9. What if we get caught?

Welcome to the tenth installment of Misfortune Cookie

Hello again! I’m excited to share another dynamic recording of a very silly chapter. If you’re new here, don’t worry, these are stand alone installments to my memoir. Thanks for your attention and for supporting independent voices!

[Dole pineapple fields, North Shore, Oahu] source

Mom would take us fishing somewhere past Wahiawa. I found the whole process fascinating because how did she know about this place? She’d drive our gray Isuzu Impulse through Dole’s pineapple fields until she hit a line of trees. Then we’d grab our fishing gear and walk out to the edge of Lake Wilson.

Larry and Mom bonded over fishing. I was squeamish about hooking bait and wiggling fish. There were different kinds of bass, tilapia, and catfish in the reservoir, but even though we occasionally saw other folks, it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere. So any exploring I did was close by, often crouching down to look at the rocks.

One day as we were leaving, our little car driving furiously over red dirt roads not made for cars, Mom stopped. The engine was running.

She looked over at me. “Take a pineapple.”

"What? That's stealing!"

She gave me one of her notorious dirty looks. “Do you think anyone’s going to miss it?”

Reluctantly, I opened the car door and peered out at the sea of pineapples. There were fields of them—golden pineapples sitting on top of the dirt in haphazard positions, ripe for the picking.

"Do you wanna get caught?” she hissed. “Take one!" Mom scanned the area for an imaginary policeman even though not a soul was around.

I was confused by the many pineapples sitting before me. "Which one?" I cried.

"Any one!" She cried back.

I leaped out, grabbed the ripest-looking one, tossed it behind the seat, and shut the door. From the backseat, Larry admired our latest catch of the day. A cloud of red smoke followed us until the car hit the pavement. Then, Mom started laughing.

We were looking at dresses for me at the PX on Schofield. We did a lot of our shopping on bases, actually. Because Dad was still in the military when he died, we got to keep the sticker on our car that gave us military privileges. Whenever we drove to Schofield, Wheeler, or Hickam, we got a fancy salute from the guard at the gate. We kept our medical benefits until we were 18. We even had military ID cards. We were lucky that Dad was still able to take care of us, but we could no longer live in base housing.

We had narrowed down our search to two dresses. This was when baby doll dresses were in fashion. I couldn’t decide between the two. Well, in reality, I liked the more expensive one, the pink one.

I held the dresses against me. “What do you think, Mom?”

She tilted her head. “I like the black one.”

Since Mom’s wardrobe consisted primarily of the color black, I was disappointed in myself for asking. I sighed. These were difficult moments for a teenage girl.

Mom started looking through the clothing racks again when a price tag hanging off one of the dresses ended up in her hand. The rectangular-shaped tag was torn right where the plastic fastener previously held it in place. The rip was hardly noticeable. She could have easily put the tag back on the plastic.

After the price tag ended up in her hand, Mom made a surprised sound. Then she read it, $6.99. A tiny smile appeared on her face. Swiftly, she ripped the price tag off of the pink dress. Magically, the $6.99 tag found itself dangling from the pink dress. The $19.99 tag made its way to the dress on the rack.

“Mom!” I scolded as quietly as possible. I scanned for surveillance cameras, or people watching us.

Her eyes were wide now as she giggled. “Come on. Let’s get both dresses.” She patted them with a smile.

“What if we get caught?” I couldn’t believe she was doing this.

We continued to walk to the cashier.

“How will they know?” She beamed.

I carefully placed the dresses on the conveyor belt.

“Hello,” the cashier said. “How are you?”

“Good,” my mom replied with a grin. Then she gave me a slight nod because I must have been wearing the fright on my face, so I tried to act normal as she scanned the first dress through.

When the pink dress’ tag fell off the plastic loop, I felt like Winona Ryder when she got caught stealing. I waited for the cashier’s reaction. Mom’s face was a picture of serenity. No one would ever suspect this kindly woman who barely cleared five feet of anything so devious.

“Oh!” The cashier exclaimed. She ran the price tag through and smiled at us. “$26.89.”

Mom handed her the cash. She gave us change back, and I grabbed the plastic bag. As soon as we walked outside, I breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn’t believe we got away with that. I couldn’t believe my mom.

---

When I was in grade school, I started stealing money from Mom’s purse, so I could buy candy. Whenever she took a nap on the couch or in her bedroom, I’d tiptoe around her and open her purse. She always kept her purse near her, it’s a poor people’s version of an alarm system.

When Mom is tuckered out, she snores. Depending on how hard she worked and how worn down she was, there were different levels of snoring. There was the deep heavy breathing variety, the occasional snore between breathing variety, and then there was when she snored so loud, she sounded like a cow mooing.

Obviously, cow mooing was a-go since this meant she had entered the deepest sleep. These rare moments signaled that I could open her purse and unzip her pocketbook with more confidence. Nevertheless, my heart raced whenever I went for her purse. I constantly stopped my actions to stare at her to make sure she hadn’t moved or heard me.

