I think after almost 40 years the statute of limitations expires for petit larceny (petty, too). I’m not proud of “liberating” that dessert, but it inspired this poem that imagines fates worse than merely being found out or fired. When an Irish Catholic sensibility creatively intersects with nostalgia, all bets are off. All of which is to say maybe my favorite waitress from my blessed days being a bus boy was covertly a white rabbit or wicked witch — and I was fortunate to sneak away with my f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact.
Always a joy & honor to appear among other awesome writers in Exterminating Angel Press. Check out the Spring 24 “Half Magic” issue via the links. And you’re welcome for the unbearably sexy throwback pic (Birdwell Beach Britches FTW), taken around the same time of the crime depicted.
“Contraband”
One night just after counting my tips I stole an entire chocolate torte from the walk-in, absconding to the roof of the restaurant for a late-night snack. Predictably, I felt immediate regret: not only had I effectively robbed my place of employment, but worse, betrayed a friend. Kathy, in addition to being one of the senior waitresses, was paid to provide home-made treats, a mutual perk for her, management, and customers. She was the first woman—younger than a mother, cooler than a sister, neither male fantasy nor actual friend—under whose spell I fell until life’s inevitables pushed us in different directions. She thought it was adorable I listened to bands she did when she was my age, and I found her just the right mix of odd and exotic when she recalled the ‘60s, at once ancient history and extended acid trip: her memories of eating mushrooms in order to see sounds and hear colors, or hitchhiking around the country to catch The Who and running out of funds just before Cincinnati, where she might have been swept under the stampede that killed all those kids. She was like a jukebox: requiring nothing but curiosity to make the greatest hits flow, all music to my innocent ears. As far as I knew she went home after each shift, a semi-reformed hippie minding her middle-aged business, savoring the occasional joints her husband rolled, and baking confections for a modest profit. I had no clue about her other side hustle that involved things more dangerous than dessert. Not for the first time, my naivete proved to be a life jacket, and I sometimes wonder what might have happened if that stolen cake opened up a rabbit hole where I found myself trapped in a house made of candy, caged with the other boys and girls she had similarly enticed, forever young and lulled to sleep by the sweetness of her fairy tales?
