Dissimulants

An eleven-year-old boy stood near the cash register, plotting. His focus darted between the display on the counter and the front door just twenty feet away. From this moment, alone in the small market, Parks couldn't stop himself from repeating the steps as the memory played inside his head.

The owner of the market was in the storeroom — at the back. Parks knew him well. He was a creepy man. Brown, pea-sized growths dotted his red face and neck. He had been friendly to Parks at first, a fake kind of friendly that stopped as Parks learned to make it unwelcome. Nowadays, the man just kept a weary eye on Parks whenever he was in the store. But now he was out of sight.

The cardboard display next to the register was stacked with cellophane-wrapped packs of cigarettes, and undefended. Parks stuffed a pack into his pocket. Had he taken off right then, the moment he saw the puffy pink storeowner walk through the storeroom door, Parks would have been up the street before the owner reacted. Parks wrongly thought he hadn't been seen grabbing the cigarettes off the display. So he acted natural as he walked toward the door.

But the storeowner wasn't buying it. He grabbed Parks by the wrist. There were no questions. There was no request to empty pockets. A groping hand dropped into Parks' pants and pulled out the stolen smokes. The storeowner grunted satisfaction at catching Parks in the act. He dragged him over to the cash register counter, held his hand flat, palm up, on the countertop. The cigarette he was smoking came out from the man's cracked lips. It was applied, without comment, to the thief's wrist.

The fiery cherry remained against Parks' wrist until it burned into the skin long enough to create a quarter-sized welt. Parks held out. He didn't cry. He didn't yell. He didn't react in the slightest. It happened. It was over.

Satisfied, the man released his grip on Parks' arm. The cigarette returned to his mouth for a long pleasurable drag of smoke. Briefly, there was a sick smile across his ugly face; then the smile was gone. The man ran quickly toward the storeroom door as it started to open. Whatever was there, the owner didn't want coming out. It wasn't big; a four-foot ice cream freezer blocked most of it from view. Parks saw a flash of hair; that was it.

He reacted swiftly to opportunity, grabbing four packs of cigarettes from the display and running for the door. He looked back to see the storeowner push a pumpkin-haired dog back into the storeroom.

Parks ran without looking back again.

He ran like hell.

He had his own problems.

It was just a dog.