Addicts act on impulse, yearning overriding social inhibition, hollowing out the soul. So when Harry saw his mother’s purse sitting on the kitchen counter—that day of his downfall—and remembered it was she who had banned Kik Cola from their house, he barely hesitated. He glanced through the window, out into the garden, where she was busy weeding and pruning. Opportunity had presented itself; the thirst was upon him; he could either take his chance or leave it and not expect another any time soon.
Still, he teetered for a moment on the brink, aghast. How could he even think of something so dastardly, so cunning, as to steal from his own mother? As he excoriated himself, his body slipped into an altered state, beyond the pale of ordinary consciousness. He witnessed sadly, as if in a dream, his hand reach out, fingers scrabbling like spiders, prying open the purse’s lips, rummaging its contents for her wallet. He pulled it out. His breathing quickened and his eyes widened as he riffled through the week’s grocery and house money, a sheaf of bills neatly sorted into their coloured denominations.
Perhaps I should go for less, Harry thought. A dime out of the change pocket? That wouldn’t be missed.
“Naw,”he decided. If you’re going to sin, you might as well make it worth the price of damnation.
A quarter?
“No!” he scolded, a dollar at least. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice if he took a dollar?
“Five!” he figured. She’ll think she lost it.
For an extruded moment, he wavered. She wouldn’t dare think someone had actually stolen her money—especially not her own son. She’ll blame herself instead, he thought, sickened by his sly subterfuge. Still, his fingers flicked through the bills until they reached the fives. He pinched one and pulled it out.
Was it excitement or fear—the sudden pulse that urged him on?
Quickly! it commanded. The deed is done; this is no time to hesitate. As if controlled by an unshackled demon, Harry shut out the distracting noise of conscience.
Hurriedly, he placed the purse back on the counter, stuffed the bill into his pocket, then ran out of the kitchen and out of the house. The screen door banged shut behind him as he clattered down the porch steps and down the drive to where his bike leaned against the foundation wall.
He pedalled hard, his tires crunching over the gravel then humming along the pavement.
Harder! Harder! the voice urged.
But no matter how earnestly he strained against the resisting air, the inalterable tilt of the earth worked against him. He couldn’t go fast enough. A strange sensation possessed him, as if the rear wheel of his bicycle was spinning the world beneath him, like a gargantuan dynamo, and he was pinned to an eternal coordinate in space and time. He could even identify the precise dot in his pocket where the infinitesimally exacting geometry of the universe converged… it was in the pupil of King George’s eye. Harry laughed at the notion. But his laughter emerged gruff and angry, a mocking sneer.
“Get over it!” he grunted. “Don’t be stupid.”
He slowed down. Began breathing normally, his feral panic subsiding. He was himself again, but somehow different. He’d become a memory of himself, he sighed… the ghost of someone I once knew.
By the time he reached the E&N railroad tracks, he had recovered somewhat, but his unsettling sense of shame hadn’t dissipated; it had been shoved into the background by more pressing concerns.
Where the heck can I go to spend five dollars? he wondered. Harry had never handled a five-dollar bill before, let alone spent one. He imagined trying to pass it over the counter at the Chemainus grocery store in exchange for his stash of Kik Colas. That won’t do! he figured. Everybody there knows me and would find it more than passing strange that he was spending what amounted to a small fortune on sodas. If they didn’t collar him outright, they’d surely talk to his mother about it next time she went shopping. All hell would break loose!
~~~
No point pedalling if you don’t know where you’re going, he decided, laying his bike down in the grass on the E&N embankment, then hunkering down on his haunches for a think. It wasn’t too late. Was mostly downhill back to the farm. He could be there in half the time it had taken to grind up the incline to Chemainus Road and have the money back in his mother’s purse before she even missed it. Then his moral lapse might heal over. He wouldn’t have to lie when his mother asked if he’d seen the fiver; pretend innocence as she and his father turned the place upside down, looking for it; feel guilty when they gave up.
Besides, he figured, I don’t really need a stash of Kik, do I? What was he going to do with it? Sit around downing bottles of Kik Cola all by himself, feeling ashamed the whole time? Invite some friends to his hideout for a celebratory toast, then spend the next few months worrying about when they were going to reveal his dirty little secret? Tell their friends about it, who would tell their friends, so before you knew it, everybody would know?
Should he abandon his plan? Give up? Go home, like the loser you are?
“No!” he yelled into the implacable blue sky, over the rolling fields of corn that were ripening under the blazing sun. “I’m not going to chicken out!”
He listened to the fading reverberations of his own voice, radiating out into the vast, unmoved universe. Would his vow be heard forever? Was there anyone or anything out there listening? Harry had no time for such speculations. He’d determined the five dollars won’t be going back where it belongs; but he hadn’t figured out how he could secretly spend it.
Put it in a tin and bury it next to my favourite tree until I’ve thought things through. Or spend it in dribs and drabs? he plotted.
“Naw.”
He’d be tortured by the knowledge of it. Had to get rid of it fast.
But where?
Ask a question long enough and hard enough, and an answer is bound to emerge. It might be a stupid answer, but at least it gives you a sense of relief—instead of sitting on your haunches, watching the corn grow under the relentless glare of the sun, you could get moving. Do something to distract from your dilemma.
Hong Hing! That was the answer that popped into Harry’s head that sweltering summer day—Hong Hing’s general store and junk emporium.
Perfect! Harry grinned, pleased with himself. Hong Hing (AKA Fong Yen Lew) wouldn’t know Harry from Adam, and none of Harry’s friends or the parents of his friends did their shopping there. So the secret would never seep—like contagion—from that source into the community. Knowledge of Harry’s shady dealings would lurk forever within the dingy walls of Hong Hing’s.
Of course, Harry had heard the stories about Hong Hing. “Who knows what-all goes on in there?” his father once said over dinner, shooting Harry a warning glance, not even bothering to voice his injunction out loud. Hong Hing’s was a place best avoided.
Well, Harry thought, that advice works for folks who want everything about their business to be above board. If you wanted to transact something on the QT, however… Well, establishments like Hong Hing’s had their place, he figured, and it was about time for him to find out just how deals were done in the dingy rooms shared by gamblers, people who sold goods ‘second hand’, rubbies, and worse.
Dragging his bike back up onto the road, he climbed on and started pedaling. At last, he had a direction to go, even if part of him was afraid of what he might be heading for.
Next: Just for Kiks – Part 3