Capture The Flag

I don't know why I wanted it so bad. I knew that it was wrong. It had become an obsession, something that had at first seemed so casual, a fanciful thought best left unrealized, now racing around in my head and gaining momentum. It called to me, sweetly in the wind, waving seductively everytime I cast my glance it's way. I had to have it, I didn't know how and I didn't know why. I only knew that we were meant to be together. Still, I knew that it was wrong.
While not quite as high on the list of sins as "Thou Shalt Not Kill", "Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Employers' Hugely-Over-Sized American Flag" was hardly a misdemeanor in the eyes of the Lord. My lunatic fantasies also involved theft, another no-no, clearly covered and well defined by Moses' tablets under the "Thou Shalt Not Steal" section.
I loved American flags for what they symbolized, and this was the grandaddy of them all. I saw the flag every day as I came to work, and then again as I left. It was also a minor landmark, the first thing you saw when you came over the bridge into town, so I often saw it on my days off as well. The more I saw it, the more I wanted it. I wrestled with the moral dilemma for months.
I'm proud to say that I've come a long way in the years since, but at the age of nineteen my moral compass sometimes pointed South. As an early teen I had been one of the area's most prolific shoplifters, and the instigator of more than a few "yahoo-beer-runs", which didn't involve stopping at the cash register. I didn't consider myself a bad person, criminally mischievous perhaps, but not outright "bad". Besides, I reasoned, I would bring the flag back when the novelty wore off. I wasn't going to steal it, I was only going to borrow it.
The logistics of the heist presented their own set of problems. The flag was at least thirty feet up a pole and in plain view, spotlighted at night, no less, of a well-trafficked four-lane highway. Getting up there would be hard enough, not getting caught doing it would be even more difficult.
The flag was huge, monstrous, one of the largest available on the market, twenty-five feet of star-spangled magnificence, the kind you see flying at some of the larger gas station chains. I really didn't even know what the hell I'd do with it if I got it, I couldn't exactly hang it in the back yard. In retrospect, the thrill of actually doing it was what enthralled me, not the possession of it.
Although I was only working at my job to save money to hit the road yet again, I didn't want to get fired for a dumb prank. Chef Brad, the pride of Providence, Rhode Island, and the accent to prove it, had been good to me, teaching me some of the fundamentals of cooking and often shielding me from Jim, the General Manager who hated my guts. Although I had long hair, wore tie-dyes to work, and was generally a wiseacre, Brad appreciated that I was a hard worker, a quick study, and my hunger for knowledge. His raunchy, and often downright sick, sense of humor, juggling skills with dinner rolls and enthusiasm for his craft kept my job interesting and entertaining. He was someone I liked and respected very much.
Jim didn't like me based on general principles, and the feeling was mutual. Smarmy, polished and slick-talking, he was a power and money-hungry junior-yuppie with expensive tastes in clothes and cars, not to mention a bitchy wife with a jewelry fetish. As a couple they embodied everything I had come to loathe. I found out later he had been embezzling money the whole time, so I'm actually glad he didn't like me, as there may be something seriously wrong with me if he had. I avoided Jim the best I could and did my best to be nice when I was around him, but forced smiles and artificial warm tidings were never my strong suit.
Brad often joked that Jim had wanted to fire me at least a dozen times in my six month tenure, but I remained employed, as Brad made it very clear that only he decided who was hired and fired in the kitchen. In truth, I think he enjoyed telling Jim "no way" and probably felt the same way about him as I did, but he was forced to be diplomatic about it, as they shared in the ownership of the place with unnamed silent partners.
I tried to forget about the flag, and was able to for quite some time, until one Thursday evening when we had an unexpectedly busy dinner rush. Thursdays were Matthew's day off. He was Brad's Sous Chef and the man who normally worked the grill with proficiency, able to keep up with whatever the dining room could throw at him. I was the lowly fry cook, a still wet-behind-the-ears pup, learning my way around the place. I didn't have the experience or skills of Matthew, and I was skeptical of my abilities as the hostess kept coming back with updates to the reservation list. We were well over a hundred people. We were going to get our asses handed to us.
"Are you ready for a busy night?" Brad asked, seeing the nervousness in my mannerisms and a touch of fear in my eyes.
"This place doesn't hold enough people to scare me," I replied, an expression I'd heard Matthew use before. In truth, I wasn't as sure of myself as my false bravado implied.
That night I had to be the lowly fry cook and the grill man, with Chef Brad handling the saute' and expediting duties. It wasn't an optimal situation by any means, but I was determined to do my best. I ordered a double espresso from the bar and prepared for the worst.
The dinner orders began arriving just after five 'o clock, with hustling, bustling servers pausing in the food window just long enough to hang their tickets and bark out special instructions for their orders before scurrying back to the dining room and another table of guests. Soon there were food tickets lining the entire window, with a substantial pile waiting to be hung up.
I was lost in a whirlwind of steak-flipping and seafood-frying for what seemed an eternity. As soon as we got the food for one dinner order out, two more tickets popped up in it's place. I was beginning to get flustered. It felt like it was never going to end, and I wanted a cigarette in the worst kind of way. Brad laughed when I asked him if I could quickly duck outside to have one, adding sternly, "Are you fucking joking?" I assured him that I was, even though I was not, and went back to my cooking duties, the nicotine monkey on my back pulling on my ears and slapping me on the back of the head as I tossed more steaks on the grill.
It was hectic and chaotic for the better part of three hours, with a minor calamity thrown in for good measure, when the hollandaise sauce began to separate. Chef Brad deftly handled the situation by folding the broken sauce into a couple of more frothy egg yolks. The long line of food orders slowly dwindled. When there were only two tickets left hanging in the window, Brad allowed my much needed smoke break.
As I stepped out the back door I lit up my cigarette and inhaled deeply. I felt the drug's rush course through my veins and settle my overstimulated nerves. I loved it and I hated it all at the same time. The night was warm and muggy, typical for an August night along the Carolina coast. Off in the distance, beside the highway, I saw the flag, spotlighted against the backdrop of a starry, moonless sky. It hung limply on the pole for want of a breeze to make it fly. I shook my head at my own foolishness for ever thinking of stealing it. Finishing my cigarette, I turned and walked back into the kitchen, knowing that a mess awaited me.
