Until mom shouted for me.
"Stefan!"
"I'm coming, mom!" I yelled back, pulling on my rolled-up jeans with the iron-on patches covering the knees.
"You're going to be late!" she replied, wiping her hands on the flowered apron I'd gone in on with my siblings for Christmas. It was a chilly Monday in mid-January. It was the first day of school after a teacher's work day and the weekend. I was not ready to go back.
“Stefan, you’d best hurry up if you want breakfast! You’re going to be late for school!”
Bounding down with only one arm in my shirt, I ran through the living room and the study to get to the kitchen, passing mom at the bottom of the stairs. Throwing my other arm through the sleeve and buttoning the shirt, I sat down at the table, breathless, waiting for the pancakes to magically appear as they did most every morning. I was in such a hurry I didn’t even notice the smoky fragrance of bacon that unconsciously made my mouth water like Pavlov's dogs.
Mom walked calmly back into the kitchen, took the spatula and put three of the steaming flapjacks on my plate. Not hesitating to look up and say thanks, I grabbed a knife and quickly slathered them with butter, then soaked them with a liberal amount of maple syrup.
“Would you like some bacon, too?” mom asked.
I shoveled a large forkful of fried Bisquick into my mouth and muttered a barely intelligible “Mhh Pmmh” with enthusiasm. Pancakes were my favorite breakfast, and mom knew it. The added jackpot of bacon was saved for special days, like the first day of school, picture day, field day and other noteworthy specials. And when the bacon was covered with syrup...Nirvana!
Just behind my head a hearty knock came at the back door, rattling the screen. I knew it was Bobby before I even turned around. Opening the screen door and pressing his nose against the frosty glass, Bobby flashed his dopey grin and opened the door.
Bobby's dad had gotten transferred to the same place my dad worked shortly after we moved in. He'd been tried and true through three Kelli Janson breakups, an overnight stay in the hospital for a dislocated elbow, and the sledding disaster of 1975. He had blondish hair, which he parted in the middle, that just scraped the top of his ears. He wore glasses that were just a bit large for his face and he spoke with an unmistakable Ohio accent that all of us made fun of, especially when he said, "Pellow" instead of "Pillow". Bobby was my best friend. He was a pretty complex kid.
"Why don't you just put your tongue against it?" I said, laughing between bites.
Bobby's family, as did we, lived in a three-bedroom, one-bath company house on the west side of town by the county reservoir, not too far from the cement factory. His was only three doors down from ours. Both of us had giant maples in our backyards, and in ours we'd built one of our three treehouses. The tree sat next to the tin-roof garage at the end of the short gravel driveway.
"You about ready?" he asked, popping his head in through the cracked door.
"Still eating," I mumbled through a mouthful of pancake and bacon. "Come in and shut the door. You're heating the outside."
"Robert," said my mom. "Would you like something to eat?"
Mom always called Bobby by his given name, even though no one else ever did...even his parents. It sounded weird every time it nestled on my ears, but Bobby never blinked.
"No thank you, m'am," said Bobby. "I made myself some Corn Flakes when I got up. But thanks anyway."
My mom was equal parts angel, guardian, comforter and saint, with just a smidge of puppy dog tail thrown in. With dirty hands and worn out knees she could be as delicate as a dandelion seed head, while still hanging on to the tom boy she was in another life, before she met me.
"Well," she said, with her sweetest smile, "you're welcome to anything we have." Stuffing the last of the flapjacks into my mouth, I grabbed my coat, lunchbox and Bobby's sleeve and flew out the back door before he even had the chance to say, "Thank you."
"Bye mom," I shouted after swallowing. I barely heard her response.
The school house was only about a block away, at the end of our street. Bobby and I walked there every day, usually with my kid sister in tow. Today we'd bolted so fast she didn't have a chance to catch up.
Most days we'd kick rocks at each other, trying to "score" through the other one's legs. Today, however, there was snow on the ground, so we made snowballs and threw them at the other kids who were walking 20 feet in front of us: Alan Rudy, Chuck Stosser, Paul Plimpton, and Karen Stagle. Three stooges and the most evil witch this side of Kansas.
Karen Stagle was two years older than us, but she looked more like an adult. A good six inches taller than any of us with long stringy black hair that she always flipped around as she talked, we all knew she was the devil's wife. I'd had to step between her and my sister once when Karen threatened to beat her up in the lunchroom. When the principal came and took them both to his office, Karen acted as innocent as grandma's apple pie, but I knew inside her heart was black as pitch. And so did everyone else.
