Not Shoplifting

Yesterday I stopped in at the local pharmacy to refill my Lithium and Oxycontin prescriptions. On the way out, a display of small notebooks in the office supplies section caught my eye. As a writer, I am, of course, always having brilliant thoughts. Often I have nothing handy upon which to write these gems of wit and wisdom. Thus, priceless moments of erudite observation and pansophy are relegated to disparate scraps of paper, backs of napkins, or even junk mail envelopes. Invariably, much of this agglomeration ends-up collected in dusty desk drawers, silent shoeboxes or unconsciously tossed out as trash.

Being organized may be one of the seven habits of highly successful people, but it is not one of my attributes. I am a habitual “To-Do” list maker, but unfortunately the list often becomes misplaced, or I forget to look at the list. My wife is also a To-Do list generator, and I often find yellow sticky notes on the refrigerator door or the bathroom mirror that say simply “Look at your To-Do list!” It’s not that I am absent minded, I just get distracted sometimes - especially if I am not dutiful about the meds.

So there I was at the pharmacy, looking at notebooks, thinking that if I started carrying a notebook around in my shirt pocket I would always have something to write on. I have attained the age where all my shirts – even the Tee & Polo shirts are ordered with pockets – so I have somewhere to put my reading glasses.

There were several choices: Top hinged like a stenographer’s notebook and side hinged like a regular book. I tested a few different sizes and types by seeing if they fit into my pocket.

I was approached by a pock-faced young man who I recognized as a store employee. He wore a name tag that identified him as Jerry. On past visits, I had noticed that he was always following customers around like a vulture, peering over the plinths to make sure that no one shoplifted the toothpaste, I guess. He addressed me in an un-necessarily stentorian voice.

“Ok pops, don’t make a move. We got you.” I could feel what seemed like a ball point pen with the cap on sticking into my back pretending to be a weapon. The kid must have thought I was a rube.

“Look kid, you’ve got two seconds to get that pen out of my back. I wasn’t trying to steal anything. I was just…” He interrupted my explanation (strike two, I thought.)

“Yeah, pops, I know exactly what you’re try’na pull! You geezers think you can get away with murder – you come in here – shoplifting and then when you get caught, you whine ‘The new meds made me do it!’ Well, not this time, chief. You’re going to the slammer.”

Turning to face him, I asked “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic… Jerry?”, as I drew my Walther .38 from the underarm holster and pressed the pistol into his chest directly under his nametag and very close to the heart.

He had a startled look of surprise and fear which he tried to mask with a grin. It made him look silly and meaningless. “Come on, pops, you wouldn’t shoot me over a 79 cent notebook. That’s probably not even a real gun.” Strike three. I pulled the trigger.

As he lay on the linoleum floor in a spreading pool of blood, I hoped that the last words he heard on this earth were, “And, don’t call me ‘pops’.” I stepped over him and took my notebook to the cashier counter. She gave me a nice smile and asked if I had found what I was looking for.

“Yes, thank you. Sorry for the little mess over there. I was just checking to see if the notebook fit in my shirt pocket. He was very rude. How much is this one?”

The cashier scanned the bar code. That is 79 cents plus tax, sir. No problem about Jerry – he was a jerk anyway. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

As I emerged from the pharmacy to get in my car, the sun was warm and bright. The sky was clear and blue. A light wind blew from the south. I sat in the car and popped a few Oxy’s, waited a few minutes for the headache to recede and then headed for the nearest bar.