I was almost shocked to see that Brad had already done a lot of the cleaning in the short time that I had stepped outside. This was not something that most chefs were known for, tending to leave a lot of the grunt work for their underlings, yet another thing about him that earned my respect and admiration.
I was excited. I had done well, I was able to keep up on both cooking stations and I had only burned one steak. We got good reports from the dining room and everyone seemed happy. Brad high-fived me, the servers thanked me, even Jim stopped by to give me a slightly begrudged congratulations. I was exhausted, but exhilarated. I had passed a major test when the chips were down.
"Do you want a beer?" Brad asked, setting the green scrubbie pad he'd been using in the soapy water pail.
"You know I'm not twenty-one yet," I said, denying the inner voice that was screaming out, "YES!!!!"
"That's not what I asked you," he retorted with an arched eyebrow.
"Well, then most definitely yes," I replied, a beaming smile coming over my face. I knew Brad liked me, but he'd never offered this favor before.
"Have this place cleaned up by the time I get back," he called over his shoulder as he walked out of the kitchen.
I put the fininshing touches on the clean-up job Brad had started. My fry station was still a mess, tempura batter, flour and eggwash in streaks and splatters across the stainless steel. I usually tried to work cleaner, but caution had been thrown to the wind as I hurriedly tried to keep up with the steady flow of dinner tickets. The tempura had dried into a concrete paste that covered roughly half of my station. I used a butter knife to loosen the big patches and scrubbed the rest of it off as Brad came back through the dining room doors, a pitcher of beer in one hand, two glasses in the other.
He filled the glasses and handed one to me. He raised his in a toast, "Good job, buddy, I knew you had it in you." He clinked my glass and drained half of his in a long pull. He may have been as nervous about the evening as I'd been, although he'd never shown it. I could sense the relief he felt now that it was over. I took a sip of the beer, the cold effervescence flowing down my throat like liquid gold. I took another, feeling a giddiness come over me, a mixture of the residual effect of the espresso I had drunk earlier, the adrenaline rush of the night's business, the sense of accomplishment, having overcome a large obstacle, and the first bracing sips of the cold beer. We drained the pitcher quickly over jokes and light conversation, most of which involved Brad laughing at my "deer in the headlights" impersonation upon hearing how many reservations we were up to.
"Let's go get a refill," he said, waving the empty pitcher and beckoning me to follow him. They usually didn't like me to be seen in the dining room, with my pony tail, ever-present tie-dyed t-shirt, ratty guatemalan shorts and Chuck Taylor basketball shoes, but the diners had cleared out, only a few bussers remaining, busily resetting tables. I followed him into the bar, where he handed the pitcher to the bartender. She looked quizzically at me, knowing me to be underage, but filled it anyway and handed it back to Brad.
We sat at a table in the corner, where we wouldn't be as conspicuous to the remaing bar patrons. One of the servers, a friend of mine from high school named Kevin, who I also knew hadn't turned the magical age of twenty-one yet, came over and joined us. Apparently he tipped the bartender well enough to overlook his lack of legal drinking credentials, as he had a beer in his hand as well. "You guys did great tonight, I can't believe how busy it got," he said, raising his glass to us, "Did you miss not having Matthew back there?"
I for one had definitely missed not having Matthew back there, but Brad answered, "No, we had it handled all the way. I think this kid's going to be a good one someday," he added, gesturing to me. I was at a loss, Brad wasn't always so giving with the compliments.
The other customers in the bar were gone and the second pitcher went almost as quickly as the first one. Brad got the bartender to fill it, but only half-way. He brought it back to the table. "I'm going to take off, I've got to be in early tomorrow," he said, handing the pitcher to me. "Great job tonight and thank you," he said, shaking my hand. I was filled with a sense of pride, being recognized by my mentor for a job well done.
"Thanks, Brad, I'll catch you tomorrow." He walked out of the bar, leaving Kevin and I alone with the bartender, who was gathering her things and leaving as well.
"I don't want either of you back here, you've had enough already," she scolded, digging around in her purse and finding her keys.
"We won't, we're going to leave as soon as we finish these," Kevin promised, holding up his nearly finished glass.
"Alright, I'll see ya'll tomorrow," she said, lighting a cigarette and heading out the door to her car.
As we refilled our glasses with the remaining beer in the pitcher, Kevin told me how much money he'd made in tips and I wondered if I was working in the wrong part of the restaurant. On busy nights the servers raked in the dough, but on the slow nights they were often sent home, usually with nothing to show for it. I decided the slower but steadier hourly wage I made, while rather paltry, was better in the long run.
I had ridden my bike to work since I had no car. I asked Kevin for a ride home, he said it would be no problem. I was living with my parents, trying to save money for my next jaunt to California, and his house was only a couple of miles away. We finished the beer and rose to leave, calling out goodnights to Sandra, the sixtyish but sassy hostess and bookkeeper who was still tallying the night's receipts. She was the last person in the building and she rose from her work to lock the front door behind us.
Kevin was a nice kid, but rather sheltered. We hadn't been friends in school, primarily because of my reputation as a drug-crazed lunatic. We had become friends while working together at the restaurant. He saw that I wasn't nearly as bad as he'd heard, and I saw that he wasn't quite as big of a dork as I'd always thought.
His car was a tan Pontiac station wagon, a "grocery getter" as we called them, and was a gift from his grandmother, whom he still lived with.
As I loaded my bike into the back of the wagon I saw the flag again, high upon it's pole. A light breeze had picked up, unfurling it. It beckoned to me in come-hither whispers, enticing me with red and white-striped fingers. I looked out to the highway, noticing the lack of traffic on the normally busy road.
This was it, my best chance to capture the flag. A plan born of unnatural obsession, unbridled rebellion and too many Budweisers was quickly hatched and the wheels were in motion.
