Behind the wheel of the battered blue Nova, Charlie
leaned toward Sam who sat in the passenger seat trying
kick her way into a clean place to rest her feet among
the refuse on the floorboard.  Her long, dark hair
swung slightly as she leaned towards him to listen,
somewhat off balance in the seat.

"You know the plan?" he asked.

The Plan.  "Yes," she replied, feeling a bit nervous
but a lot ridiculous.

"Okay," he said, and kissed her gently on her nose
before he got out of the car.  She looked upwards in
annoyance behind his back before she moved into the
driver's seat. 

They were parked outside Weingarten's Grocery Store. 
They needed some food and Charlie was about getting
it.  He had hatched the box-trick scheme well before
he met Sam, and they had successfully pulled it off
together several times.  A couple of times even at the
same store.  It was a simple plan, after all. 

Usually, Sam and Charlie merely walked into a grocery
store, friendly folks who needed some boxes to move. 
Sure, said the manager, who motioned them to the back
of the store where the boxes were stored.  They would
take several boxes and place them anywhere they would
fit in a basket, leaving three half-boxes on top, and
then strafe the back aisles of the store on their way
to the front exit.  At the meat counter, they rapidly
filled the bottom half-box with the finest steaks they
could place their hands on, then moved along to the
beer and wine cooler, smoothly taking what they could
get.  They kept the cart rolling while Charlie used
the third half-box as a lid.  Nearing the front of the
store, Charlie would lift the filled boxes while Sam
took out the empty ones.  They then abandoned the cart
as they made their way to the front door, and the
manager’s booth.  Charlie carried the filled boxes as
though they were empty, while Sam made a slight
diversion, comically (and prettily) juggling the empty
boxes.  When the manager or another store clerk saw
them approaching with their boxes the offer to help
Sam would be made.  Charlie and Sam cheerfully waved
it away and smilingly said goodbye.  They always were
told to be sure to come back if they needed more
boxes—the store had plenty of empty boxes, after all. 

Foolproof, Charlie had said of The Plan.  And maybe it
was. They'd never been caught.

Sitting in the car, Sam herself did not particularly
care whether or not they would be caught.  She was a
sixteen-year-old runaway, and the worst she would have
to look forward to would be to have to go back home,
where her mother would once again try to manipulate
the emptiness inside the both of them. 

She watched Charlie walk briskly and confidently into
the store, his long blond hair swinging—definitely an
un-Charlie walk.  If Sam worked in that store, she
would suspect him at once.  People like Charlie did
not have brisk, confident walks.  People like Charlie
walked with the tense, strained confidence of constant
threat.  The world had harmed people like Charlie
enough, and his stance said, No more, uh-huh, not
ever, don't even try it, because I swear I will hurt
you if you screw with me again.

Sam, on the other hand, had never had any intention of
hurting anyone, though she knew she was angry, mad as
hell, actually, but she wanted to remain empty, remain
a runaway. Sam knew that if she should return home,
her mother’s grief over the loss of Sam’s brother
would seek to fill Sam, not fill her with his legacy,
but with him.  She simply could not take the place of
her big brother.  Sam knew this exercise would destroy
both she and her mother.  She knew herself to be
incapable of filling the shoes of a man five years her
senior and the apple of her mother’s eye.  She also
knew that the maddening grief was all that would
sustain her mother until it was accepted that her son
truly was gone.  That there would be no vessel to hold
a dead man. 

She was startled from her thoughts by the figure of
Charlie hurrying from the store--no confidence and
certainly no walk.  He balanced the three half-boxes,
waiter-fashion, in his right hand and made
window-wiper blade motions with his left, gesturing
for Sam to get out of the driver’s seat.  His face
looked wild, like a horse exposed to an unexpected
blaze.  He nearly ripped the door off the hinges and
shoved Sam with one hand back into the passenger seat
as she sought to scurry away.  He threw the boxes with
his other hand into the back seat, dumping their
contents all over the rear of the car.  Great. 

Charlie jumped into the car and actually burned
rubber.  Stupid, stupid, stupid--why didn't he just
paint "getaway car" across the trunk, backwards, like
they do on ambulances.  They barreled out of the
parking lot.  Sam glanced heavenward again and
pictured slapping herself on her forehead.  She
suddenly thought of Don Knots doing, well, doing just
about anything, and tried to brace herself for the
ride.  She looked back toward the supermarket as
Charlie careened around the parking lot, looking, it
seemed, for the furthest exit.  She saw a gangly
teenager wearing a green grocery-store apron making
silent-movie stomping and waving motions.  When they
reached the exit drive Sam noticed an empty grocery
basket in a nearly deserted side parking area.  The
basket moved slowly, by itself and with no direction. 
She vaguely wondered what would happen to it, if it
would be reclaimed or destroyed, or even both. 
Charlie began to sing the Bonnie and Clyde song. 
Swell. 

Sam twisted around and leaned into the back seat,
rummaging among the groceries that had been strewn
across the back seat and floorboard.  She found a
bottle of wine and brought it back into the front
seat.  She turned around to watch the road, sighing as
she unscrewed the cap.

Prudence Clearwater COPYRIGHT JUNE 2, 2000
 
 

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