Pigs and Stock Boys

Their eyes are watching me. They know, sure they do. These Longs Drugs pigs and stock boys will fry my ass. Pigs, I got that last night from a James Cagney movie. I wasn’t supposed to watch it, but I snuck down into the basement late and kept the volume real low. My dad would fry my ass if he knew I watched that Goddamn movie when he told me not to. Fry my ass worse than these Goddamn Longs Drugs pigs and stock boys.

There are mirrors up high, near the ceiling. Tilted, facing us at an angle, reflecting our ugliness back down to us like God. Running all the way around the grocery store, one long horrific mirror. Like the command deck of some spaceship. What’s behind the mirror? Aliens perhaps, pressed against the glass, breathing hot, studying the shopping behaviors of a cruel and simple species. Or, maybe a floor of security analysts and intelligence specialists, dozens, hundreds of them, wired in, logging suspicious activity, speaking code in headsets, direct messages to Washington. Facial recognition software. Speech pattern analysis. Brown ties.

Nothing can escape the Longs Drugs tilted mirror.

Do they know? Sure they do.

These Longs Drugs pigs will fry my ass.

I walk down Aisle B. Condoms and feminine hygiene. Less suspicious or more suspicious? Buying a few things for mother, I’ll say. That’s twisted. Less questions, then. Very good. I linger by the K-Y Warming Jelly then move on to Aisle F, tools and home repair. My dad hasn’t repaired a thing in years. The House of Wobbly Nuts and Protruding Nails. The whole town knows our place is a dump. Perhaps that makes it a harder story to sell, should the sheriff ask. Mom needs rubbers for when she sneaks out on dad, that’s better. More believable. I cut back toward Aisle B. The linoleum squeals beneath my tennis shoes.

I’m only killing time. I always walk around before leaving. It’s not illegal until you leave. That’s where these other dingbats screw it up. They flee in a rush, shaking like a leaf. Better to hang around awhile. Yes, I’m still shopping, sir. That’s right, ma’am, this pack of baseball cards is in my pocket—there were no shopping baskets available. Then again, perhaps all shoplifters, deep down in their heart of hearts, want to get caught. Like serial killers who return to the scene of the murder. Gamblers who won’t stop until they lose it all.

In fifty years, I believe all we’ll have are cards. Upper Deck, WWE, Fleer, Pokemon, Marvel, Batman Forever Warner Brothers official premiere limited edition. The internet will burn, all cyberspace records with it. Only trading cards will remain, archives of what our society found important enough to print on rectangles of glossy cardboard. Future civilizations will wonder why we worshipped like gods Barry Sanders and Wonder Woman and The Undertaker.

In my pocket, the thin foil around the pack of Topps Rookie Sensation MLB cards crackles. There was a special today. Free 99. Five Finger Discount.

I don’t like baseball. Me and my old man used to watch Dodgers games every Saturday, but that was before. Since his hours got reduced, the only sporting activities he enjoys are drinking and shouting, often together. Which I’ll never understand. He has more free time than ever, but spends less of it with us. Every Thursday evening when mom goes to bingo with her coworker, he leaves the house to play cards and get drunk with his friends; they work half days now too.

Only a few more hours.

A Longs Drugs stock boys sees me. Aisle G, candy and junk food. Very suspicious, me pacing around. Damn. Bush league mistake. Worst place for a good-for-nothing punk like me to be seen. Should have went to garden supplies and seeds. Stock boy might escalate this to pig. His walkie talkie burps in robot. I give him the skunk eye and continue toward the check out. Enough with these games, I must blow this joint.

I head toward the sunlight.

The chief Longs Drugs pig stands guard by the door. He’s fat and sweaty like a pig, but brown, not pink. I once read that security guards look for people who don’t want to be seen. So I always make eye contact and stay in plain view. Right in front of their snouts.

There’s one open check-out. Four or five shoppers line up, all mothers of this town, but not like mine. They are homemakers, they buy groceries, they make sandwiches. I squeeze by behind them, the only way to exit if you’re not buying anything. I lock eyes with the big pig. He stares back, then glances down at my pants. The foil wrapping must be peeking out from my pocket.

I break protocol and walk faster.

I begin to tremble terribly. God, what was I thinking. I was too arrogant for coming today, especially after last time. Last time was really close. This was stupid. I should walk back and return it. It’s too late. Dad will really fry my ass if I get caught. Mother will lose it. Send me to grandma’s in Riverside like she always threatens she will. This time, dad will raise more than his voice. But better me than mom. Even when she’s screaming and mean. But then again, maybe if I get caught, everything will change. They will have to come get me, together. They will apologize for not seeing this coming. They will say sorry for letting it come to this.

Tears are on the brink. The eyes of this pig, this Longs Drugs security guard, burn a hole through me. He can see through my soul. The edges of my eyelids begin to burn too. Spontaneous combustion is a real thing. I read it.

Turn away, you stupid pig! Leave me alone. Get a real job, won’t you! You don’t need to ruin my life. Just because you have no friends, no family, probably no one on this Earth that loves you, it doesn’t give you the right. Doesn’t give anyone the right.

I walk a straight line, past the security guard, past his eyes, past his folded arms, past his pepper spray.

I make it. The pig is behind me.

Then it comes. “Hey, kid.”

The first tear forms. A single warm drop, hanging from a leaky faucet, disobeying gravity, the first in a long lineage of drops that will fall in this lifetime. Dad says only girls cry. But I saw him cry once. Drinking vodka alone in the living room one night, when mom was staying with a friend. My empty stomach tightens, my throat dries up.

“Don’t your mother know how to sew?” The security guard points down at my worn jeans, hand-me-downs from my cousin in Sacramento who I only met once. “Them holes are the size of bottle caps. Your money’s gonna start dropping out right on the street, and I’m going to be the one to pick it up. That what you want, son?”

“No, sir,” I say. “My mom will go shopping this weekend. She’s buying me brand new jeans from Nordstrom’s.”

He chuckles. “Nordstrom’s? Well, alright.”

I walk out of Longs Drugs.

Outside, the sun is hot. I take out my pack of baseball cards and go toward the wooden-barrel trash cans. Then I see Billy, from the other class, unlocking his Schwinn, holding a Long Drugs plastic bag, comic books and candy bars inside. He bought stuff.

“Hey, Billy,” I say. “You like baseball?”

Billy pauses. Kids in the smart class are wary of my kind.

I hand him the pack. Billy smiles, eyes wide, as he rips into the baseball cards. He rewards me with one of his Baby Ruths. Then he rides off, toward home, toward sandwiches.

I finish the chocolate bar and wipe my mouth. My body feels better. Nourished. I get on my bike and start riding, in the other direction. I’ve got time. More time out here on these streets. I must go home eventually, but not now. Not yet. I have more time to lead these Goddamn pigs a little farther, let them chase me a little longer. I am James Cagney. I am Joe Montana. I am the Joker, head out the window of a cop car, sirens blaring, wind roaring. I am free just a little bit longer. Free as a bird. An eagle. American. When I return, mom will have struck it big at bingo. Dad will be happy drunk, funny and buzzing. They will be in love again and I will be their son. Until then, I will roam this Earth, ride my Huffy toward the horizon, sun against my back, sustenance in my belly, and nothing, nothing can hold me back, not my parents, not these teachers, not this town, and certainly not these Longs Drugs pigs and stock boys.