"Kevin, can you keep a secret?" I asked conspiratorially.
"Of course I can keep a secret," he laughed, "What is it?"
"Do you see that flag up there?" I asked, pausing as he turned to look up the pole, "I want it." The deadly serious tone of my voice made him stop laughing.
"Why?", he asked, completely puzzled, a look of worry creeping into his face.
"I don't know, but I want it," I repeated, a grim determination beginning to set in.
"Well, how are you going to get it? It's way up on the pole." he queried, disbelieving. Maybe those kids in school had me pegged right all along. He began to glance around nervously, unsure of what he was getting himself into.
"I'm going to climb the pole and untie it," I said, matter-of-factly.
"You're fucking nuts, what if you fall and break your damned neck?" he quizzed, not knowing me that well, or just how fucking nuts I could be.
I was already walking towards the pole. All manner of bugs and moths swarmed around me as I passed the spotlight, trained on the enormous version of Old Glory above it. I swatted them away, striding headlong into my flirtation with disaster. I knew this was a bad idea, but I was nearly powerless to stop it now. The adrenaline rush you get from doing something both dangerous and illegal coursed through my veins, every bit as addictive as China White is to a junkie. I was drunk on it. I vaguely heard Kevin's hushed protests over my shoulder as I approached the pole, but I was beyond being talked out of it. I was doing it.
I wrapped my hands around the cool metal, leaning back I looked up to where the flag fluttered in the light breeze, trying to estimate how far up I would have to climb to free it. I could barely see the cleat that it was tied to, just over halfway to the top. It looked to be twenty-five to thirty feet.
I had no particular fear of heights and I had been one hell of a tree climber as a child, still my hands became wet with sweat as I gazed up. Was I crazy? Why did I want to this? These thoughts crossed my mind, but were quickly chased away by whatever wild-haired demon that now possessed me. Yes, I was a little bit crazy, and while I really had no good reason to want to climb this pole, steal my employer's flag, and run off into the night with it, it was the best idea I'd ever come up with as far as I was concerned at that moment.
I wiped my hands on my shorts, leaving near-perfect handprints on the fabric of my thighs. I turned to look at Kevin, nervously pacing and shaking his head, probably wondering why he agreed to give me a ride in the first place. I gave him a thumbs up and a smile. It didn't seem to ease his mind very much as he muttered something under his breath, turned and walked back to his car.
I grabbed the pole a foot above my head, clasping my bare knees and shoes around it. I slowly began to inch-worm my way up, using my shoes as my anchor, pushing up and grabbing higher with my hands and pulling the rest of my body as I went. I slowly made my way up, pausing to wipe my hands on my shorts when they became too damp to get a proper hold. The pressure on my knees started to hurt, so I paused, holding on tighter with my arms and feet. It had been many years since I'd climbed any trees, and I'd never tried to climb a flagpole. My skills were a little rusty.
I glanced down at Kevin's car, making sure he hadn't left me. I noticed how far away the ground was getting. I looked far out into the darkness of Winyah Bay, past the restaurant and the boats in the marina, as I gained a bird's eye perspective. My heart was racing as I climbed higher and higher.
There were no cars on the highway, which was a good thing for me, since I couldn't exactly hide. The spotlight below me illuminated my every felonious move. I made the mistake of glancing down at it, and was rewarded with a large white spot across my entire field of vision, I had to pause for a moment, unable to see. I dug in with my feet and thighs, wiping my sweaty hands on my shorts, as my sight slowly came back into focus.
Soon I was nearly to the cleat, I could see it clearer with each inch-worm ascension. I hadn't thought that climbing up here and stealing the flag would be this easy, and as I reached for the cleat to untie the rope I realized that it wasn't going to be. "Shit!" I exclaimed, as I felt the miniature pad lock that the rope was fed through, securing it to the cleat. I hadn't counted on this.
My mind began to race, I was too close to having it to turn back now. My larcenous daydreams, spanning months of watching it wave in the wind as I obsessed about how cool it would look in my room, were coming to fruition, and I was damned if I was going to allow them to be nipped in the bud.
I inspected the lock a little bit closer. It was small, yet sturdy, but had a major design flaw. I saw that if I cut the rope above where it connected to the lock, it's security features were useless. I cursed myself for not having had the foresight to bring a pocketknife with me. I should've known it wouldn't be that easy.
I was exasperated, but I remained undeterred. I began to slide down the pole, fireman style, the speed of my descent regulated by my forearms and inner thighs, both of which quickly became chafed and red, like a rugburn. The way down went a lot quicker than the way up and I was soon back on the ground. I took off in a trot towards Kevin's car.
"What, have you finally come to your senses?" he called out as he saw me approaching, empty-handed.
"No, I have not, as a matter of fact, but there's a fucking lock on it. Have you got a pocketknife?" I asked, already knowing the answer. Kevin was not exactly what I'd call "outdoorsy".
"Why would I have a pocketknife, I don't go around stealing flags all the time," he replied sarcastically, "You should have gotten one from the kitchen when you were in there."
"Damn, that's brilliant, Kevin," I said as I started walking towards the front door of the restaurant.
"That door's locked!" he informed me, his voice a loud whisper.
I barely heard him, I was already trying to think of a reason to tell Sandra that I needed to go into the kitchen. Like most other older ladies, she was not only very nosy, she was extremely gossipy. If I aroused her suspicions in the slightest, it would be known to all tomorrow. She was also an old friend of my grandmother's, so I knew that if I sweet-talked her, played my cards right, and was quick about acquiring a blade, I would have no problems.
I rapped loudly on the glass and waited. The office where she was working was around the corner from the restaurant's foyer, but I thought that Sandra would still be able to hear me knocking, she had often bragged that despite her age, there would be no hearing aids appearing in her ears anytime soon. I knocked louder, ending with a "shave and a haircut" rhythm. I peered through the glass door, hoping that she' d heard me. Soon I saw a tuft of dark hair and one leery eye peak around the corner. She was an old woman, alone in a large building, and she probably thought that I was a robber or an axe-murderer. Seeing that it was me, her look turned from suspicion to puzzlement. I put on my most innocent smile as she crossed the foyer, turned the lock and opened the door half-way.
