All I Wanted Was A Pepsi: Part 1
Back in 1994 I wore too-short shorts out on the court. And that was finally getting embarrassing. I had to move up, fit in, and pick up some big, baggy shorts that went below the knee. And I didn’t feel like asking mom for $20 for basketball shorts when the ones I had were good as new, even if they were cut and sewn sweats. If only she knew the fashion.
So Jesse and I went to Meier and Frank to pick up the shorts. I had $40 in my pocket but I wasn’t buying, not today. For a week straight I had been stealing from many stores: JC Penny’s, GI Joe’s, Newberry’s. I should have stuck to the “’s.” Walking into the men’s sport clothes section I wasn’t making fast work of the place; I took my time when it came to stealing. Neon red caught my eye. I pinpointed it and approached. Red Nike Shorts. Not quite neon but close. The material was like that of spandex but a little thicker. The shorts were hanging on a display. I picked up four, of different sizes of course, without really thinking about my surroundings. If I was nonchalant about it, no one would notice, right? Jesse was my lookout; he finally played the role as I made my way to the men’s dressing room. His eyes said that I was cool. I took a quick look around before entering the dressing room. I could have been looking around for a sales associate. There was a fat old man a few aisles away but he couldn’t see us. We could see the top of his head though, his white hair. He was looking at jeans, probably tight ones. There’s no way he could see us.
I replaced the three hangered shorts and made my way to Jesse who was checking out the Wings cologne. He was a sucker for cologne and he made life hell for those stuck in small places with him. He sprayed me, the fucker, and I was ready to clobber him. But I had to keep calm, not call attention to myself. I grunted for him to follow me out of the place, the exit downstairs past the cosmetics counters.
Going down the escalator I looked in the mirror on my right side. I wasn’t thinking about the shorts. I was thinking about the suckers who would be watching my shorts as I took the first step past them. Would the red catch their eye? Would it hypnotize them? Would I have to work as hard for the first step anymore? A great basketball player, a baller, is an illusionist so he must have the proper equipment. I had to stop daydreaming when Jesse started poking me in the back. Not hard pokes but soft jabs in my kidneys. I slapped his hand away. Shit, I could have been getting sucked down a problematic escalator. Dead Mexican kid. His family will sue for millions.
I walked past the cosmetic girls smiling politely. They were cardboard cutouts. I reached the door but felt alone once I went through the first door. Jesse was long gone. I exited the next door, the door to the street, and started to breathe easy. I got two steps before I was converged upon by four adults, from four directions. I was caught. And I didn’t struggle. But one of the guys started yelling for me to drop the gun. The gun, what? I hadn’t noticed that I had an orange plastic bb gun in my hand. I stole it from Newberry’s earlier. Was he really threatened by the $1.99 piece of plastic, which wouldn’t dent a brown bag if fired? I dropped it and quickly picked it up with my free hand. My other hand was quickly handcuffed.
They let me walk the long mile back to their security office with the handcuffs in front of me at least. But one of those bastards liked my arm. He held it tight while we walked. Each step I was getting angrier and angrier. I wanted to stomp his toes off. But there was something about the embarrassment that kept most of my attention. People looked at me as if I were a fugitive or something. The office must have been on the fourth or fifth floor. I can’t remember the exact floor because I was focusing on the faces. I was trying to memorize them so if I ever saw them again I could get them back somehow.
I removed the shorts in a small room connected to the main office. One security guard stayed in the room while I stripped. What a fag. Boy was he fat, too. I imagined he would die sleeping face down someday. I didn’t hand the shorts back to him until I had my jeans back on. And when I did I finally looked up into the security guard’s face. I looked past his face to his nice white head of hair.
He smiled big when I froze up. He knew that I knew that he was on to me the whole time. But I wasn’t very impressed. I smiled in victory because I knew he wouldn’t have me now. He couldn’t break me because he wasn’t the guy who had the authority to bring the hammer down. His victorious smile came too early. Never reveal yourself too early. Make the pleasure last. Come in at the end.
After taking a picture of me with the shorts in hand he went into the notetaking, the form filling. He interviewed me as if I was setting up an account at a bank. He was a robot. Then came the obligatory speech. About going down the wrong path, my parents’ reaction, my family’s reaction, perpetuating a negative stereotype. So on and so forth. But then he got to asking me to give him my phone number. He wanted to call my parents and then put me on after giving them the gist of my situation. For some reason I wanted to be the one to break the news. To whoever picked up, because if neither did I would be going to juvenile hall. Something about the news coming from me. I would be on my way to making up for it.
My mom picked up on the second ring. Thank God. My dad would have let me have it with a few slaps once we got out on the street. And I hated those quick bursts of slaps. He’d give it to you hard and fast; his hands would come out of nowhere. During a yell, during a word. Je-SLAP! SLAP!-sus, you fucked up!
My mom only took twenty minutes to get there. I could hear her apologizing in the main office, apologizing for me and my behavior. I could also hear the keys in her coat pocket clanking together, her signature. She walked into the small room I was in and apologized to the white haired fuck, the nobody security guard with his fake sincerity and false integrity. She even bowed her head a little. She came up to me and mouthed a few sad words, none I could make out. I showed her my wrists, which were red from the cuffs and said, “Look, ma, they put the handcuffs on too tight.”
