LIFE’S LITTLE PLEASURES

By Rick Gadziola

First written for the Toronto Star Short Story Contest where it placed second out of over eight thousand entries from around the world.

It was a cool, but comfortable, Wednesday morning.  The neighborhood children were back in school.  And except for the occasional foraging squirrel, the two old men had the park all to themselves.

“Hee-haw!” cackled Murray. “That’s three outta five.” He cracked a smile and rubbed his palms together as briskly as his arthritis would allow. “Sorry, Clay, old buddy, but you gotta go.”

Clayton slowly stacked the checkers in the worn cardboard box. “Damn it, Murray,” he grumbled. “It’s not funny. I’ve gone the last three times!”

He folded the board in half and pulled a thick elastic band from the pocket of his sweater.  After he bound the board and box together, he glanced across the road at the busy supermarket.

Clayton swallowed hard. “How ‘bout five outta seven,” he pleaded.

Murray cackled again and began filling an old hickory pipe. “Sorry, Clay,” he said, “but fair’s fair.” He struck a wooden match on the picnic table and lit the pipe, then he leaned over and warned in a low voice. “At the bingo last night, the old widow Wilson told me they got them newfangled video cameras in the market since last time.” He puffed away, enjoying himself immensely. “You’ll have to be extra smooth, Clay,” he cautioned.

Clayton eased his weight off the bench, took a deep breath, and adjusted the suspenders holding his baggy tweed pants.  He looked as ready as he would ever be.

“Ah, hell, Clay,” said Murray, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. “Maybe you’re right. This thing’s gettin’ bigger all the time.” He glanced up at his lifelong friend. “Look, if you want, I’ll follow you in and run a diversion.”

Somewhere off behind the park, a police siren wailed down a nearby street.

Clayton squared his shoulders and shook his head. “No, I’ll do it. Besides,” he said softly, “no sense in both of us gettin’ nabbed.”

* * * * *

Clayton pushed his cart carefully through Produce and stopped in front of a counter filled with tomatoes. Look at that! he almost said out loud.  Damn prices are already up from last week.  He shook his head and surveyed the area, and then he selected two of the biggest and ripest tomatoes he could find.  When you get caught, he reckoned, they don’t judge you on the weight!

And so it went; up and down aisles, reconnoitering each before entering, peeking around piles of canned juices and soups and stacks of packaged macaroni and cheese.

Clayton was selective in what he took.  Both men always were.  As they had to walk the bags of groceries back to the old folks home, the two men only chose light, easy to carry items; batteries, puddings, rice, denture polish.  It also helped in case they needed to make a hasty exit.

Hell, he thought, rummaging through the Jell-O’s, I can remember back when a good Ford cost less than one of them leather jackets chained to those coat racks in the malls. The thought made him recollect Murray’s warning.  He glanced up at the white tiled ceiling but could see no evidence of newly installed video cameras.

Clayton turned the corner out of Household Cleaners and peeked down the row of busy cashiers.  He looked for the youngest and newest of the bunch.  And none of them damn bag-boys, he reminded himself.  They don’t have nothin’ else to think about!  He spotted what he was looking for at the far end.  She was young and preppie, but best of all, she seemed to be smiling as she did her job.

He pushed the cart nervously toward the rack of paperbacks and magazines, taking sharp, tiny breaths to calm the thumping in his chest. He glanced down at the contents of his cart to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would attract attention.

Clayton went through restless motions like a baseball player at home plate; wiping his palms on his thin spindly legs, running his tongue over a dry, lower lip, and anxiously hitching his pants.  Finally, he was ready.

He made a bee-line for the last cashier, knowing that all he had to do was get there without drawing suspicion.  Somewhere between registers number seven and number eight, the rear right wheel of his cart gave out, wobbling like a drunk in a church choir and making all kinds of foul noises.  People turned and stared.  Clayton gripped the handle and gave the wheel a swift kick with the toe of his boot, but still it wobbled and squeaked.

A pimply-faced cart collector stopped what he was doing and came over. “Can I help you, sir?”

Clayton paled. “No, no,” he insisted. “I’ll be okay.”

“It’s no trouble, sir,” the boy beamed, reaching for another cart. “I’ll just transfer everything into one of these.”

“No!” shouted the old man.

Nearby, people raised their brows at the outburst.

“I mean,” he said calmly, “I’m finished.  I was just going down there.” He pointed toward the end of the row of cashiers.

“No problem,” said the boy, full of good cheer and eagerness, “I’ll help you there.” He pried Clayton’s bony fingers from the handle and expertly negotiated the cart through the crowd.