"I thought you left awhile ago. You scared the daylights out of me when you knocked!" she exclaimed, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.
"I came back because I wanted to make sure I turned the deep-fryer off, Miss Sandra," I lied, laying on the southern charm in double-thick coats. A smile quickly spread across her face at the flattery of being called "Miss". My mother had always told me that good manners were important, and apparently she was right, as Sandra opened the door and stepped aside. The cool air from the dining room dried my perspiration almost instantly as I stepped inside.
"Well, hurry up and go check it then, and would you mind walking me to my car, I hate going out there alone this late."
I felt instantly bad for lying to such a sweet old lady, but I was on a mission, and that was what the mission required.
I sped through the foyer, rounded the corner, and swung open one of the double doors to the kitchen, trying to find the switch. The pilot lights from the stove cast a dim and eerie glow over the kitchen making it seem like a completely different place than the one that I had cooked in only an hour ago. After some drunken fumbling I finally found the light switch. Turning it on, I squinted my eyes nearly shut , momentarily blinded by their flourescence. My eyes adjusted quickly and I saw what I needed, a six-inch boning knife, sitting on the fry table, right where I'd left it after hand-washing it in the triple sink. I carefully slid the knife in my pocket, handle side down, with the blade facing away from my flesh. I walked with a bit of a peg leg and held my hand on my thigh to keep the knife from sliding around. I hoped she wouldn't notice the hitch in my step.
I turned the kitchen lights off and walked back towards the office, where Sandra was closing a filing cabinet and gathering up her keys and purse. She glanced up as I approached, a concerned look coming over her face, "What's the matter, sugah, you're limping?" she asked.
"I hit my leg on one of those tables back there in the dark and it gave me a charley horse," I answered, lying once again. I was surely going to hell for this one.
"Well, are you alright, sugah?" she asked in a grandmotherly voice.
"Yes, ma'am, it doesn't hurt as bad as it did when I bumped it," I said, the lying becoming easier now.
"Well, was the fryer still on?" she inquired.
I had almost completely forgotten that the fryer was my cover story. "Yes, ma'am, it was off, I just figured it'd be better to be safe than sorry," I said, after the slightest hesitation.
"Would you mind walking me out to my car now?" she asked, apparently not noticing my minor flub.
"Yes, ma'am, I'd be happy to," I said politely, reminding myself of Eddie Haskell in the process.
"You are such a nice, well-mannered young man, you sure do make your grandmother proud," she extolled. She obviously didn't know me very well.
"Well, I do try," I said, almost blushing. Her compliments only made me feel worse about my fabrications.
She turned the lights out in the office and as we walked to the front door she veered left, over to a control panel on the wall. "I have to set the alarm, would you mind waiting outside?" she requested.
"Yes, ma'am, I'll be right outside," I said stepping through the door, back into the humidity of the night. I saw her touch some buttons on the keypad as she entered the alarm code. I turned away, looking out into the parking lot, and noticed Kevin, still sitting in his car, nervously smoking a cigarette. I gave a little wave.
"What are you doing?" he shouted. I held up one finger, wordlessly telling him to wait for a minute.
Soon Sandra was at the door, having completed her task of setting the alarm. She turned her key in the lock, then pulled on the handle to make sure it wouldn't open. "I wish they wouldn't leave me alone here at night, I get so worried. There are a lot of robberies and muggings around here," she confided. I hadn't heard of any robberies or muggings within the past couple of years, it was actually a pretty quiet town back then, but I nodded in complete agreement.
I walked her to her car, and as she got in she said, "I need to tell your grandmother how lucky she is to have such a fine young man for a grandson, sugah, thank you so much." I felt two inches tall, my guilt magnified by each of her well-intended compliments.
"Well, thank you, Miss Sandra, you have a nice night now." I wondered how I lived with myself as she drove away. I waved as she pulled out of the parking lot, taking a left turn onto the highway.
The guilt and shame I felt only lasted until I looked up and saw the flag again. Taking the knife out of my pocket, I trotted over to Kevin's car. "So you walk little old ladies to their car before you commit grand larceny? That's good, that's very good," he teased, adding, "Go get the damned flag, I want to get out of here." This was something he would never have had the balls to do himself, and I think he was starting to warm up to being a part of the conspiracy.
I sprinted over to the pole, quickly checking the highway for traffic. It was clear. I clamped the knife between my teeth, again making sure the blade was facing outwards, and began the climb back up the flagstaff. I imagined myself as an eighteenth-century pirate, climbing up to the crow's nest to send a fellow scalliwag down to Davy Jones' Locker. I began to hum, "Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Pirate's Life For Me". It seemed to make the climb easier.
I was making steady progress, the cleat was nearly within reach, when I saw a pair of headlights in the north-bound lane of the highway. I froze. There was nowhere for me to go. My heart raced and my mind went in a hundred different directions. This was it, I was going to get busted. Then I remembered that I hadn't actually done anything yet, the most they could get me for was trespassing at this point. I forced myself to remain calm. I remained perfectly still as the car continued past, not seeming to notice the oddly clad youth with the knife in his teeth hanging on the flagpole. When I saw the car disappear over the second bridge, I knew that I was safe.
I made it to the cleat with four more inch-worm moves. I removed the knife from my mouth and reached up to free the flag. The blade could have been sharper, but it cut the nylon rope with ease, and the flag instantly began to fall. As I looked up I was suddenly engulfed in darkness. The flag had gotten stuck on my head. I couldn't help but laugh at myself as I pulled it off of me, lifting it over my head I was surprised by how heavy it was. If I hadn't been holding on so tight it would have taken me down with it. It fell to the ground below me and I slid down the pole after it, irritating the rug burn on my forearms and thighs as I went. I barely felt it I was so elated.
