Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“Dollar ninety-seven,” she said. He gave her two singles; she handed him three cents and some Blue Chip stamps. “Was it snowing?” she said, bagging his groceries; all the baggers seemed tied up at other stands.

“Excuse me?”

“You know: in the place where you went skiing. Was it snowing there?”

“Fortunately, only a little,” and he knew she didn’t suspect a thing.

“We didn’t even have to use the snow chains we rented — that’s how nice the weather was, although there was more than enough snow on the ground to ski on.”

“I like to ski, my boyfriend and I, but just the costs of the ski lift and equipment is enough to keep us from going, Oh well, we’ll get there yet.” She gave him the bag and said “Have a good night.”

“Hey, you too,” he said, touching his pocket to make sure the Contac was still hidden by the flap, and left the store and headed for his car in the parking lot.

“If you don’t mind?” a man said behind him.

It was useless to run. And he couldn’t quickly come up with a reasonable excuse why he stole the Contac. He even became sloppy. “My kids,” he said to the man he’d seen behind the office window and who had the words “Buzz Walker, Store Manager” embroidered on his work jacket. “I can’t afford these expensive drugs,” he went on as the man held out his hand for what his eyes said was in the right side pocket of Rod’s jacket, “and my littlest one is very sick with a head cold.”

“I’m sorry about that. But you know we can’t be letting people steal what they want because they got financial problems. As it is, if your kid’s real young, these capsules are no good for anybody under twelve.”

“Is that so? I didn’t know that.”

“Says right here on the directions.” He pointed to the package Rod had given him. “What are you trying to do, kill your kid?”

“I still can’t read it. It’s too dark out here, and my eyes,” squinting as if he had serious trouble with them. The manager looked at him skeptically and then told him to forget it.

“But for both our sakes, shop somewhere else from now on, I got too much work as it is without these dumb hassles,” and he went back to the store, scratching the back of his neck with the Contac.

Considering the situation, Rod thought, the manager had been all right: fair, not self-righteous; not coming on strong with a speech about possible police trouble for Rod and making him grovel before he let him go. The manager knew how tough it was for some guys to pay the bills and keep a family going out here. But more important was that he had his own job to protect, his own family to support, so the organization that was paying him had to come before any individual feelings, especially when it concerned someone he didn’t know. If Rod had this guy’s job and was pulling in around two hundred a week and no doubt getting a discount on the food, he’d have acted the same way, though he wouldn’t have been so careless as to wait till the shoplifter made it to the lot with his theft. You can’t take him there. Too many legal loopholes. The shoplifter could put up a stink as to what was public or private property that could bring the entire company to court and maybe cost the manager his job. Rod would have stopped him after he’d paid for his groceries and was about to leave, or better yet, so as not to make a commotion, cornered him in some quiet spot in the store. Like the manager, he would have been fair and sympathetic though also resolute in not condoning the theft. And after he’d let the thief go, though also telling him never to come back, he’d write a report to the chain’s headquarters in Oakland, recounting, very subtly and self-effacingly, the terrific job he and his staff were doing in keeping down shoplifting, giving this one as an example, but saying he confronted the guy in the store. A promotion, bigger-than-usual Christmas bonus — who knew what could follow a number of such reports, most of them false or exasperated. But if he worked for a company that was paying him a good wage, he’d work his butt off for it, put in as much overtime as they wanted him to, and always push himself for advancement and never steal.

He picked up a Boston lettuce at the supermarket in the next shopping center, pocketed a package of Contac and brought the lettuce to the checkout stand farthest from the balcony office overlooking the front part of the store.

“Hi, how are you?” the girl said, smiling at him as if he were a familiar customer, though he’d only been here once. “Only one item? You could’ve gone to the express register,” and he said This one was moving fast, and only the lettuce because I forgot to get it before.” She rang up the lettuce gave him his change, “Have a nice night,” and he said Thanks. You too.”

He knew he wouldn’t be caught this time. He hadn’t looked uncomfortable, which he was sure he did the last time, or dallied to decide which checkout stand to use or tapped the jacket pocket at the stand or felt the flap on the way out. It had taken one casual look around in the drug aisle and a cough that doubled him over as he slipped the Contac into his pocket, and now he was in his car and driving out of the lot, and he wanted to howl and cheer but tempered his appearance to that of a tired worker who’d never sully his family’s reputation or jeopardize his future for such a petty theft.

Home, Ginny yelled from the bedroom “Rod? I’ll be up and fix us dinner in a moment.”

He told her to stay in bed: that he was more than happy to make supper for the three of them. He put together a meatloaf and put it and the yams into the oven.

Jesse came into the kitchen. “Make me cereal. Make Jess cereal, Rod.”

He kissed him on top of his head, lifted him into the highchair and in a few minutes had two slices of cinnamon toast and a bowl of instant oatmeal in front of him, with milk, butter, wheat germ and sugar on it. “For you, Jesse old king.”

“It’s hot,” Jesse said, waving his favorite spoon in the air. “Cereal too hot for Jess, right?”

“I’ll taste it,” he did, and said “It’s okay; it won’t burn you.”

He held the package of Contac behind his back and went into the bedroom. Ginny was in bed. “Guess,” he said, and when she said “Hmm, let’s see,” and then gave him that artfully dumb expression of hers of being completely taken in by his surprise, he produced the Contac.

“You’re a mindreader,” she said, pushing the covers aside to sit up and take the package. “I need them so badly, and you knew, Teeny, you knew.” She tore out one of the capsules and held it between two fingertips. “Do you think they work as well as those silly ads say? I got one heck of a cold on that trip.”

They better work at the price.”

She looked at the price on the package and whistled. “Dollar forty-nine? For ten pills? That’s crazy. You’re really extravagant, really too good to me,” and she swallowed the capsule without water. About thirty seconds later she said “You’re not going to believe this but I’m already feeling much better. I bet it makes me sleep better too. And listen,” and she breathed in and out extra loudly, “I think it’s already unclogging my nose.”

Henry Sampson was awakened from a deep sleep by children yelling at the top of their lungs. He edged his body across the bed, picked at his Baby Ben. Eight-forty, he saw, squinting at the clock. Goddamn, he thought, it’s not even nine, and Sunday, no less, so why can’t the school lock its gates and help a man get some sleep? He shut his eyes and hugged the pillow to his ears, but still heard the kids in the schoolyard that faced his windows, now choosing up sides for Capture the Flag.