My first snowball of the day plunked her smack in the back of the head. Turning slowly with an evil twitch on her lip that would have made Medea proud, she stopped dead in her tracks and snarled. There is no sense in pretending: it made my knees shiver, and for one desperate moment I felt like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap.
Stopping as dead in my tracks as a possum trying to cross a busy highway, I waited, breathlessly, until she turned back toward her three sniveling myrmidons and continued her two-block trek to school. Letting out a sigh of relief, I pounded Bobby on the back and followed in her grotesquely large footsteps.
He laughed. "That was close," he said between chuckles. "I thought you were a goner."
"Yea, me, too," I replied as my heart started to calm. A few more weak steps and we turned the corner toward the school.
Lincoln School was the senior Middle School of our town. I'd gone there for four years, since the fifth grade. Now I was in 9th, the top of the roost. BMOC. Top dog. Next year it was on to the high school, which was built in 1945 right next door to Lincoln.
"Oh, man!" Bobby exclaimed just before we passed the white-washed annex next to the school. Most people could barely understand him in the wintertime because anything he said usually came out as "Mskh fjkjm mdm hsl" or something akin to it. His mom usually bundled him up like Randy Parker. Four pairs of cordaroys, six pairs of socks and a coat so thick he could survive for weeks at the North Pole. He couldn't even bring his arms down all the way to his sides. He was like a permanent cross in that coat. "I forgot to tell you!"
I stopped and looked him straight in his baby blue eyes. "Tell me what?" This had to be something important. Bobby never stopped walking once he got his locomotion going, not in that get-up anyway.
"I heard on the radio this morning that," he breathed deeply and swallowed hard, "Tom Petty is releasing a new album this weekend!"
There was no use in pretending. My eyes gave me away. And Bobby saw it.
"Yea, I thought you'd like that," he said with a smile in his voice.
Tom Petty was my favorite artist and had been for several years. I'd loved his work with Mudcrutch, even though it didn't seem like anyone else did at the time. And then when the Heartbreakers released their first album, I was yanking the Tom Petty line to the bottom of the lake.
It was one of the few times in my life when I found it hard to speak. Another was when I met my first girlfriend a couple of years later and asked her what my own name was. "What is it?" I asked, having to fight the urge to grab Bobby's coat and beat the information out of him.
Bobby resumed walking. "Whaddya mean, what is it? I don't know what it's called or anything, but it's gotta be good. Great thing is, my dad already said he'd buy it for me. You can come over and listen to it."
Bobby's dad was a senior director at the plant where he and my dad worked. He could afford to buy Bobby just about anything he wanted. And he did. My dad, though he could have afforded it, had decided before I was born that I was to be a worker bee. A drone. He would not buy me things just because I asked. If I worked for it, I could afford to buy it. And he might even throw in a little bit if he thought it was something worthwhile. Rock and roll was definitely not on that worthwhile short list. He was a Tommy Dorsey, Les Brown and Nat King Cole kind of guy.
But at the end of school that day, I decided I would at least approach dad with the idea of buying it for me. I mean, what was the worst he could say? It was at least worth a try, right?
Well, actually it wasn't. He said no before I got the whole sentence out. "It will mean a lot more to you if you work for it and buy it yourself," he said. I knew that sentence backwards and forwards before I was three, so I knew that was the one he'd use before I opened my mouth.
So, like a good worker bee, I went to mom and asked her. "What did your dad say?"
Rats! Foiled by the parental gang-up.
So, instead of looking for a hand-out, I started working for it. "What can I do around the house to earn money?" I asked my mom.
After some deliberation, she came up with some small ideas that could earn me a nickle or a dime. They were mostly washing the dishes, vacumming the carpet, and shoveling the front walk. But after working a good three or four days every chance I got, I'd only scored 65 cents. In those days, 65 cents was a good piece of change for a 14-year old kid, but a good piece of vinyl cost five or six bucks, so this one was still so far out of reach.
Saturday came and sure enough, Bobby's dad bought him the album. I went over and we spent the better part of the day listening to it. Then we'd listen to it again. And again. And again. To me it was pure poetry, even better than the first one. "You're Gonna Get It!" was good, new-fashioned rock and roll, and I loved every second. Two of the songs on it, "I Need to Know" and "Listen to Her Heart", would become Tom Petty classics. The more I listened the more I loved it.