I quickly began to grab and ball up as much of the flag in my arms as I could, sprinting for Kevin's car. Red and white stripes trailed behind me like a bride's wedding gown as I ran. Kevin was out of the car, a disbelieving look on his face. "You crazy son-of-a-bitch! I can't believe you actually did it!" he exclaimed exuberantly. He seemed almost as excited as I was.
I hurriedly tossed the flag in the back seat, then climbed in the passenger seat. "Let's get out of here!" I said breathlessly. I was absolutely giddy, but I was also worn out from all the climbing.
The station wagon made for an unlikely getaway car, but Kevin stomped on the gas, spraying gravel from his tires. As we pulled onto the deserted highway I knew that I had gotten away clean with my treasure. I still didn't know what I was going to do with it, but I had it, nonetheless. Kevin was grinning from ear to ear as he motored through town. "Man, you are absolutely nuts, I thought you were going to fall when you cut it down and it fell over your head," he yelled, breaking into laughter.
We pulled into the driveway of my house. I got my bike out of the back of his car, parking it haphazardly by the side door. I retrieved the flag from the backseat and walked over to the driver's side window. "Now don't forget, this is our little secret," I whispered, "Tell no one."
"Don't worry, I want say anything," he replied, still smiling crazily. Technically, he was an accomplice, although I wouldn't have let him get in trouble for something that I'd done. I hoped he would be true to his word and keep his silence on the matter.
He backed out of the driveway and drove away. I struggled to get my key in the lock, my hands shaking badly from the rush of adrenaline that still flowed through me. Finally I was able to get the door open and was thankful to see no lights on in the house. This meant my parents had already gone to bed, which was good, because I didn't want to have to explain how I came into possession of a twenty-five foot American flag at this hour. I tip-toed to my room, stuffed the flag in the closet and went to bed.
The next morning I awoke and barely remembered my larcenous act, but as I saw the white on blue stars poking out of the closet, it all came back to me.
I decided that I would hang it on my ceiling. I found a box of thumbtacks to secure it with and soon the job was done. It covered the entire ceiling of my room and hung half-way down the walls as well. Entering my room was now like walking into a patriotic parachute, the light from the windows filtered through in red and blue tones. It was marvelous, and even cooler than I had imagined.
I wish I could tell you, dear reader, that the flag and I lived happily ever after, but alas, it was not meant to be after all.
All was well until my Mom came home for lunch. As soon as she walked by my room she stopped, unsure what to make of it. "Wow, I like what you've done in here. Where'd you get the flag?" she asked. I could tell by the look on her face she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.
"I found it," I replied tentatively. I had never been very effective at concealing the truth from my mother, she had a sixth sense for these things.
"You found it," she repeated, not believing a damned word of it. "Where did you really get it?"
I scrounged every nook and cranny of my brain, trying to come up with a more believable story, but finally settled on the truth, "From work, but if they find out, I'm going to be in some deep doo-doo."
Her hand flew over her mouth in shock, "That's the flag from the marina?" she asked, her voice rising four octaves. I saw a look in her eyes that was part disappointment, part disbelief, and somewhere along the edges I also saw that she was about to bust up laughing. "How did you get it?"
"I climbed the pole and cut it down." I knew that my Mom wasn't like most other Moms in that she had gotten more than her fair share of wild and crazy kicks back in her day, she was a child of the sixties, after all. Unlike most other Moms, she hadn't forgotten what it was like to be a kid; to do stupid things just for the sake of doing them, to put your boogie shoes on and have some fun. She had learned from the mistakes that she made, and she tried to help me learn from them too, but she understood that life's lessons must be learned on your own, and usually the hard way.
"Well, you're going to have to take it back, I don't want stolen goods in my house." She was mad, but just underneath the surface I could tell that she enjoyed, if not necessarily approved, my prank. Still, I could understand her point of view, she was a God-fearing woman who didn't want to get on His bad side, not to mention the legal ramifications.
"Can I take it back at night, so no one will know I did it?" I asked sheepishly. I knew I would be fired, and possibly prosecuted, if they found out I did it. In all honesty, I didn't really care, other than the going to jail part. I had already saved a little money, and I despised Jim and all he stood for. Still, I didn't want to screw Brad over and get fired, I wanted to leave on good terms. It was probably a little late for that now, though.
"I guess that would be alright, I don't want to see you get arrested," she appeased. "What in the world possessed you to do that?"
"Um, the devil?" I replied, trying my best not to laugh.
"That's not funny."
"Not even a little?"
"Well, maybe a little," she said, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. I could tell she was trying to do the good parent thing, but I think she did find the situation a teensy bit humorous.
It was agreed that I would take the flag back under cover of night, and since I had no car, she would even drive me. Not many Moms would volunteer to be wheelman of the getaway car. My Mom is very special, indeed.
I went to work that day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, expecting to see policemen dusting the flagpole for prints. I was surprised to see that no one even knew that the flag was missing. I was relieved and slightly ticked off at the same time. It was the heist of the decade for Georgetown, in my mind, anyway, and no one even noticed. When Kevin came in for his shift we shared a conspiritorial smile. Alone in the walk-in cooler, he inquired as to whether I had been questioned about the flag's disappearance. "No, I don't even thing they know that it's gone," I answered.
He shook his head in disbelief, "Well, I guess we got away with it."
I received a call from one of my friends at about four o'clock telling me about a party in Myrtle Beach. I wanted to go, but had no way to get there. They offered to pick me up after I got off of work, and I now had something to look forward to later in the evening. Getting back to Georgetown for my shift at work the next day wouldn't be easy, but I considered it a minor triviality when there was a good party to go to. Work was uneventful and went by quickly. I only had to work my fry-station, as we had Matthew back to man the grill.
The party was a good one, wild, drunken, raucous, and I met some people who were going out to California for the Grateful Dead shows later in the week. This was what I'd been waiting for. It was agreed that if I helped with gas money that I could ride with them. I didn't even consider what this would mean to my job situation, which was rather inconsiderate of me, but I didn't know if I'd be able to find another ride to California, the place where I was certain that all of my problems would be solved and my life would be wine and roses. Or bourbon, whichever the case may be.