So Jesse and I went to Meier and Frank to pick up the shorts. I had $40 in my pocket but I wasn’t buying, not today. For a week straight I had been stealing from many stores: JC Penny’s, GI Joe’s, Newberry’s. I should have stuck to the “’s.” Walking into the men’s sport clothes section I wasn’t making fast work of the place; I took my time when it came to stealing. Neon red caught my eye. I pinpointed it and approached. Red Nike Shorts. Not quite neon but close. The material was like that of spandex but a little thicker. The shorts were hanging on a display. I picked up four, of different sizes of course, without really thinking about my surroundings. If I was nonchalant about it, no one would notice, right? Jesse was my lookout; he finally played the role as I made my way to the men’s dressing room. His eyes said that I was cool. I took a quick look around before entering the dressing room. I could have been looking around for a sales associate. There was a fat old man a few aisles away but he couldn’t see us. We could see the top of his head though, his white hair. He was looking at jeans, probably tight ones. There’s no way he could see us.
I replaced the three hangered shorts and made my way to Jesse who was checking out the Wings cologne. He was a sucker for cologne and he made life hell for those stuck in small places with him. He sprayed me, the fucker, and I was ready to clobber him. But I had to keep calm, not call attention to myself. I grunted for him to follow me out of the place, the exit downstairs past the cosmetics counters.
Going down the escalator I looked in the mirror on my right side. I wasn’t thinking about the shorts. I was thinking about the suckers who would be watching my shorts as I took the first step past them. Would the red catch their eye? Would it hypnotize them? Would I have to work as hard for the first step anymore? A great basketball player, a baller, is an illusionist so he must have the proper equipment. I had to stop daydreaming when Jesse started poking me in the back. Not hard pokes but soft jabs in my kidneys. I slapped his hand away. Shit, I could have been getting sucked down a problematic escalator. Dead Mexican kid. His family will sue for millions.
I walked past the cosmetic girls smiling politely. They were cardboard cutouts. I reached the door but felt alone once I went through the first door. Jesse was long gone. I exited the next door, the door to the street, and started to breathe easy. I got two steps before I was converged upon by four adults, from four directions. I was caught. And I didn’t struggle. But one of the guys started yelling for me to drop the gun. The gun, what? I hadn’t noticed that I had an orange plastic bb gun in my hand. I stole it from Newberry’s earlier. Was he really threatened by the $1.99 piece of plastic, which wouldn’t dent a brown bag if fired? I dropped it and quickly picked it up with my free hand. My other hand was quickly handcuffed.
They let me walk the long mile back to their security office with the handcuffs in front of me at least. But one of those bastards liked my arm. He held it tight while we walked. Each step I was getting angrier and angrier. I wanted to stomp his toes off. But there was something about the embarrassment that kept most of my attention. People looked at me as if I were a fugitive or something. The office must have been on the fourth or fifth floor. I can’t remember the exact floor because I was focusing on the faces. I was trying to memorize them so if I ever saw them again I could get them back somehow.
I removed the shorts in a small room connected to the main office. One security guard stayed in the room while I stripped. What a fag. Boy was he fat, too. I imagined he would die sleeping face down someday. I didn’t hand the shorts back to him until I had my jeans back on. And when I did I finally looked up into the security guard’s face. I looked past his face to his nice white head of hair.
He smiled big when I froze up. He knew that I knew that he was on to me the whole time. But I wasn’t very impressed. I smiled in victory because I knew he wouldn’t have me now. He couldn’t break me because he wasn’t the guy who had the authority to bring the hammer down. His victorious smile came too early. Never reveal yourself too early. Make the pleasure last. Come in at the end.
After taking a picture of me with the shorts in hand he went into the notetaking, the form filling. He interviewed me as if I was setting up an account at a bank. He was a robot. Then came the obligatory speech. About going down the wrong path, my parents’ reaction, my family’s reaction, perpetuating a negative stereotype. So on and so forth. But then he got to asking me to give him my phone number. He wanted to call my parents and then put me on after giving them the gist of my situation. For some reason I wanted to be the one to break the news. To whoever picked up, because if neither did I would be going to juvenile hall. Something about the news coming from me. I would be on my way to making up for it.
My mom picked up on the second ring. Thank God. My dad would have let me have it with a few slaps once we got out on the street. And I hated those quick bursts of slaps. He’d give it to you hard and fast; his hands would come out of nowhere. During a yell, during a word. Je-SLAP! SLAP!-sus, you fucked up!
My mom only took twenty minutes to get there. I could hear her apologizing in the main office, apologizing for me and my behavior. I could also hear the keys in her coat pocket clanking together, her signature. She walked into the small room I was in and apologized to the white haired fuck, the nobody security guard with his fake sincerity and false integrity. She even bowed her head a little. She came up to me and mouthed a few sad words, none I could make out. I showed her my wrists, which were red from the cuffs and said, “Look, ma, they put the handcuffs on too tight.”