Jeff Strand - Pressure (Leisure Fiction)

Thats all youve gotta do. Steal the condoms and youre in the club.

I nervously shifted my weight on the propped-up bicycle as we waited across the street (a dirt road that seemed to be comprised of one part dirt, nine parts jagged rocks) from the small drugstore. I dont know. Cant I just steal a candy bar or something?

Paul shook his head. Its gotta be rubbers.

But what if I get caught? I could go to jail.

Marty chuckled. Then you can be an honorary member from your cell.

I sighed. At age twelve, I knew the basic function of the product they were asking me to shoplift, but I also knew that we werent going to be getting any actual use out of it.

How about this? Ill steal three candy bars. Thats a lot harder, dont you think?

If we wanted candy bars, we could just buy candy bars, Paul explained, scratching the stick-on cobra tattoo on his right arm and then pushing up his thick glasses. And its not going to be hard. Hes half blind.

But what are you going to do with them?

What do you think? Marty asked. Use them.

You are not.

Sure we are. They make great water balloons.

Cmon, guys, I protested. Let me steal something else. Anything else.

Paul nodded. Okay, steal a box of Maxi Pads.

No way.

Rubbers or Maxi Pads. Your choice.

If Id still lived in Dayton, Ohio, I wouldnt so much as stolen a soggy straw wrapper for the privilege of hanging out with kids like Paul and Marty. They were both gargantuan nerds whod somehow convinced themselves that they belonged to the tough-guy crowd. The first time I ever saw Marty, he was sucking on his inhaler after an unsuccessful attempt to rough up a ten-year-old for his lunch money. Pauls mom still cut the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and included a daily note expressing her motherly love, though he always made a big show of crumpling it up and throwing it into the garbage.

But Trimble, Arizona, population 6000, was not an easy place for a newcomer. The children all knew each other, and had known each other their entire lives. The cliques were firmly in place. There was no room for a skinny, introverted, completely non-athletic kid with an ugly purple birthmark covering his chin. Id sat by myself at lunch for three full weeks, hoping somebody would take pity on me, but the other kids seemed perfectly content to go on pretending that I either didnt exist or carried a communicable disease, perhaps one with an oozing flesh motif.

So when Paul and Marty asked me to go on a bike ride one day after school, I enthusiastically agreed.

Chicken! said Paul. Chick-chick-chick-chicken! He tucked his hands under his armpits and began making what he apparently thought were chicken noises.

You sound like a duck, Marty told him.

I do not.

Then you sound like a retarded chicken.

I do not.

Okay, you sound like a special chicken.

What does that mean? Paul asked.

A retarded chicken.

Kiss my ass.

My fervent hope was that this conversation would continue until it was time for us to go home for dinner, but unfortunately kiss my ass turned out to be its natural conclusion. Do it, Alex, said Paul. Otherwise you dont get to be in the club.

I dont even want to be in the club.

Yeah, right.

Yeah, right. Are you sure hes half blind?

He probably wont even look up, Marty insisted. We steal stuff from him all the time.

My stomach was churning and I could feel a headache coming on, but I nodded, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and silently walked toward the drugstore. This was stupid. This was so stupid. This was truly, deeply, incredibly, astoundingly, jaw-droppingly stupid.

But I was going to do it.

A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door. Mr. Greystein looked up from his Christian Living magazine and frowned. From the way Paul and Marty had been talking, Id expected some shriveled geezer in his nineties, but Mr. Greystein didnt look any older than fifty.

The drugstore was small and poorly lit; not much more than three aisles and a cooler. Behind Mr. Greyste in was a display of cigarettes. Leave it at the counter, he said.

What?

Your backpack. Leave it at the counter.

I walked over and placed my backpack on the counter. Since the backpack was to be the vessel through which my dastardly crime would be committed, this wasnt a good development.

Mr. Greystein glared at me for a moment longer, and then returned his attention to his magazine. I walked over and pretended to look over the candy selection.

The boxes of condoms were on a rack right next to the front counter. Even if Id had my backpack, theyd be nearly impossible to swipe. How could I possibly do this? Why was I even willing to try?

My stomach had gone from the churning sensation to outright pain, and the headache was throbbing with full force. I read the nutrition information on a Snickers bar while I tried to decide what to do.

Just leave. Who cared what Marty and Paul thought? Maybe if I bought them each a candy bar, theyd let me join the club anyway; after all

Then I realized something that should have been obvious from the beginning. I didnt need to steal the condoms. I could just buy them. Marty and Paul would never know that they werent stolen merchandise. I could be a liar instead of a thief.

Of course, not having researched prophylactic purchasing restrictions, I wasnt sure if it was legal for a twelve-year-old to buy them. This wasnt like alcohol or cigarettes, was it?

Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I returned to the register. I grabbed a random box of condoms, set it on the front counter, and then set the Snickers bar next to the box as if that might distract Mr. Greystein from my other purchase.

He regarded me for a long moment.

How old are you?

Twelve.

Do your parents know youre buying these?

I shook my head.

Dont you think youre a little young?

I shrugged.

I think youre a lot young. I really dont think I should be selling you these. I cant imagine that a boy your age is responsible enough for that kind of thing, can you?

I shrugged again.

He stared at me for a moment longer, and then his mouth curled up into the beginning of a smile.

See, I dont think youve fully considered this purchase, he said, tapping the box. These are lambskin condoms, which arent as trustworthy as the latex variety. The only reason you would want these is if you or your partner had an allergy to latex. Do you or your partner have an allergy to latex?

I didnt respond.

Dont be shy. If youre not comfortable discussing the product, youre certainly not comfortable using it. Do you or your partner have an allergy to latex?