Public Toenails and My Fights Over Stolen Chicken and Such

by JT Pearson

not enough to irritate Beatrice, rarely slowing as we tossed our regular choices for hygiene into the cart.

  “You ever plan on answering me?”

  Zest Bodywash – Colgate Whitening Toothpaste – clunk – clunk.

  “What?”

  “You know what.”

  Schick razors – Goldbond Medicated Powder – clunk – clunk.

  “I thought we were done with that.”

  “We’re far from done with it.”

  “I’m not sure, okay. I’m not sure where the line is between what’s stealing and what isn’t but there is a line.”

  “You smiled at her.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how you got her to do it. You smiled at her.”

  “Is that what this is about? You’re mad at me for smiling at her?”

  “No. This is about stealing. Don’t try to play games and cloud up the conversation.”

  “The argument. Like you said, let’s not play games. This is hardly a conversation, it’s definitely an argument. Conversations are about whether moonlight is prettier than sunlight or whether someone’s Aunt Lydia is getting better from pneumonia. Accusing me of stealing chicken and I having to defend myself definitely falls into the category of an argument.”

  “Fine. It’s an argument. That doesn’t excuse your being a thief.”

  “People always do favors like that for other people.”

  “I don’t have people steal for me. Give me an example of someone else who thinks that’s okay.”

  “Vinnie gives me free rentals at the movie store all the time.”

  “I meant an example of someone else that thinks it’s okay to receive stolen merchandise! You have Vinnie stealing for you too? How far does it go? Are you some master thief that never pays for anything?”

  We were now at the checkout line behind a kid holding a bottle of ketchup in one hand and his skateboard in the other, and he was behind a couple of college age girls wearing retro style clothes that were a little too tight and those glasses that make you look kind of ugly smart. The last thing the skateboard kid heard Beatrice say as we entered the line behind him was that I was the master thief that never paid for anything. He turned and eyed me for a second before saying one word, “Respect,” and pounded his chest once with the ketchup bottle. Then he turned and placed his ketchup on the counter.

  “Beatrice, will you please keep it down for a little while? Just until we leave the store, okay?”

  “So you don’t get caught? Now you’re afraid I’m going to blow the whistle on you? Maybe I’ll tell her.”

  The cashier was scanning our items.

  “Tell me what?” she asked, smiling with service position courtesy.

  “Nothing. She’s just being silly.” I smiled back.

  The cashier examined Beatrice who was standing with her arms folded, a glare on her face.

  “Are you okay, miss?”

  “I don’t know. Ask my master. I’m not allowed to talk until I’m outside.”

  “What?” The cashier narrowed her eyes at me.

  I was bagging everything as quickly as I could, cans and eggs and bread all carelessly piled together in bags looking late term pregnant, threatening to bust and berth our food all over the floor. As the last item crossed the scanner I snatched it and thrust it into a bag containing so little room that Beatrice’s Oreos fell out and had to be forced back in, causing the bag to stretch ridiculously, a strange new mutation of a Food King bag. I pushed my credit card on the cashier and waited impatiently, praying that Beatrice would remain quiet for the next few seconds.

  “Be careful. He’ll smile at you and you’ll decide to wipe out the bill and wish him a good day. He has that effect on people, especially women, but apparently on men as well. He never has to pay for anything.”

  I twisted all of the plastic bags around one hand and wrapped my arm around Beatrice, leading her toward the exit, and said “She’s a theater major,” over my shoulder. I waited until we were outside in the parking lot before I said anything else.

  “Just stop, Beatrice! I didn’t steal the chicken back there!”

  “You did something worse! You influenced someone else to steal it for you!”

  “Okay, I’m evil! I got it! I corrupt others and get them to steal chicken and movies for me with my mind control! I give up. Can we finally close the subject and have some peace?”

  “No! And don’t mock me.”

  “This is Sunday. You’re so big on Sundays. Your whole family thinks there’s no other day like Sunday. Isn’t Sunday supposed to be the day of peace? Can we finally just have some peace?”