I awoke the next day with a bad hangover and no way to get to work. I didn't really want to go anyway. I called Brad and explained my situation, that I had found a ride to Cali at the end of the week.
"So what does that mean to me?" he asked, somewhere between disappointment and outright anger.
"I guess it means I'm quitting," I replied. He wasn't the first person that I'd let down, nor would he be the last.
"Well, I appreciate the notice," he said sarcastically, then he hung up on me, which wasn't completely unexpected. I felt terrible for screwing Brad over, and I'd love to say that I didn't know any better, but of course I did.
I was quickly turning into an escape artist, deftly side-stepping responsibility, ducking reality, skillfully picking the locks of every chain that adulthood tried to throw around me. The normal, the familiar, the day-to-day routine, were constrictions that tightened into a stranglehold on my senses of freedom and adventure, slowly killing me as assuredly as if they were hands around my throat. I did what I knew how to do, I was going to run away.
I came home a couple of days later to break the news to my Mom, this was much more difficult than telling Brad, as her silent disappointment stung me to my core. I was aghast when I walked by my room and saw that the flag was gone. I knew instantly that she had done the right thing and taken it back, as a mother would with a small child who had stolen a pack of gum from the grocery store. She explained that when I didn't come home she had grown paranoid, and decided that she had to return it to it's rightful owners. I knew that there would be music to face when I went in to pick up my last check, and that I probably wasn't going to care for the tune.
Later that day, I rode my bike to the marina to pick up my check, a sense of dread growing with each passing mile. Entering the restaurant, I saw a smug and smiling Jim, who looked just plum tickled to see me. I knew why, he was finally rid of me, and as a double bonus, he got to see me leave in disgrace. He went into the office, opened the safe, and returned, still smiling, my paycheck in his hand. "I'll go ahead and cash this for you, there's a small deduction I need to make," he said, his smile still beaming.
"For what?" I asked, "You got your flag back." I fought the irresistable urge to knock the grin from his countenance. I truly hated this man, an emotion that I was unaccustomed to. Neither of us knew it at the time, but I would have the last laugh, as he was sent to a medium-security penitentiary for embezzlement a mere eight months later. Ha,ha, Jim, screw you.
"Well, yes, that is true, and that's the only reason that I'm not pressing criminal charges against you. However, we have to hire a crane to put the flag back up."
My offer to climb the pole and rehang the flag myself fell on deaf ears, and I left the restaurant eighty-five dollars lighter as a result. It was a rather harsh penalty for my stupid prank, but I guess it could have been a lot worse. Life's lessons never come easy or cheap, and I had more than my share of the learning of them still to do.
I made a quick stop by the back door of the kitchen to say my goodbyes to Brad. He had cooled down from our last phone conversation and actually seemed happy to see me. "So when are you heading out?" he asked, his Rhode Island accent heavy. I was happy that he didn't bring up the subject of the pilfered flag.
"In a couple of days, and I'm hopefully never coming back," I answered. I have a theory that no matter how beautiful and idyllic your hometown is, there's always a place that you're sure is a lot better. In my case, I still haven't found it.
"Well, if you ever do come back, please look me up, I'm not done training you yet." I was dumbfounded. His statement meant a lot to me, there weren't many employers who would even consider rehiring someone who quit with absolutely no notice. Brad had truly been an inspiration to me and is a large part of the reason I wanted to be a chef "when I grew up". I began to feel a bit choked up, and after a quick handshake, I left before the waterworks were turned on.
I rode off on my bike, not bothering to look back, on my way, a laughing fool on an endless quest for the golden road and the eternal buzz, neither of which I ever found.


(c) 2008 Shawn Andrews

The Fun House Mirror

The house was surprisingly quiet to be inhabited by six people who had all just turned eighteen and moved out of their parent's homes. The silliness and pandemonium that had become the norm was replaced by the steady ticking of the clock and the slow drip of the kitchen faucet.
It was a Tuesday, with not much going on, everyone having gone to bed to get up for work in the morning. I was off the next day and my roommate Mike didn't have a job.
We were sitting in the living room, talking, and playing music at low volume to alleviate the boredom that we had become unaccustomed to. When the phone rang at nearly 11:30, Mike jumped up to answer the phone in the kitchen quickly so as not to wake the rest of the house. I paid little attention once I knew the call wasn't for me.
When Mike hung up and walked into the living room I could see a wild glint in his eyes. The wheels were definitely turning. "That was Allison, she's tripping her ass off right now. She said that Tim sold her some acid that was some of the best and cleanest she had ever taken, and that we should give him a call."
Mike called Tim's house and found that he had already gone to work. Another quick phone call confirmed that he was there, and that it was okay for us to stop by, he hadn't had a customer in an hour. He worked the graveyard shift at "The Pantry", a local 24 hour gas station/ convenience store. As bored as we were, this sounded like a good diversion, but the prospect of walking five miles to see Tim didn't sound nearly as good. Mike went upstairs to see about borrowing his girlfriend Adrian's car.
I didn't think there was any way in hell that she would allow her car to be taken on such a mission, but I was wrong. Mike came bounding down the stairs with her keys in his hand, a crazy grin plastered on his face. "She just told me to be careful, and to have it back soon."
Sounded good to me, we would drive to see Tim and then come back home.
As we walked out the door we were greeted by a soft April breeze. The moon was nearly full and hanging low in a cloudless sky. I was taken aback by simply how perfect of a night it really was. The anticipation of our score only added to the feeling.
Mike couldn't drive a stick, and he didn't have a license either. This made me driver by default, as I'd learned how to drive in a car that had standard transmission, and I did possess a valid driver's license. Why his girlfriend even entertained the thought of me driving her car was beyond me, she didn't care for me very much, and the feeling was reciprocated. We had agreed to disagree, and I had affectionately dubbed her "Psycho Bitch".
Her car was an '82 Toyota Tercel, the parts of the paint job you could see were baby blue, the rest had been decorated by bird droppings. Apparently at one time she had parked underneath a tree for several hours, returning to find her car covered. She hadn't washed it off very quickly, and after baking in the sun for a few days, it was pretty much permanent. It was fitting, as the rest of the car was pretty much a piece of shit, too.
