Not Shoplifting by Kathryn D'Elia

He had been there a hundred times before. It was the old beat-up Winn-Dixie down the shady side of Michigan Avenue, the closest full grocery store within biking distance. Allen swung one leg off his bike as he glided toward the bike rack to the left of the main entrance. Several disgruntled employees stood outside smoking and staring into space. He rode about three-fourth of the way down the length of the ramp before coming to a complete stop and dismounting fully. Allen glanced up at the men by the door as he removed his bike lock and chain from his knapsack. Swiftly, he wove the chain through the wheel spokes and through the frame in the way that his father had taught him. “They’ll never get it away from you that way, Son!” He tugged at the lock to ensure its hold and turned to go in. He looked at the floor directly in front of him as he entered, avoiding the two smokers and carefully noting how the ground changed from cement, to rubber matting, to cheap brown tile, to scuffed beige linoleum as he walked.
It was a short list, only a half-dozen items. A small jar of JIF peanut butter, beer (for when Derek would come over,) a box of cereal, goldfish food (for Lillian and Gilbert,) coffee, and a memo pad for future list writing (as lists on the back of receipts and envelopes seem less official). Allen had a general understanding of where all these items would be and slowly made his way through the aisles, scanning his surroundings as he went. In the breakfast aisle there was a pretty girl in a pink sweater analyzing the cereal bars. She stared the boxes on the shelves as if they were going to present her with the meaning of life. As Allen approached to claim his box of Cheerios, she looked up and smiled. He smiled back, and tossed his cereal into his green wire basket in what he hoped was a suave way. He mumbled an “excuse me” as he passed her, but she was already back to searching for answers and didn’t seem to notice.
Gathering the rest of the items presented events of no particular interest. As always, there was a biker in the liquor section, sizing up his options. In one aisle he saw a mother struggling with the unhappy children in her shopping cart trying to quiet them by throwing Zebra Cakes in the cart. The only real challenge was choosing which memo pad suited him. There were a few with kittens on them. One had a rooster at the top, (he guessed for those people with the cutesy country themed kitchens). He considered one with clip art footballs around the border, wondering if would make him seem more manly, but finally chose one that was just pale green and stuck it in his pocket.
With all items checked off (except the last one, it always seemed dumb to check off the last one,) Allen walked to the registers where three bored looking women stood around, yelling to each other from time to time. Sitting his grocery basket on the conveyer belt at #6, he noticed the girl in pink walking to line #4.
“Hey Sugar, Did you find everything all right?” said the cashier, a tall woman with frizzy blond hair, and a rather appallingly thick application of red lipstick.
“..Uh, yeah. I did.”
“I’ll need to see your ID for that beer.” She smiled an over-attentive grin, like she was trying to absorb the attractive young man in front of her.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” he replied, ignoring her interest. He groped around in his back pocket for his wallet, and upon pulling it out, ended up with a pale green notepad in his hand as well.
The Cashier’s eyes zeroed in on Allen’s discovery. Her countenance transformed immediately. The cheesy smile evaporated. She snatched the notepad out of his hand. “What the hell do you think yer doin’? Stealin? I swear none of them nice lookin’ boys are good at all.”
“No, really. I meant to-“ Allen stammered. He tried to interrupt but his pleas fell on deaf ears.
“Tom! Get over here!”
Allen looked around desperately. The girl at lane 4 had turned around to see what all the excitement was about. One of the bulky smokers from the front entrance bustled over.
“What do ya want, Carolyn?” said the man, who could easily break Allen in half. “He must work with the heavy produce. Watermelons,” Allen thought.
“This boy was shopliftin’!” shrieked the woman.
“No- I didn’t mean-”
Tom crossed his massive arms, his stained uniform pulling tight across his chest. He gave Allen an appraising glance, and seemed to also feel that he could easily cause Allen irrevocable damage.
“Oh he was, was he?!”
Becoming even more intensely nervous under the scrutiny. Allen grabbed at his knapsack and ran for the door, leaving his goldfish food, beer for Derek, Cheerios, even that damned notepad on the counter. This seemed to be the last thing either angry employee expected and they stood there, dumbly watching Allen flee. The girl in pink scowled at him from her place at Lane #4. He could see her through the automatic door. Allen frowned and unlocked his bike with military precision and hopped on it, with chain still in hand. By this time, Tom had wandered out of the door after him. Allen looked over his shoulder to see the large man shaking his head, as he shrunk in the distance. Allen didn’t breath again until he was a considerable distance down Michigan Avenue.