That album was all I could think about until that evening when mom said she was going to the store to buy Sunday dinner. I tagged along like I usually did. Though I was now a tough young teenager, I still loved going to the store in our town. I got to look at the cereal aisle, forever hoping there would be some good prize in the Sugar Smacks box, like a Matchbox car or a 3D baseball card. But more importantly, the grocery store was right next to the music store. While mom shopped, I'd go in there to peruse the new albums, even though I never had enough dough to buy anything.
After looking over the new crop of cereal boxes, I told mom I was headed over to the music store. It was one of the chains of the day, Tower or Sam Goody or Camelot, I don't remember which. They mostly had vinyl, with some cassettes and 8-tracks, and posters of all the bands you could think of. For a rock and roller like me, it was as near to heaven as I could imagine.
That night, I bypassed my usual haunts - the J's, the B's and the Q's - and made a bee-line for the P-section. When I got there, "You're Gonna Get It" was in full display at the top of the bins. I grabbed a copy and looked it over. I'd studied it at Bobby's house that afternoon, but somehow the shrink-wrap made this copy feel newer than his.
I flipped it over and read the song list. I looked at the fine print on the bottom to see where it was recorded. I rubbed my hands over the picture on the front of the five band members. This alone sent shivers down my spine that the owner of an mp3 file these days will never experience. It was and would be one of the most exhilerating repeat activities of my youth. I saw myself with this very copy in my room, pouring over the lyrics page again and again. Goosebumps rose on my arms and the short hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention.
I held the album in front of me and looked around the store. The teenager in charge that night was behind the counter reading some romance novel. I coudn't see her face, but every now and then she'd flip a page, so I knew she was engrossed. Two other teenagers, one my age whom I knew from school but was not friends with, and one who was a couple years younger, were looking at albums in the Country aisle. To me, that was just wrong.
It was kind of cold that night, so I'd worn my bulbous winter coat. Mom had made it for me from a kit that Autumn, stuffing it with the down from several now-shivering geese. It was puffy, but I thought it made me look cool, like some skiing legend. As I stood with that album in my hands, my eyes darted from side to side. I licked my lips and swallowed hard. I took a deep breath. One more look around the store. The pages kept turning on that dime novel and the parusers were occupied, so I stuck the album under that coat and down my pants.
I was officially a thief.
The only time I'd ever been that nervous was when I was facing the wildest pitcher in the Little League in our town. He'd hit me in the shoulder a few games before and it turned as black as Karen Stagle's soul. At that time, my hands and knees were shaking so uncontrollably I could barely stand in the batter's box. This was worse, however, because on top of everything I knew it was wrong.
To deflect any suspicion, I walked around the store awhile, looking at other albums and flipping through the band posters on the flip rack. I was smooth as rocks in a stream.
I saw him through the storefront window as I turned to make my way back to mom. He was wearing an old-time bowler hat that covered a shock of greying hair on his forehead and underlined the brush he wore on his upper lip. He was sitting in his car with the lights off and the motor running, but his eyes were directly on me. At first I didn't think anything of it. But when I made my way toward the front door, he reached to open his door. I froze. As I did, he relaxed, but his gaze was sewed to me like the buttons on my shirt.
Panicking, I turned and went to the Q-section. It was usually my favorite spot in the store. It was on the opposite side of the rack, so as I stood mindlessly thumbing through the Qs, I stared out the front window at him. Who was that guy? Why was he watching me? Why was he wearing a bowler? Nobody wore those things anymore.
I felt a line of sweat drip from the budding pit hair under my arm down the smoothness of the side of my body. I actually thought about taking the album out of my coat and putting it back in the rack, but the songs I'd heard that afternoon pounded through my head like a strange voice on the telephone. Before all of this ever went down I was an honest kid, a trustworthy teenager, if there is such a thing. But today my adversary had me standing in the tall grass and cattails. And he knew it.
Making my way over to the R's I took another peak. He was still there, but he was looking at something in his hands. This was my chance. My heart tried to tell me the right thing to do, and I reached for the album. I just couldn't bring myself to take it out of my coat.
I decided that the waiting was the hardest part, and so I didn't. Mom would be done soon, and she'd come over and get me. I had to act.
So, I hinched up my courage and walked out of the store.
As soon as I stepped out the door, Bowler-man stepped out of his car and shut the door.
And started following me.
Sensing him behind me, I took a quick detour into the pharmacy on the opposite side of the music store and frantically headed down an aisle I knew led to a back door. If I could get there I would be home free.
I passed the greeting cards and got into the cosmetics section, which is where he finally stopped me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. Now my leg was really in the trap, and all I could think of was how to chew it off.
