Phil Primeau


Stealing

Halfway to my car I hear the manager’s voice. It’s deep and brown and ugly, worse than shit and worse than Satan.

“Hey, excuse me! Excuse me!”

Stop. Turn carefully. Turn right around carefully. I don’t say nothing. There’s no need.

“What’s that, kid? Huh?”

His fat eyes rest on the lump in my pants. He’s got a real mean face. It’s always that same face when you get caught. Round and flat, pocked like a waffle iron. Lingering acne lights up his cheeks in skinny red strips. His lips are caught halfway between a frown and a smile. He doesn’t know whether to be happy or pissed off and since he doesn’t smell like cheap smokes or booze I’m sure that he’s new.

“What’ve you got? Don’t be a fucking punk. What’ve you got?”

Demands, not questions. He squints at my crotch. Once, twice he sizes it up. Then a couple steps closer. There’s hesitation at the tip of his gaze. He can’t tell if I’ve got a bottle down there or just, well, an unusual package.

Sometimes I wish I had one of those. You know, something different, a big pornstar dick. The kind that managers always notice. They’d move towards me quickly barking something like: “You got something you’re hiding, son?” And I’d grin and go: “Yeah!” Then I’d pull down my old jeans, I’d pull down my American flag boxers. Voila.

…but I don’t have a big pornstar dick. What I do have is a liter of Swedish vodka tucked into my pants.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

Okay. I reach under my shirt for the bottle.

Sometimes you get caught stealing.

 
 
 
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