I slid into the driver's seat, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and we were on our way. One other problem the car had was the tape deck, a cassette version of The Cult's album "Love" was stuck in the deck. I liked the album, but had grown very sick of hearing it every time I rode anywhere with Adrian. Still, it was silence or the Cult, and we already had our fill of silence back at the house.
We took the highway and we were there in no time. As we pulled into the parking lot I noticed there were no cars, not even Tim's. I thought nothing of it and we headed inside. The place had that "just mopped Pine-Sol fresh" scent and I saw the Wet Floor sign that Tim had set by the door. He was behind the counter and looked up when we walked in. "What's up guys?" he called out.
I figured the deal would be a quick one. Stop by, say hi, get our stuff and leave. I had the money in a separate pocket from my wallet to expedite the process. We made small talk for a few minutes until I finally said, "Are they $4 or $5 a hit?"
At first he had a puzzled look like he didn't know what I was talking about, but I began to slowly see recognition creeping into his face. He was a notorious flake, a sometime shady character, and I didn't trust him very much. "Oh that. They're $5 a hit, but I don't have it here."
Frustrated, I blurted out, "Well then why in the fuck did you tell us to come by?"
"Aw, take it easy man, we can go get it," he replied reassuringly.
"Uh, aren't you supposed to be here watching the store?" I asked, thinking what an idiot he was.
"You and I will run to my house, it's only a few miles away. Mike can stay here and watch the store."
Mike protested, "I don't know how to run the cash register, what if a bunch of people come in?"
"It's late, it's a weeknight, nobody'll come in, they never do this late," Tim said with confidence.
Tim hadn't driven to work, so we piled into Adrian's car and drove to his house. The deal was done quickly, I got 4 hits of white blotter for $20 and a toothpick sized joint of some crappy pot as a bonus. We drove back to "The Pantry" and Tim got out. I decided to stay in the car and wait for Mike.
As Mike stepped out of the door of the gas station he didn't head directly for the car, he was walking over to the dumpster area. He motioned for me to back the car up. I gave him a quizzical look, but put the car in reverse and rolled up beside him. I watched him in the rear-view mirror as he walked inside the gate of the dumpster. He was carrying two cases of Budweiser when he returned. He deposited them in the back of the car and climbed into the shotgun seat. I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at the beer, and after a very brief moral dilemma, I drove away laughing. (God, we were horrible back then)
We quickly decided that we shouldn't go straight back home, after all, everyone was sleeping. We would have to be quiet, and that sounded like a drag. Mike handed me a beer and popped one for himself. I reached into my pocket and handed him the foil packet that contained our illicit booty. He tore the paper at the perforations, stuck two of them in his mouth, and handed the other two to me. The metallic taste of the blotter sent a shiver through my entire body, I chased it down with a few sips of my beer.
"Do you want to go by Allison's house?" I asked as we drove.
"Nah, it sounded like they were already pretty out there, the timing wouldn't be right," he said, referring to the 30 minute or so lag time from when you take LSD to when you feel the effects of it.
"Let's go to the beach! We've got plenty of beer, and we can make about as much noise as we want," I yelled excitedly.
"Hell yeah, that sounds like the plan!" Mike agreed, turning up the volume of the chorus of "She Sells Sanctuary".
We had the radio turned way up, we had an assload of stolen beer, we were soon to be tripping,and we were going to the beach. We were young, we were invincible, and we were more than half-crazy.
As we approached the beach we saw that it was deserted. The annual influx of summer tourists wouldn't happen for almost a month, and it was now after midnight. We parked by some sand dunes and sat for a moment, listening to the waves crashing on the shore.
"I wonder how cold the water is?" Mike seemed to ask himself, saying "warter" as most southerners do.
"I'm sure it's still plenty cold. It won't get warm until mid-May," I answered from experience, having spent more than a few cold May mornings surfing with no wetsuit.
"I'm going to check it out for myself," he said as he reached in the back seat and grabbed two beers. He took his shoes off as he got out of the car.
"Hell, why not?" I muttered, reaching back for a beer and removing my shoes.
As I stepped out of the car I knew the acid was kicking in. I could almost feel each individual granule of sand between my toes, my perception of touch and feel intensified. My step had an unusual spring to it, despite being slowed down by walking in the sand. Mike was ahead of me, but I seemed to be gaining on him. As I watched him take a long chug of his beer I suddenly had a sharp and intense pain in the heel of my foot.
"Fuckin' shit!" I exclaimed loudly. Mike turned back to see what the trouble was.
I had stepped on a sand spur, which is a tiny little ball covered in sharp, pointy, prickly spikes that grow along the sand dunes. Normally they're more of a nuisance than anything, but this one was embedded in my heel and my heightened sense of feeling made it hurt worse than it normally would have. I sat down and began to dig it out as Mike lit his lighter so I could see. I removed it and I held the cold beer against my foot where it had been. Gradually the pain faded and I decided that I was going to be alright.
I went back to the car and put my shoes back on, grabbing two beers as I did. I already knew the water was going to be cold and I didn't want to step on any more sand spurs.
Mike was sitting on the sand down by the water. The tide was going out, and the spot that he was sitting in was tightly packed and still moist from the receding waves. "Your ass is going to get wet if you stay there," I warned him.
He didn't move, but began to laugh as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Apparently the acid had hit him already, too.
I felt the sand underneath me, decided it was dry enough, and plopped down. Mike got up from where he was sitting and joined me, breathing a heavy sigh as he took a sip from his beer.
We sat and listened to the surf, watching the moonlight reflecting off the breakers. It was quite a visual effect, the light seeming to dance on the water. We started talking about what our favorite hallucinogenic visual toys were, I mentioned kaleidoscopes, he mentioned bonfires. "I really like funhouse mirrors, the way they distort your face and body is hilarious," I said.
"I know where there's two of them," Mike replied. I thought that he meant at the amusement park, but it wasn't open for the season yet, and wouldn't be open this late anyway.
