[LEMONS] 1.23.2002
Damn. The hospital called, and needed Harp to come into work. Bad for me, worse for her, good for you. I guess. So while I'm sitting here, munching Edamame, and searching for a free sound recording program, I figure I can rewrite my post that went ka-plooey.
I was the typical kid with a chip on his shoulder. The cool kids, the popular kids, the football players, and their braindead ilk, shunned me, and so I shunned them right the fuck back. In junior high, I was way into creative endeavors. ( Always had been. Even as a kid, I was submitting poetry and drawings to Highlights. ) But by the time I was in 8th grade or so, I had wised up to the fact that this wasn't going to win me any friends, or get me that first kiss. In fact, if anything, it was just going to earn me even more scorn and derision from the aforementioned "let's go throw a ball around, bump into each other a bunch, and then take a shower together before we throw a party and don't invite kids that aren't also on the football team or old Alabama money," crowd. I didn't know what to do. I was an awkward kid, and had no self confidence whatsoever. And to top it all off, I had the sneaking suspicion that daddy never understood.
And so, I did what most kids like me that age do, I turned to drug use, indie rock, and juvenile delinquency. What fun. Bashing mailboxes on warm southern nights. Riding in the back of a pickup truck, cranking the pixies, and hucking eggs at the cars parked at a party we weren't invited to attend. Urinating in the jocks' gatorade in the locker room, and then sticking around to watch them drink it after practice. Joyriding in cars. Breaking windows. Sneaking onto the golf course at night, tearing up the greens, joyriding the carts into ponds, and shitting in the holes. And Halloween. Oh. Halloween. What fun. What fun. Smashing Pumpkins, even if they were a country band, I'd love them for their name, and the memories it invokes. What fun.
There were more serious things too. There were fights and beatings and drug deals and driving around Montgomery at seventeen on six hits of acid, watching the Christmas lights turn the streets into a carnival, oblivious to the threat I posed to other drivers and pedestrians. But for the most part, my fun was harmless to anyone other than myself and my poor mother. I was just wild. (And thank God. Otherwise I'd probably be one of those pathetic souls acting out my childhood well into adulthood. Everyone needs wild days.) I was just always the guy who never wanted to be chicken. I was just down for whatever. I was just a dumb ass. (And it took trips to the hospital and jail for me, and rehabs, prison, and mental homes for friends before I realized how stupid I was.)
And then there was Kmart.
I was never much of a thief. I had problems with stealing. I was against it. Although, I certainly didn't mind sharing in the fruits of others' theft. I'm sure I sipped a thousand swallows of purloined vodka before I ever hit 16. But.
A bunch of my friends took to stealing CDs from Kmart. After several weeks of watching my friends' music collections swell, with no consequences, I got greedy. I wanted in. "Besides," I reasoned, "Kmart is a giant chain store, they have tons of money, it's not like I'm stealing from a local merchant." And so. And so I did. The five finger discount. Hoo-ray.
And one Sunday when I was sixteen, I was in Kmart with my friends Mike and Lawson. We were busy slicing the bottom of longboxes (remember CD longboxes?) with razors and cramming them into our clothes when I noticed a woman staring at us. We figured we were slick, so we decided not to worry. But I worried. Something was up. There was a bad vibe in the store. And so as we left, I hung back in the Valentine's Day specialty aisle, and there, amid the heart-shaped boxes, greeting cards and candy, I stashed my purloined CDs. It's important to note I did this first. I headed out, and as I did,. I saw Mike walking out the front door. Lawson had already split. Then I heard a voice over the intercom calling for a ladder at the front of the store, and three men bolted out the front door.
I was no dummy. I knew what was up. So I strolled to the counter, bought a pack of cigarettes (As I always did when I was stealing stuff. I never stole things and left. I figured it would look suspicious. I always lingered around, bought something, and then left.) and split. Outside, I saw Lawson lying on the ground with a guy on top of him. I think he must ave tried to run. Mike was standing closer to the door, watching. There was a guy standing next to him, with Mike's arm in his left hand, and a stack of CDs in his right. Fuck.
And they had the whole thing on tape. They had everything on tape. They had tapes of several weeks of sullen teenages in army clothes sulking into their store and lingering around the CD section. And they had a suspiciously empty metal section, even though metal wasn't really well in the Rome, Georgia Kmart. And on closer inspection they saw the kids stashing CDs. And they knew we'd be back, so they waited, and got us. And because they were incredibly cool, they didn't arrest us, they only made us return the CDs. I say us because Mike and Lawson told them who I was, not that I blame them. And then they told us that we weren't allowed back into Kmart. Ever.
And so, I've been thinking about that a lot the past few days. And I have to say, I'm sorry Kmart.
- l i n k -
