satisfy your daughter without landing in jail. You could wait until the park reopens to buy it, or get a different slinky dog, or even dress up as one yourself…”
“It’s about integrity,” he explained. Then, he lectured me on the concept of integrity and its significance in 21st century Hong Kong. His discourse was so elaborate it could have filled a philosophy seminar, but the gist was, “Integrity is binary – it’s either yes or no, there’s no middle ground.”
“It’s a miracle you’ve survived till now,” I said.
“It’s a completely sensible way to live.”
“Sensible, maybe. Logical, not necessarily,” I countered. “Integrity, right. See, you have your integrity towards your daughter, and I have mine towards Walt Disney.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve signed a contract. I’m obliged to ensure the park’s security. I can’t just let anyone waltz in and take whatever they want – a slinky dog today, an alien or a Mr. Potato Head tomorrow. If you stand by your integrity, I lose mine; if I stand by mine, you lose yours.”
“I see.” He stroked the slinky dog’s head, lost in thought. “Maybe.”
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. So, I waved it off: “Lucky for you, you met me, not someone like yourself. Go on, take your belongings.”
“I’m sorry for compromising your integrity.”
“Don’t worry about it. My integrity can afford to take a hit for certain things.”
“Like what?”
I patted his shoulder. “Wish your daughter a happy birthday for me.”
He stood up, brushed off his pants, and disappeared into a thicket. The moonlight cast his figure sharply against the ground, his shadow dancing along, creating an image like a duo in a dance. After he vanished from sight, I picked up the empty cans, tossed them in the security room, and then noted in the patrol log: Found a 500-dollar bill.