"Where?" I asked, thinking I already knew what he was going to say.
"Kromer's P-Nuts," he replied casually. Kromer's P-Nuts was a novelty store that sold candy, peanuts I assume , and party favors and accessories. It was only about 8 miles away.
"Holy shit, you're right, and they're right out in front of the store." We wouldn't have to worry about them being closed, the mirrors were right by the front doors.
Although the atmosphere at the beach was incredible, the adventure called. We got in the car and drove north on Business Highway 17. There was no traffic on the four lane road and I was able to navigate it with out too much trouble. We saw Kromer's on the left and we parked in the back of the store.
They were closed, and the inside of the store was very dark. There were a few lamp posts in the front parking lot and they cast their orange-hued glow down on us as we appraoched. We spotted the funhouse mirrors, they were in the same spot as they'd been since I was a child coming here with my grandmother.
The one on the left stretched your limbs out of proportion, while the one on the right's curvature made you appear short and squatty. We took turns standing in front of them, moving backwards and forwards, laughing and having one hell of a good time. I walked up close and my head appeared to be 3 feet tall. I was laughing hysterically when something caught my eye. I leaned in for a closer inspection. Instead of being bolted or screwed into the wall, it looked like they had used tiny little finishing nails to attach it to the wall. "Mike, check this out," I said as I pointed out the security defect.
We gave each other the same look as we had earlier when he put the beer in the backseat. We looked around, there was no traffic on the road, and no one anywhere in the vicinity. We each grabbed a side and after two pulls the funhouse mirror was free. We carried it carefully back to the car, set it down next to it, and I opened up the trunk with Adrian's keys.
No matter how we tried to position it, the mirror was too thick to fit into the trunk. We wrestled with it for a few minutes, but to no avail. We thought of putting it in halfway and tying the trunk lid closed, but we had no rope, and the mirror was too big for that anyway. "Well that sucks, I guess we'll have to leave it," Mike lamented.
I didn't want to leave it, we could have way too much fun with thing not to take it. I had an idea, it wasn't a very good idea, but it was the only forseeable option we had. "We're going to have to put it on top of the car."
"But we don't have any rope, how will it stay up there?" he asked.
"We're going to have to hold it ourselves."
"Dude, are you crazy? That's not going to work," he said doubtfully.
"I am crazy, but I think it'll work," I said as convincingly as I could muster. I had my doubts, too.
We laid the mirror down on top of the car and got in. The plan was for me to steer, work the clutch, gas and brake, while Mike shifted the gears and we both held onto the mirror with our free hands. It would be easiest and fastest to go back down the highway the way we had come, but this was a chance that we couldn't take. If we were seen on the highway with this odd shaped thing on top of our car we would be dead ducks. We decided to take the back roads. This would be slower and require more shifting, but it was a much safer way to conduct our clandestine business.
I gave Mike a quick rundown on how to shift the gears and started the car. "First gear," I said and slowly let off the clutch. Suddenly the car lunged violently, and began to shake and sputter. I felt the mirror beginning to slide as I quickly pressed the clutch pedal back to the floor.
"Mike, you've got it in fucking third gear!" I yelled. Maybe this was a bad idea.
"Sorry, man, remember this is my first fucking time driving a stick shift!" he roared back.
We both took a deep breath and tried again. We steadied the mirror as best we could. This time he had it in first gear and as I lifted the clutch the car began to roll smoothly. I realized I didn't have the headlights on so I held the steering wheel with my knee while quickly turning the knob for the lights. I looked both ways on the highway and seeing no traffic, decided to drive straight across the highway without stopping. "Second gear, straight down," I instructed, pressing the clutch. The gear slipped in and we were out of the parking lot.
We were halfway across the highway now, with still no traffic in sight. "Third gear, man, up and to the right," I said encouragingly, "We won't need fourth gear, we won't be going that fast."
We needed to take a right turn and I told him to shift down to second gear, he put it in fourth instead, but luckily I had the clutch depressed. He found the right gear and we were able to make our turn. The back roads were narrow and some were twisting, the mirror slid, but we were able to hold onto it. The goddamned tape was still playing, even though we'd already heard both sides twice. I didn't have a free hand to turn the stupid thing off. My nerves were wound up like a coil.
As we pulled onto the road that led to our house I finally began to think that we were about to succeed in one of the best pranks of all time. I stopped in front of our house and noticed that dawn was quickly approaching. That meant everyone, including Adrian, would soon be awake. This was not something that I cared to explain to her.
"I hope the mirror didn't scrape the roof of her car too bad," Mike sighed.
This was something I hadn't thought about. As much as it was sliding around, it was bound to do some damage.
We got out of the car quickly and rushed to get the mirror inside. The house was still quiet as we carefully set the mirror in the corner of the living room. I glanced at my long spaghetti arms in the reflection, moving them back and forth.
Mike was already walking out the door to see about the roof of the car, I followed, expecting the worst. Amazingly, there were no scratches. All the bird shit had saved the paint from being scratched, we had even done her a favor by sanding it down some.
I reached in the back seat and grabbed a beer. We still had a case and a half left, it was warm, but that made little difference to me. I drank half of it in one long sip. We took the rest of it inside to put in the refrigerator.
We plopped down on the couch and stared across the room at our new toy. It hadn't been easy, but we had pulled it off. What we were going to do with it I had no idea, but the thrill of taking it and transporting it home made it seem like we had captured the Holy Grail.
As I got up to go get another beer, Adrian came down the stairs, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She gave me a disgusted look as she saw me with the beer so early. She sat down by Mike on the couch, "So what did you guys do all night?" she inquired.
Mike looked over at me with a smile, "Oh, you know, we just sat around and talked, listened to a little music."
Sounds good to me, I thought, let him explain where the damn thing came from.


(Note: We grew tired of the mirror and the possible bad kharma involved w/ stealing it after a couple of weeks. The return trip was not as eventful, we borrowed a friend's truck and returned it under cover of darkness to the spot we found it.)

(c) 2007 Shawn Andrews