Cuckoo for What

By: Patrick Bruning

The child was lollygagging, skipping over the white floor tiles of the supermarket and landing his feet on the marbled red ones, playing some kind of a game with himself.

He felt his calves start to burn over his black Dockers as his pace through the store quickened, trying to catch up with the frolicking boy who had taken his box of Cocoa Puffs. He had received a message on his phone that read that the box had been dropped on the corner of the aisle of chips, separated from the other cereal so as to be clear on which box was his. The child, at his lazy convenience, must have spotted the box and, so as not to travel to the other end of the store for his cereal of choice, nabbed the one placed in between the Doritos and Sunchips. He could feel himself starting to run, wanting to push the child over and grab the cereal box from his small little hands. He fought those urges and continued to increase his walking speed. Just as he was closing in on the boy who had at this point begun to walk normally through the store, if not very slowly, he turned the corner into frozen foods where his mother with a cart full of groceries stood crouched over reaching for french-fries. As she stood, she caught a glimpse of the man who was standing behind her son, the child unaware he was being followed.

            “Oh, hello Mr. Sterling, doing a little grocery shopping too?”

            She smirked and chuckled as if people grocery shopping at the same time was the funniest coincidence in the world. It was the mother of one of his students, Tracy Stevens, a straight A girl, one of the few who actually cared about historic English literature. He could barely make out coherent words.

            “H-hi, Mrs. Stevens.” He forced an unconvincing laugh. “Looks that way I suppose,” he looked down at his cart that he filled with arbitrary products to give the illusion that he was here for an actual list of things, rather than just the one box of Cocoa Puffs. He did need eggs though, he continued to remind himself. He’d better not forget them. “And who’s this? Tracy’s brother?” he pointed to the kid with a smile. The child had been daydreaming, staring blankly at the ice-cream sandwiches pondering just what exactly he would do for a Klondike Bar, and Sterling’s enquiry did not break him from that intense thought.

            “Yup that’s Oscar, he got into a bit of trouble at his school today so he had to come grocery shopping with Mommy huh?” she tugged on his shirt, getting his attention.

            “Yeah,” he said, looking to the ground, moving onto a marbled red tile. His black hair ruffled on his head without a breeze. His facial expression, or lack of one, was blank and unmoved. He was clearly a student at the elementary school, and Sterling was envious of his t-shirt that sported a velociraptor pod tearing apart a stegosaurus, despite the failings of the shirt designers to recognize that not all dinosaurs lived in the same periods.

            “But he got to pick out the cereal today.”

            “Yeah,” and he, still looking to the ice cream, held up that damned brown box with the ridiculous bird on it for David Sterling to really take in. He needed that box of cereal.

                                                                        _ _ _

            “And can anyone tell me the significance of January going blind at the end of The Merchant’s Tale?” The body of students that made up Mr. Sterling’s twelfth grade literature class gave no response to his question, as if they didn’t hear it. “No? No one, not even an idea?” Some of the more troublesome students in the back of the white plaster classroom smiled under their brows while looking down at their desks avoiding eye contact as usual. Randall Youngman made the mistake of looking up from the platform. “Oh Mr. Youngman, a thought has somehow managed to make its way into your mind? Please, share it with us?” The class smiled at their teacher’s remark, appreciating the sarcasm, even Randall.

            Embarrassed, “Well, Dave,” embarrassed but comfortable, “I thought long and hard about the significance of it last night when I finished but just couldn’t get it. Fell asleep trying.”

            “Ah, I suppose these tales can do that to someone, but go on give it a whirl anyways.” Randall sat at his seat, defeated by the teacher he pretended not to respect.

            “I don’t know, Mr. Sterling.”

            “Precisely!” The yell startled the class and woke up some of the sleepers, made the text messengers scatter to get their phones back into their pockets thinking they were caught. “Excellent work, Randall, excellent work.” The man was toying with his wayward student. As he turned to the blackboard to begin writing, ignoring Randall’s confused ‘what,’ a knock at the door and an administrative member of the faculty showed themselves into the room. The class sat up straight obviously assuming one of them did something wrong. “Well its our dear assistant principal Mrs. Dillman, to what do we owe the pleasure, surely one of my eager minds hasn’t done something against school policy again?” Again, snickers from the class, the body knowing a few of them had. Smoked weed in the bathroom during lunch; skipped second period, things like that. Randall, still worried about Mr. Sterling’s excitement, had a terrible look on his face. Stoned and convinced the call was for him, he wriggled down in his seat and turtled his neck into his shoulder blades.

            Without smiling, an uncommon thing from the administrator her being a very upbeat and perky individual, she approached Mr. Sterling’s personal space. Leaning into his face, her mouth approaching his ear, she whispered into it a short message the class couldn’t make out. The hefty, somewhat smug smile on Sterling’s face quickly switched to gloom and horror. He stared at the assistant principle, pulling his head away, bewildered and angry at the news. He looked away from her, as she pulled away and began to leave the room. “I’m really sorry, David,” she offered, as she opened the door and walked out.

            He stood there, scared and dizzy, unable to catch his breath. Tracy Stevens broke the class’ horrible silence, sitting in the front row in the left most seat. “Mr. Sterling. Are, are you okay?”

            “… I- I’m sorry class, my wife’s been in a car accident.” He managed to say, his voice breaking at the last syllable and he raised his hand to his mouth, gasping. He ran out of the classroom, leaving the class with only the option to leave, it being the last period of the day, or think about what he was going to say about Chaucer. They began packing up their things.

+++

            “Tracy’s mentioned you recently, she’s been enjoying your class,” Mrs. Stevens said bluntly, fishing for things to say without directing the conversation to Sterling’s wife. It was obvious. She didn’t have to lie. After no response, just the man simply staring at her son’s box of cereal, she gave in. “So how are you, David? We were very sorry to hear about your wife, such a tragedy.”

