Public Toenails and My Fights Over Stolen Chicken and Such

by JT Pearson

she’ll know that the deli girl gave it to you unless you say something different. We’ll need a better plan.”

  “I’ll tell the cashier that I grabbed the chicken yesterday, that it was up on the top of the counter, and that I forgot to pay for it.”

  “Why would you be at the grocery store two days in a row? That story doesn’t add up.”

  “Some people go to the grocery store every day.”

  “No they don’t.”

  “They do.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Maybe they can’t make up their mind what they want to eat each day until they’re hungry, and then they go to the grocery store.”

  “Nobody does that.”

  “Sure they do. That’s common in Europe.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never been to Europe.”

  I swerved to avoid a skunk that was flat as a Frisbee. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Sounds like you made it up. That’s not how you go to the grocery store. You make your choices once a week and you get out.”

  We arrived at the parking lot and I pulled into the same spot that I’d just vacated. I emptied chips and deodorant from one of the plastic bags and put two pieces of chicken from the deli chicken bag into it. I headed into the Food King with my story. Beatrice waited in the car with one of her overpriced fashion magazines for company. I walked in and up to a different cashier than had just waited on us, holding out the plastic bag, open for her inspection. She looked at me as though I were offering her a glimpse of a severed hand that I’d found in the parking lot. Her name tag read Shauna.

  “It’s chicken, Shauna. I forgot to pay for it yesterday.”

  Her face, still a little pinched, softened a bit and she leaned over and examined the contents of the bag. She eyed me suspiciously.

  “Where’s the deli bag?”

  “I didn’t have one. I took the chicken just like this.”

  “I thought you said that you forgot to pay for it.” “Right.”

  “Then where’s the bag? The deli wouldn’t sell it to you like that.”

  “I think maybe I forgot the bag.”

  “Uh huh,” she nodded and then grabbed her intercom and paged the manager.

  “No, no. What are you doing? That’s not necessary. I just want to pay for it.”

  “Something’s going on here. That chicken’s fresh. You didn’t get it yesterday.”

  At that point I figured I’d just leave, even if I’d have to keep arguing with Beatrice but I turned and the manager and a young, skinny, mousy security guard with her hand already on her baton were standing at my side.

  “What’s going on, Shauna?” the balding manager of the Food King asked his loyal subject.

  “This man says that somehow he took this chicken from our deli yesterday without paying for it.”

  He looked me over.

  “You came in to give us some kind of confession?”

  “That chicken looks fresh, Mr. Larry. I don’t believe it’s from yesterday.”

  “What are you up to? Did you steal chicken from us today?”

  “No. I sort of borrowed it yesterday and wanted to pay for it today,” As I said it I realized how stupid it sounded. This was not well thought out.

  “Do you have any idea how bad our problem with shoplifters is at our Food King? This store’s is in danger of closing its doors. That’s not a casual subject around here.”

  “I’ll pay for this right now and I promise that it will never happen again.”

  Suddenly the old woman that had glared at me earlier was standing behind them and interjecting herself into the interrogation.

  “I saw this man grab an apple from the produce section a couple of weeks ago and take a great big bite out of it. Then he just put it back.”

  “Come on,” I started, “Obviously that’s not true. She’s just mad at me because of the way that I treat my wife-I mean-the way that she thinks I treat my wife,“ I corrected.

  “The police are already on their way. I’d like you to come back to my office so that we don’t have to make a scene any further in front of the other customers.”

  It was true. I looked around and the other customers had stopped whatever they had been doing and were now enjoying the show. I looked at the exit and the security guard moved a little closer to me. She reached for my elbow and I started running for the door. I had gravely underestimated the woman. She locked on to one of my legs and dragged me down like an All Pro safety. We hit the floor and I kept scrambling, trying to get free of her like a wounded buck that still had plenty of life in it. The manager dropped on top of us, his shirt getting pushed to his neck in the process. His warm flabby belly kept bumping against my face as he tried to control me. The old woman started lobbing in groceries from her cart. I got hit with a zucchini, a frozen package of fish, and a container of dish soap that opened on impact and emptied on the floor beneath us, causing us to slip and slide. Finally she threw a two liter bottle of Ginger Ale that hit the security woman in the forehead, jarring her enough to surrender her grip momentarily. I pushed the manager off of me and got to my feet. I kept slipping as I tried to negotiate the tile floor. Just as I was into the parking lot, the security woman landed on my back, attaching herself piggy back-style. I couldn’t shake her. She held on with one arm and clubbed my knee with the other, trying to force me to the ground but I kept galloping on. We must’ve looked like we were trying to win the Kentucky Derby. I spotted a Winnebago in the parking lot and realized what I needed to do. With a lot of work I pulled her free and tossed her up on to its roof. Then I took off running again. I ran right past a surprised Beatrice that happened to look up from her magazine as I sprinted by. I knew that I didn’t want to get into the car and give anybody a license plate to report. Beatrice slid over into the driver’s seat and followed me out of the lot, driving just slightly behind me. When I was a safe distance from the store I stopped running and grabbed my knees. She opened the driver’s door, before sliding back over into the passenger seat. I got into the car and we sped away.

  “What did you do in there?”

  “I tried to pay for the chicken but things went wrong.” I pulled my pant leg up and examined where my knee had been struck with the baton. It was already swelling up.

  “Went wrong?”

  “They tried to arrest me.”

  “I told you,” she said and leaned against the passenger door to face me, causing her to finally notice my knee.

  “What happened to your knee?”

  “Got hit with a night stick a couple dozen times.”

  “Well you deserved it. I told you that you shouldn’t have stolen that chicken, didn’t I?”

  I took slow deep even breaths.

  “What’s all over your back and in your hair, Marvin?”

  “Dish soap.”

  “Mmm,” she said as if my answer was perfectly reasonable. “Did you even pay for the chicken?”

  “No.”

  “How are we going to pay for the chicken?”

  “We’re not. I never stole it.”

  I turned and stared at her for a moment before returning my eyes to the road.

  “You’d better not be blaming me for anything.”

  “I never do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Beatrice.”

  “But don’t you feel better now that you went back and tried to do the right thing?”

  “No. I definitely don’t.”

  “But you knew it was the right thing to do.”

  “No. I didn’t think it was the right thing to do.”

  “Then why did you do it. Marvin?”

  “Because my Uncle Walter bites his toenails in public.”

  “You never make any sense to me.”

  She shook her head and went back to reading her magazine as we drove home. Later that night she would make me a birthday cake from scratch even though it wasn’t close to my birthday and we’d cuddle, and she’d lick va
nilla frosting from my cheek and laugh, and we’d watch the thunder storm as it let up from our living room window, happy again for now, but anticipating the next big storm.