When I opened her wallet, I was faced with several bills and the important choice of how much to take. I wasn’t stupid enough to take a $20; I knew I needed to make sure the amount was insignificant enough for her not to notice.

I’d pluck a few dollars here and a few dollars there. When there was a lot of cash, I could steal a $5 bill with daring ease. There were a few times when I tiptoed around Mom, opened her purse, dug around for her wallet, and slowly clicked it open to find nothing but a couple of $1s or a lonely $20. I’d then look at my slumbering Mom with disgust.

There were close calls, too, which required quick reflexes. Once I was in her bedroom, creeping towards her purse when she rolled over. Originally, her back was towards me, and I thought I was home free, but when she rolled over, I crouched down behind the bed and waited and listened. I was too spooked to continue, so I crawled out of her bedroom.

But normally, I was able to nab enough to head over to the white van of candy crush heaven.

White vans in Hawaii were our ice cream trucks + food trucks. They offered chow mein noodles in envelope-type wax paper bags, soda pop, and candy. In fact, lots and lots of candy.

Candy was my crack, the fix I needed on a daily basis. How did other children get the money? Exactly. I could not have been the only one who chose this dark route. Allowances were for kids from regular families. We never got an allowance. We got an allowance of spankings and beatings. Generosity then knew no bounds.

Whenever my brother and I walked home after school and got past the high school (where the distinct smell of marijuana lingered), there waited our friendly white van. The black van with the tinted windows took children. (We had quite a scare when our teachers announced that a black van was spotted in our neighborhood trying to capture children to get in the van, even successfully taking one or two.) The white van, on the other hand, with the open sliding door to display its treats, delighted school kids.

There we would wait our turn as we pondered what to buy. I felt like Wile E. Coyote rubbing his paws and licking his chops, over the mere thought of a roasted Roadrunner. Behind that plexiglass, those shelves were lined with candy after candy. My favorites: Nerds, Jawbreakers, Fireballs, Chicko Sticks, Fun Dip, Sixlets, Big League Chew, Tootsie pops and rolls, Pop Rocks, candy necklaces, candy cigarettes, Now and Laters, Smarties, Sugar Daddy suckers, Sweet tarts, and gummy bears.

I was a connoisseur of candy willing to explore new territory.

“What’s this?” I pointed to the black-and-white nondescript confection.

The man behind the counter touched the item in question. “That!” he said excitedly, “that’s gum from Japan. It’s black.”

“What does it taste like?” I was practically tingling with anticipation.

There was a glow in his eyes as he replied, “Coca-cola.”

Steady girl. “How much does it cost?”

“A dollar. But it’s worth it.”

“I’ll take it.”

As promised, it tasted just like the sugary drink. My taste buds were thrilled.

But the first time I “stole” was in the first grade, and I got sent to the principal’s office. I was in the cafeteria for lunch. Mom always gave us lunch money rather than preparing a sack lunch. If we had a field trip, I created my own lunch with whatever was handy in the cupboard.

Milk was a dime. Lunch was 35 cents before it became a quarter and two dimes. As soon as I sat down with my lunch tray, another kid from kindergarten sat next to me with his brown-bagged lunch.

Kid junior probably pulled out a shiny bag of chips, Jell-o pudding, and a bologna and cheese sandwich on honest white bread. I looked back at my lunch which suddenly looked like prison gruel.

“Hey. You wanna trade?”

He sniffed at mine like a dog. “No, thanks.”

“Oh, c’mon. Look how much more I have than you. I have all this,” I waved my hand over the lunch tray, “including milk.”

“Well…” He began to waver.

“Please!” I could smell and taste potato chip victory.

“Okay.” He put the items back in his bag and gave it to me.

I slid my tray triumphantly over to him.

Then he peered down at his new lunch. “I don’t like it. I want my lunch back.”

“No way. You traded it fair and square.”

The kid’s face crumbled. “I want my lunch back!”

Hugging the brown bag lunch to my chest, I retorted, “No! It’s mine.”

“Give it back to me!”

“No! Eat your lunch and shut up.”

He started crying. “I want my lunch back. I want my lunch back.”

I panicked. He was causing undue attention to the situation.

“I’m telling...”

Oh, god.

“Okay!” I shoved the brown bag back to his chest, but he continued to cry. So I started to pet him and looked around. “It’s okayyy. Here’s your lunch.”

He got up from his seat.

I sat there forlornly, waiting for the inevitable. Seconds went by, and I started to wonder if he decided not to tell. I started to eat my 35 cent gruel when a lunch monitor tapped me on the shoulder. “You’re going to the principal’s office.” Kid junior was smiling behind her. What an asshole.

The principal’s office was a dirty place where all foul little thieving children go to be punished. There were cobwebs, sewer rats, vultures, and even a blind boy with no hands sitting on a pile of unfinished homework begging for change. I bravely stepped over him and walked into the principal’s office.

I might have blacked out momentarily or fainted because I don’t remember much. I remember being thankful that there was no parental involvement. I remember the principal was kinder than I thought he’d be, but what I recall most was leaving his office, seeing the sun again, breathing in the free air and thinking, “I never want to do that again.”