The Butcher Boy

My friend, Karen, reminded me of an orange crayon with black flecks in it. The orange fit her athletic, adventurous spirit, while the black flecks represented the antagonistic streak that kept me on edge around her, for Karen was always coercing me into things I didn't really want to do; whether it be jumping from ankle-twisting heights, seeing how close we could get to a sleeping rattlesnake or, on this particular day, shoplifting. We were walking home from school as usual, when Karen suggested we swing into Trent's, a little grocery store that had a good candy selection. "Do you have any money?" I asked. "No. Do you?" "No." "They won't go broke if we take a couple things," she said. "They won't even notice." "Karen!" I said, stopping in my tracks. Karen stopped, too. "You gonna help me?" "Nope." "Bock-bock-be-gock!" she said, flapping her arms. "What about the Butcher Boy?" I challenged. The Butcher Boy was what us schoolkids called the big guy who stood watch over the candy counter at Trent's. With his crewcut and tattoos, his thick neck and heavy black boots, and his arms folded across his chest in such a way as to magnify his large biceps, the Butcher Boy was one intimidating fellow. He was also the store butcher, as the name implies, and the bloody apron he wore only added to his dungeon master chic. Eye contact with the Butcher Boy was a chilling event, since he never smiled. He just stared, unflinchingly, down the candy aisle, evoking fear in all who neared. And while no one actually knew what the Butcher Boy would do if he caught you stealing, no one wanted to find out. "The Butcher Boy's a wuss!" Karen shot back, heading off without me. I didn't want to walk home alone, so I didn't have much of a choice. I decided to go with her, but only as an observer. At Trent's, I stood back, keeping my hands in my coat pockets while Karen hovered in the candy aisle, taking forever to slip a couple tiny packets of Smarties into her pockets. The more I watched her, the more I realized how suspicious Karen's ultra-casual attitude was. Other kids were making their selections quickly and noisily and going on their merry way. It suddenly dawned on me that the easiest way to be sneaky was to be as obvious as possible. I became so intrigued by this theory that I momentarily forgot about the Butcher Boy. "Hey Karen," I said, loudly. When she looked over I grabbed the biggest thing available, a Marathon candy bar (which was at least six or seven inches long) and stuck it up my right sleeve with no subtletly whatsoever. Karen's look of shock was priceless. "You want one, too?" I asked. Before she could answer, I grabbed another Marathon bar and stuck it up my other sleeve. Karen blanched, and shot a quick glance at the Butcher Boy, whose face was as impassive as usual. "Let's go," I said and began lah-dee-dahing my way out of the store. Karen pressed up behind me and hissed, "You dork! We're dead meat for sure!" I, however, had full confidence in my theory; that is, until I saw the Butcher Boy's arms unfolding out of my periphery and heard the approach of his boots on the linoleum floor. Big, meaty hands clapped onto our shoulders. "I wanna talk to you girls," he said sternly. Karen shot me an ultra-dirty, "it's all your fault" look as he led us to the back office. The Butcher Boy shut the door behind us, then leaned against the desk with his arms folded in his characteristic way. Karen sat down in a chair, looking as defiant as ever, while I just stood there, trying to conceal my trembling. The Butcher Boy glared at Karen, who couldn't take it and began staring at the floor. "I know you took something, young lady," he said. "Show me what you've got in your pockets." Without saying a word, Karen fished out the Smarties and handed them over. "Is that all of it?" the Butcher Boy demanded. Karen nodded urgently, keeping her eyes down. That's when the Butcher Boy turned to me. My stomach pitched and a wave of adrenaline washed through me as I braced myself for the worst. "I hope you realize what a bad example your friend here set for you today," he said. For a moment I didn't understand, so I just stared at him blankly, trying to figure out the correct response. But then it hit me, my theory had been correct after all! I nodded emphatically. He turned his attention back to Karen. "What would your parents say if they knew what you were doing, today?" At this, Karen began sobbing. Another surprise, since she prided herself on her stoicism and I'd never seen her cry. "Please don't tell my parents, please!" she begged. Soon her nose was running, but I was afraid the candy bars would fall out of my sleeves if I reached for the Kleenex I had in my pocket, so I just stood there stiffly, like a little Penguin. The Butcher Boy had a handkerchief, though, and he wiped Karen's face with it. She was trying so hard not to cry that she began having little hiccups and shudders. The Butcher Boy put his arm on her shoulder, awkwardly. "Now, now, don't cry!" he said, giving me a pleading look. It obviously distressed him to see the tough little girl in tears. "I guess it's pretty dumb to steal Smarties," I said finally, trying to make light of the whole thing. That made Karen mad enough to pull out of her tears, though, and the Butcher Boy looked relieved. For a second, I thought she was going to tell on me, but snitching would have really gone against her ethics and besides he probably would have called our parents, then. The interrogation ended with the Butcher Boy making us promise to end our life of crime right then and there, to which we readily agreed. When we emerged from the back room, the other after-school kids snuck looks at us, wondering what tortures the Butcher Boy had inflicted upon us. It was embarassing, but at least we'd made it out alive. We walked in silence most of the way home. Karen had lost face by crying in front of me, and I'd gained respect in her eyes by not losing my cool. After that, whenever I declined a dare and she called me a chicken, all I had to say was, "Remember the Butcher Boy?" and she would back off.