Smoking And Stealing

One Saturday morning, my best pal and I had big plans for the day until Mama said, “Junior, I’ll be gone until four o’clock; you’ll have to tend to your baby brother today.”

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“But, Mom, with a kid tagging along, we can’t do the fun things we got planned.” Three words killed that argument: “Mind me, boy!” Thinking we might talk Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor, into watching Jake, we went to his house. He wasn’t home, but I noticed that a backyard shed he’d been building was finished. Encouraged by Satan, I lured Jake into the shed and locked it. “Before Mama gets home, we’ll let him out,” I said, “She and Jaybird won’t ever know, and we’ll bring some candy bars, peanuts, and a drink from the commissary story so that he won’t tell. While there, I’ll steal some cigarettes.” Mr. Collins, the storekeeper, knew us well, and continued reading the newspaper, paying no mind when we sauntered in. I had no problem making the heist.

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Around noon, we returned, smoked a few cigarettes, and opened the shed to release the squalling detainee, who’d been incarcerated for hours with no food or water. “Don’t cry, Jake,” I said. “Look — I brought you some candy, peanuts, and a soda.” The vengeful gleam in his eyes evoked a spooky premonition that my wickedness might not escape retribution. What I didn’t know was that he saw me hide the cigarettes under the shed’s back wall for safekeeping until we wanted to smoke again, and put them in his pocket. Sure enough, when Mama pulled in the driveway, Jake showed her the cigarettes. “Look, Mama, Junior’s been smoking.” “Boy, where’d you get those cigarettes?” Shamefully, I admitted that I’d stolen them from the store. “We’re going to see Mr. Collins right now!” she screamed. When we pulled up to the store, nobody but Mr. Collins was there, but just as I volunteered to go in and confess my crime, several customers arrived. “Now, go ’fess up,” Mama said. “But those folks know me!” “All the better.” Jake didn’t have to get his revenge by telling Mama we locked him in the shed; he got it by listening to me wail when she administered a painful thrashing. Later that day, I visited Jaybird, hoping to get some consolation. “You shoulda knowed bettuh than to smoke around Jake, knowing what a tattletale he is,” Jaybird said. Seeing me squirm, he said, “Boy, I kin tell you is hiding sumpin’ fum me. Tell me the rest o’ de story.” When I did, Jaybird roared, “You mean to tell me you locked up that po’ little ole boy — in my shed!” Grabbing his willow switch, he administered a second thrashing. “Yo’ brother mustah suffered sumpin’ terrible in dat dark, cold shed. I oughta whup yo’ butt agin.” Thankfully, he didn’t. He knew that I felt awful about what I did to Jake and that never again would I be guilty of smoking and stealing.

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