About a week after I began stealing chocolate Easter-eggs at
the Five and Dime on Lexington they sprung their trap and nailed me. I'd been
stopping by every afternoon on my walk home from the bus-stop and thought I'd
had the con pretty well in hand; moseying down the Easter aisle with my
book-bag open, assuming a casual air of innocence and indifference while idly
sweeping the colorful bags of chocolates into the gaping satchel with all the
apathy of a midnight croupier raking in the chips. I'm not sure why I wasted my
larcenous adventures on something so petty and pointless as these generic, waxy
candies, but, like the magpie, I was compelled as much by the colorful foil as
the imitation chocolate flavor and found them irresistible and addictive.
Having taken my limit, I'd saunter through Toys and Stationary just for the
effect, pausing to consider a fountain pen or model airplane on my way back to
the front of the store. Confident I'd gone undetected, I stepped out that
afternoon into the crushing horde emerging from the Bloomingdale's subway stop
and let the massive flow carry me upstream.
Within a dozen yards my progress was impeded
by a man in janitorial gray, arms folded across his chest, who seemed
determined to bar my way. I feinted right, then left, to no avail. Finally I
looked up, past the muscled forearms, past the red-stitched pocket patch that
read “Manny”, to a swarthy, scowling face and the first indication that
something in my plan may just have gone awry. “Whatcha got in that bag, kid?”
Manny barked, grabbing the brief-case and wrenching it open. My stomach rose in
my throat, my ears began to ring and a cold sweat broke across my forehead. My
first thought, of course, was to play dumb and, by way of diversion I trotted
out a meaningless melange of the French and Latin they'd just started us on in
that fourth-grade year at school. “Pardon?” I asked. “Quo vadis?” If I'd
imagined that dealing with this foreign boy might prove too complex for Manny,
my hopes were quickly dashed as he demanded, “You got a receipt for that?”
Pedestrians had begun to collect; a bit of gawking had commenced around this
tiny, urban drama. I looked back down at the sidewalk, casting about for an
answer. “I ... threw it away?” I ventured, indicating the trash-can some twenty
feet behind us that we both knew I'd never gotten close to. Manny grabbed my
elbow, “You're coming with me.” He said, dragging me through the parting crowd
and back into the store.
“We've been watching you all week.” The manager
told me. I sat in the hard wooden chair next to the desk he'd emptied my loot
out on to. I needed to pee; my mouth was dry, my legs had lost all feeling. “What's
your name, Slick?” Nothing came to mind; I drew a blank. Suddenly recalling the
marquee of the movie house up the block on Third, I blurted out triumphantly,
“Tom Jones!” in what would become the
first alias in a cat-and-mouse game that would go on between us for the next
hour or more. I'm not sure what I expected when he lifted the phone, dialed the
bogus number I'd given and said, “Good evening. Am I speaking with Mrs. Jones?”
Suffice to say, though, that just coming upon that first handy moniker opened
the creative floodgates and there followed a veritable who's-who of random
surnames stretching from the obvious, Smith, through such paragons of popular
culture as Don Knotts, Fess Parker and even Johnny Mathis. It's entirely
possible that this man had never heard of any of these people, as he dutifully
dialed each of the fabricated phone numbers I offered before finally losing his
cool. “You think this is funny? You think this is a game, wise-ass? This is
your last chance; you give me your real name and number or I'm calling the cops
and you're going downtown!” I didn't believe him. I took one last stab at it,
as if I thought I could wear him down through attrition. It was nearly five;
they'd have to close up soon and let me go. “ Tom Jones.” I said again. He
called the cops.
The squad car showed up with siren blaring
and lights flashing. In the time it took the patrolmen to reach the office at
the back of the store I'd panicked, of course, and spilled the beans. They put
the cuffs on and one of them led me out through the gauntlet of lingering
customers and sympathetic shop-girls in powder blue smocks who cooed and
simpered solicitously at this poor child's rough treatment. I sat in the back
of the car as the nausea set in. “Now you've done it, kid; we gotta take you
downtown.” The cop said while we waited for his partner. And they did take me
downtown, for about ten terrifying blocks before turning east, circling back
uptown and pulling to a stop in front of our house. My mother was waiting at
the door. “Just you wait until your father gets home!” She said.
Years later, in the midst of a raging
winter storm on a night I'd have been well advised to spend at home, I found
myself trudging up College Hill to catch a glimpse of a former girlfriend who
was passing through town with the boyfriend from back home. He and I had never
met and, in the delirium induced by unrequited love, I'd convinced myself that
it would be perfectly reasonable to show up, assume an alias and share a few
beers. By the time I'd reached Brown Street the snow was waist deep and I
presented myself, exhausted, drenched in sweat and caked in ice at the
apartment where they were staying. If her girlfriends were surprised to see me
in their foyer, they stifled their horror long enough to lead me to the kitchen
where a shocked and speechless Jenny rose stammering from the table, struggling
in a futile effort to come up with something to say by way of an introduction
to her boyfriend. “Oh, my,” she choked. “This...This is...I'd like you to
meet...”
“Tom Jones.” I offered, extending a hand
towards my rival. It was the first thing that popped into my head and, were it
not for the sudden uncomfortable hush, the wide eyes and ashen complexions of
the girls now backed up in confusion against the kitchen walls, I might have
pulled it off. As it was, we managed maybe ten minutes worth of small talk
before Jenny and her man left the room to engage in a heated discussion around
this sudden turn of events. I opted for the kitchen window, crawling out onto
the fire escape, sliding down the icy ladder and hanging there - buffeted by the
strobes and rotor wash of the choppers landing the 10th Mountain Division on
the Hope High football field - before
dropping into the soft, frigid drifts of the Blizzard of '78.
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