Clayton begrudgingly followed.  Glancing around uneasily, he noticed Murray outside the window.  His “partner-in-crime” was filling his pipe with a bright smile on his face.  Clayton gave him a “get-outta-here” look, but Murray only smiled wider and waved back.

“There you go, sir,” the boy declared, like a Boy Scout doing his good deed for the day.  When Clayton only nodded and stared straight ahead, the boy shrugged his shoulders and went back to his cart collecting.

Whew! Clayton shuddered to himself. That was close.

The cashier wore a bright yellow button that read: “Hi. My name is Cindy. Please be patient. I’m in training.”

Clayton smiled unashamedly.  Hi, to you, too, rookie!  He adjusted his suspenders and his pants, and in a matter of moments began to settle down, gaining confidence with every step that the line moved forward.  Directly ahead, two punkishly styled teenaged girls giggled at something in one of the tabloid magazines.  He attracted Murray’s attention and pointed his head at the cashier, then he raised both corners of his mouth as high as he could.  Murray was not amused.

Clayton was feeling so confident at his good fortune that he asked the two girls ahead to watch his cart for him as he had a few things.  The girls closed the magazine quickly, giggled some more, and then nodded.

A minute later he returned, tossing a box of toothpicks into the cart. “Thanks, girls,” he said cheerfully.

“That don’t look like “a few” things,” the girl with the silver nose ring mumbled as she reluctantly placed the magazine back on the rack.  The other began unloading the groceries.

Outside, Murray was doubled up in laughter.  Clayton peeked around the girls’ brightly colored spiked hairdos. “Oh, my,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

Cindy The Trainee was gone, and firmly rooted in her place was the infamous Brenda The Barbarian, the largest, meanest, most mistrustful of all the cashiers.  Murray and Clayton had both agreed to stay clear of her.

“Where’s Cin—what happened to the other cashier?”

The girl with the pentagram tattoo on the nape of her neck clicked a piece of gum in her mouth. “You missed it! The manager caught her slipping a $50 into her shirt.” She blew a long bunch of purple hair from in front of her eyes and pointed with her chin to the ceiling.

Clayton swallowed and wiped beads of perspiration off his forehead.  Tucked behind some potted plants and spotlights was the nose of a camera.  A tiny red light winked at Clayton but he didn’t wink back.  He glanced uneasily behind him.  A string of stern, knowing faces stared back.

He reversed an inch or two. I’ve gotta get outta here!

“Next!”

Clayton looked up.  Brenda The Barbarian was drumming her thick fingers at the end of the agitated black conveyor belt that waited to snatch his goods.

Well, what’s the worst that can happen to me? he thought, nervously placing his items on the counter. Why, I’ll tell them I’m just an old fart who got mixed up. That’ll be easy. I’m a War Vet and a pensioner!

“That’s $19.80!” rumbled The Barbarian, peering over her reading glasses, looking him straight in the eye.

He groped for the correct change, then decided on a $20, and stumbled down the aisle to pick up his bag.  As he was slipping the plastic handles over two of his trembling fingers, Brenda barked out: “Excuse me!”

Clayton’s shoulders sank, his face paled, and his cheeks turned a rosy tint.  The silence between them was as deep and cold as the Frozen Food section.

“Here’s your change.” Brenda slid two dimes down the long chrome ramp.

Clayton scooped them up, dropped them into his pocket, and shuffled toward the exit.  As the automatic doors swooshed open, he allowed himself a smile.  He didn’t dance a jig, but he may have considered it.

* * * * *

Clayton spread the bag open and began counting out items in a loud, clear voice, carefully placing each package on the picnic table in a neat, long line.

Murray’s anxiety appeared to grow with the count.

“. . . 14, 15, 16 . . .,” Clayton called off.  He rummaged around in the bottom of the bag and gave Murray a wicked smile. “17,” he announced brightly, producing a package of envelopes from the bag.  With the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Clayton picked out the second tomato and placed it proudly on the table. “TA-DAH!” he gloated. “That’s 18.”

“No fair!” sputtered Murray around his pipe. “You can’t count two tomatoes as two separate items.”

“Why not?” Clayton countered.

“You just can’t,” reasoned Murray. “Did Brenda weigh them separately, or together?”

Clayton maintained his smile, but reluctantly took the second tomato and put it with the first.

“Nevertheless, Murray, old buddy,” he said boastfully, reaching over and pulling his friend’s cap down over his forehead, “getting 17 items through the 12-item checkout still ties the record!”