I unloaded my cart of meticulously selected groceries. I even had a bag of salad mix—heavy on the croutons, light on the lettuce.
But panic set in when I tried to pay. Shit. Where is it? Did it fall on the ground somewhere? Maybe it slipped down a storm drain and was halfway to Fiji.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t find my card. I think it’s in my car. I’ll go get it, I-I-I’m sorry.” My eyes darted back and forth nervously, like a criminal. Would the checkout girl believe me?
God. I hope so.
She stared at me with a blank look of resentment or pity, who knows.
Maybe I was a criminal.
She picked up the phone.
Was she going to call the police? I jaywalked once. And then another time I didn’t pay a toll. There may be a speeding ticket somewhere in Quebec too.
An international criminal.
So this is how they’ll finally catch me.
“I need Andy up front, right away,” she said into the receiver.
White-hot humiliation coursed through my veins.
My pulse drove a hundred Clydesdales through a twisted ravine.
Now I’m in for it. I pictured an enormous, bald man with an earring and a sparkle in one eye. His arms crossed in front of bulging pecs barely contained by a tight, white t-shirt.
I parked my cart full of bagged sundries by the exit, where they keep the stack of firewood and birdseed, and made a grand show of leaving it there so they’d know I had no intention of attempting a grocery getaway.
I braced for the moment Mr. Clean would creep up behind me and bark orders into a crackly bullhorn, “Step away from the cart, sir. Put your hands on your head, slowly. Now turn—”
But that moment didn’t come. Instead a bored kid appeared and commandeered my cart. The left rear wheel squeaked as he pushed it towards customer service. I called after him, “I’m sorry! Don’t take them away! I just forgot my card! I’ll be back for them, I swear!”
He ignored me and before I knew it, my groceries were gone.
I was alone.
Alone with my shame.
I found myself back in my car turning the key. I had to find the card. I had to prove my innocence before it was too late.
As I peeled out of the lot, I noticed two cop cars parked beside each other. Did they know? Were they waiting for me? Shit, that was fast.
But I’m faster.
I accelerated and made a sharp turn. Then another. And another after that. I had to lose them. I wasn’t about to go down for false accusations of grocery theft. Not a chance. I merged on to Route 16 and gunned it, boy. If they wanted to take me, they were gonna have to give it their best shot.
I weaved in and out of traffic, all the while stealing glances at my rear-view mirror. So far, no lights. I turned down ACDC on the radio, no sirens either.
Would I end up on the FBI’s Most Wanted? If you’re on Interpol’s list, do you automatically go on the FBI’s too? Did Canada have something equivalent? Would the Mounties be on the look out for me now? Let’s not forget Quebec’s policière since they seemed like their own country.
The number of lists I was on grew by the minute.
My phone buzzed.
This is it.
Surely they had some sort of GPS tracking with my coordinates locked in. That would make sense. Why risk a high speed chase through crowded city streets? I shook my head and chuckled at my foolishness. It’s 2023, of course they can track you.
But the question remained, should I answer?
The number was unfamiliar, but wait. If it was the FBI, wouldn’t the caller ID appear as “Unknown” or possibly even “Blocked?”
If I answer, I’m admitting guilt. But also, if I don’t answer and let it go to voicemail, they’d know I’m guilty. A guilty man never answers the phone. Or does he?
It stopped buzzing.
I spotted a gas station and pulled in. I could ditch the car, maybe purchase some sunglasses and a hat. A razor, if they have one, to shave my beard and my head. But…my card. I don’t have it. That’s why I was in this situation in the first place. Here as a Wanted man. Just a hair’s breath away from disappearing and starting anew.
My phone buzzed again. The same number flashed on my screen.
This is crazy, I realized. This whole thing.
If I just answer it, maybe they’ll go easy on me during sentencing. I could strike a plea bargain, maybe do a dime or a nickel instead of 20 to life.
I tapped the green icon and slowly raised the phone to my ear.
“Yeah?” I said. “I guess you guys found me.”
“Is this Mr. Fitzgerald?” questioned the voice on the line.
“It is,” I admitted.
Better to just fess up now and be done with it.
“Great! This is Mindy over at the Pizza Palace. Your server, Brian, found your card. Our manager looked up your number in our Palace Points system. It’s up at the register whenever you want to come get it.”
Of course. The Pizza Palace. It all made sense now.
I slid back in my seat and sighed.
“On my way,” I said. “And Mindy?“
“Yes sir?”
“Thank you,” I replied with such earnestness I surprised myself.
“Oh you’re welcome, I’m so glad we could get ahold of you!”
I hated her chipper voice.
“So am I,” I replied convincingly.
I cracked my window and pitched the phone. It shattered into a million pretty pieces on the gas-stained asphalt.
They didn’t know my location. It was an obvious ploy to get me to come to them.
Did they take me for a fool?
I can pawn my watch for pesos.