"Whaddya got beneath the coat, kid?" he asked with a heavy New Jersey accent. His Ben Gay seared my nose as his hand tightened on my shoulder.
All I could say was, "I'm sorry," and the water works began. I slowly pulled the album out and gave it to him, wiping a tear that ran down my cheek. The bottom corners of the album were bent where I'd stuck it down my pants. He looked it over and said, "Come with me."
We walked with his hand grasping my coat collar back to the music store at a brisk pace, but it was the longest 100-foot walk I'd ever taken. Bowler-man, who turned out to be a plain-clothes security officer for that strip mall, opened the door and we walked toward the counter. As we approached, I saw something that made my heart tremble more than anything else could have.
Karen Stagle was the teenager behind the counter.
"I just caught this young man stealing this album from your store," said Bowler-man as he handed her my almost-plunder. He took off his hat, brushed off some light snow, and sat it on the counter.
Karen looked at Bowler-man, then at the album and then at me. In my mind's eye I could see that snowball hitting her stringy hair only the day before. That wasn't going to help in the least. "Snowballs aren't enough, huh?" she derided. "You had to steal, too."
"He had it inside his coat. I think you should press charges."
"What happens if we do that?" she asked, her voice cracking intelligibly.
"Well," Bowler-man replied, "he could go to jail. At least he'll have a criminal record." I almost wet my pants.
"OH, PLEASE!" I wept, looking straight into Karen's bloodshot eyes. "I'm starting a new job at the department store next week! Please don't send me to jail."
Karen's evil sneer sent shivers all the way into my toes. I looked at my shoes and sobbed uncontrollably. There was nothing I could do. Bowler-man and Karen had my leg in that trap and they were getting out their skinning knives.
Initially I thought it was more of an 'I don't want to go through all that paperwork tonight' thing than it was anything else, but Karen sighed and said, "Well, we have our album back."
"What does that mean?" blurted Bowler-man. "I caught him red-handed!"
"I know," said Karen, "but I think he's learned a good lesson. Don't you?"
Bowler-man stood motionless for what seemed like an hour, then queried, "Is your manager here?"
"I'm all you got tonight, sir. I'm sorry." Karen replied, leaning her elbows on the counter.
Bowler-man finally let go of my coat, grabbed his hat, turned and headed out the door, grumbling imperceptibly through his brush-like mustache until he got back into his car.
I, too, was bewildered beyond belief. A million questions raced through my brain at once. I stood, motionless, soundless, breathless, mouth-open, stupefied. Why?
"Why?" I asked, almost apologetically.
Karen laughed, flashed an almost imperceptible Mona-Lisa grin and said, "We teenagers have to stick together, right?"
My eyebrows furrowed, my eyelids narrowed. "But, but you HAD me," I said, near a whisper.
She leaned closer over the counter and whispered back, with a wink, "You want me to wave him back in here?"
I guess even the losers get lucky sometimes.
If nothing else, I knew when to leave well enough alone. I left the store so quickly the bell on the door hadn't even rung by the time I was on the sidewalk. I went back to mom in the grocery store. She was in the check-out line and almost ready to go home. I was sure to guide her out the opposite side of the store to keep her as far away from Bowler-man and Karen as humanly possible.
In the myriad years since, I've never stolen anything else, or even tried to. I guess you could say I was scared straight. Oh, I was tempted from time to time, but just the quick thought of Bowler-man made me run away as fast as I could.
Bobby never understood the knowing nod I gave Karen from that day on. She and I never talked about it, and I never went into that store again. We talked from time to time, and I came to realize that her soul wasn't as black as I'd thought. It was really only a dark grey.
I never bought that album, either, and still don't have it to this day. I've listened to parts of it in mp3 format a time or two, but I just can't make myself listen to more than a few songs. It brings back too many still-tender feelings and bad memories.
A year or two later I also won tickets to see Tom Petty in concert. Front row off to the side. But I couldn't go. I had other things to do. Not more important, just other. So, I sold the tickets to Bobby, who by that time was demanding to be called Bob, for about two bucks. He went, took a girl named Olivia or something, and had a really good time. He even bought me a t-shirt that I never wore.
I never told hiim about my incident. And whenever he'd ask me to come over and listen to that album, I'd find something else that really needed to be done. He had his suspicions, I suppose, but he never put two and two together. Of course, he didn't know how it felt to be me.
And no one else really did, either. I never told mom and dad. To the end of their days neither one knew they'd raised a two-bit thief.
In fact, no one else ever knew.
Karen and I are the only ones.
Until now. Now you know, too.
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