  “Rest.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “No. Sunday is the day of rest, not peace. The fact that you should’ve been resting means that you shouldn’t have been at the store in the first place. You should’ve anticipated what you’d need today and shopped yesterday, or earlier in the week. The fact that this is the day of rest and you violated that as well is just another complication to your burglarizing some of their chicken.”

  “Burglarizing?”

  “Stealing, thieving, robbing, swiping, pilfering, shoplifting, snitching, whatever you choose to call it.”

  “Then I’ll choose snitching. Snitching sounds relatively harmless.”

  “Everything has to be a joke with you. Even your immortal soul. Maybe I’m just a joke to you, too.”

  “Come on. Stop that. You’re very important to me.” I opened the hatchback of our little Honda and started loading the groceries into it. “I know you’re respectful of your Sundays but you didn’t really object to the idea of going shopping today. You said you needed yogurt and headed right out to the car with me.”

  “You were already going to break the Sabbath. At that point it didn’t make any difference if I went along or not. At least I went to church today.”

  “You know I don’t believe in church.”

  “I think you’re just too lazy to get out of bed that early.”

  “I’d just say that, it if were actually the case.”

  “My dad says he’s still waiting for you to grow up and get to church with everybody else.”

  “Well, he better be willing to wait a long time. Besides, who’s he to say that I’m the one that needs to grow up. He walks around in a fishing hat and sweatpants all day.”

  “What’s his fishing hat have to do with being grown up?”

  “Nothing.” I sighed with frustration. “I’m not saying anything. I just spoke without thinking. I like your dad. He can wear whatever he wants. It just seems like I’m always being judged. You have no idea what it’s like.”

  We got into the car.

  “I have no idea what it’s like?”

  “How could you know? I don’t ever judge you.”

  “You’re doing it right now by devaluing what I think is important.” She buckled her seatbelt like she was trying to strangle it and we started home. “And what about your friends when they come over? Their attitudes toward me, the way they look at me, the way they always remain quiet when I’m around and make me uncomfortable. You don’t think that they’re judging me?”

  “Maybe they’re just doing their best not to fight with you.”

  “Watch out for that car. He’s weaving.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I nodded. You didn’t see me nod?”

  “You should say something in a situation like that! What if you hadn’t heard me and that got us into a wreck? I didn’t see you nod.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And I’ve never fought with any of your friends. I try to make them feel welcome.”

  “As soon as they get to the house you ask them how long they’re going to be staying.”

  “What’s wrong with that? It’s just a question.”

  “It infers that you’re waiting for them to leave.”

  “It does not.”

  “It does.” I threw my arm up on my head
and sighed. “You know what? This is getting us nowhere. Let’s get back to the issue of the chicken. What do I have to do to make things right again in your eyes so that we can leave this behind us?”

  “In my eyes? If you don’t correct what you did because you know it was wrong it doesn’t count.”

  “Fine I don’t think it was wrong so I’m not correcting anything. That said, let’s not ever bring it up again.”

  We drove in silence but after a few miles she started crying.

  “What are you doing? Are you crying, Beatrice? What? What did I actually do to make you this upset?”

  I pulled over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. I tried to put my arm around her but she jerked away so that she was right up against the car door.

  So there we were sitting on the side of the road with her crying because she had it in her mind that I had stolen chicken from the Food King. After a while I sighed, started the engine again, and did a U-turn, driving back in the direction we’d come. She straightened up in the seat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What do I need to do? Pay for the extra chicken?”

  “That would be a start.”

  “That wouldn’t be a finish?”

  She filled up with the idea of going back, floating like a helium balloon.

  “The manager’s going to ask how you left his store without paying for the extra chicken.”

  “I’m not going to talk to a manager. I’m going to bring the two extra pieces of chicken into the store and let the cashier know that I want to pay for them.”

  “You have to alert the manager that he has an employee in his store that gives away merchandise.”

  “I draw the line there. I’ll do no such thing. I’m not getting anyone else into trouble. What if she lost her job over something so silly?”

  “Stealing isn’t silly. Besides,