            His transfixed gaze on the bird’s speech bubble about his cuckooness broke at the invasive question. “Oh, yes I am doing okay, thanks very much. Tracy is a great student, she is a pleasure to have in class.” Standard.

_ _

            David Sterling sat at his and his late wife’s two bedroom split level house, a mirror image of every other house in the neighborhood; the neighborhood a mirror image of the others in the town that made up the community. Suburbia, where everyone is polite, yet condescendingly so, trying to hide the fact that they know everything about the lives of the others. Sure enough the town had practically taken to her bedside while she was in the hospital for those three days, rallying around the poor teacher as if he had been an orca at SeaWorld. Supportive yes, but in reality a rather easy reason to pry into others’ business.

Then, she died.

Sterling had continued to go to the school during the three days she was still alive, hiding and convincing himself that she would make it. He received another knock on the door from Mrs. Dillman the fourth day after she first interrupted his class. Two days later he returned to the school. A ghoul patrolling the halls and aimlessly sitting in his classroom full of silent and uncomfortable pre-adults, Sterling was a different man. Easily the town’s favorite teacher at the high school, he was both friendly and intelligent; passionate in teaching the children needless things like Shakespeare’s Sonnets and Beowulf, Poe and Hawthorne. They knew him as a sort of steadfast character, never understanding, always adoring.

Two weeks later: a sack of tragedy, uninterested in illuminating the minds of these students about things he or they will never understand, in showing them the various attempts at clarifying the world throughout literature. The way he used to be. He was asked if he wanted to take a paid leave of absence. He declined, doing anything to remain himself, stable and composed.

He sat in the living room of his house, the condition of the inside walls reaching a hazardous minimum. Coffee and sugar and cereal and pasta sauce crusted the counters in the kitchen, and the smell of expired deli turkey in the refrigerator was too much to consider staying in the room long enough to clean it. He had begun sleeping on the couch, for one reason because to stay in the bed was too much too bare, but also because he lacked the energy to sit up from the suede loveseat embossed with his torso and ass prints. Mugs and cups and brown rings from others made the coffee table look like scales on a fish. Stuck to the syrupy surface on the left corner lay a scattered stack of papers. Reflection papers on The Merchant’s Tale turned in a week before. Mr. Sterling had fallen behind on the grading process. He lingered above the twenty-five odd papers, most of which were unquestionably horrendous and grammatically impaired. Except for maybe a quarter of them, the analyses lacked any depth further than summary, and some of the plot telling was just downright wrong. He had made it through all of the papers, except one. For most of the reflections he gave mid-range B’s, seeing that an effort was made but not actually reading any of them, giving arbitrary comments that had little relevance but still could be called criticism like: the summary lacks cohesiveness but you touch upon some key elements, or think about what Chaucer thinks of the Merchant character. A few times he actually smiled at the vagueness of his statements. He sat on the couch, leaning over the pile with Randall Youngman’s paper on the top, the last one he had to grade. He procrastinated, leaning back into the dust-clouded lamplight above him. Muted, the television showed the rapid back and forth of a Washington Capitals game, late in the third period. They were not winning and Sterling sighed in frustration as they conceded another goal to write off the game with two-minutes left.

He thought about their first date. It was Game six of the 2003 series against Tampa Bay in the playoffs. He had bought the tickets the season before with no one to go with. Shortly after he moved and settled into the high school, young and ambitious, they had met and he asked her if she’d liked to go with him. They tailgated in the parking lot and got high on a few joints he had rolled. Nervous and clumsy about inquiring if she was into smoking weed, she laughed at his face and pushed him over, eventually lighting the first one herself and complaining that he rolled it poorly. Later in the relationship, he said that he knew then that he loved her. They yelled and cheered from their nosebleed-section seats as the game carried its way through three overtimes, the Capitals getting knocked out of the post-season through a power play. As the crowd booed and hissed and began to incoherently protest, disappointed in what they thought was a promising team, they kissed. Beer cans sailed above their heads and spilt backwash sprinkled their cheeks, but it was passionate. Her slender arms moved over his body and locked behind his neck, and he felt her torso up and down. Then a burly man slipped over his seat and pummeled them onto the ground, they laughed and together pushed the man back and popcorn landed in her blonde hair. They laughed hysterically, high and in lust.

They got high again on the way home and she told him that she was an environmental scientist, that she had a passion for dinosaurs and that her family was close. He told her that he was a writer and an English teacher, that he always appreciated the allusions to Romanticism in Jurassic Park and that his family wasn’t. He got another kiss at the door when he dropped her off, and they scheduled to meet each other for dinner and a drink the following night.

Sitting on the couch in his living room, a room he could hardly stand to be in anymore, David Sterling began to cry. His unruly five-o’clock shadow sponged the solitary drops that slid down his cheek. He should quit his job, he thought. At least leave the town for a little bit. He was barely making it through the day at school everyday. Everyone stared at him with woeful, pitying eyes. Everyone had admitted that Mr. Sterling had been hit hard, and weren’t sure he could make it back. They stopped asking if he was okay, if he needed anything, and just let him work until he did enough to let him go or he quit. He knew this. He wanted to be okay, he wanted to be his normal self. He thought of smoking weed with her when they first started dating. Eventually they both just stopped, for no reason in particular. He wanted to get high. It would help. He thought, I would be better with it. I could deal with myself.

He looked down with fragmented, watered vision to Randall’s paper. He knew Randall Youngman, he knew him well. He even liked him. Randall had a hard time applying his brightness, for he was certainly a smart and capable boy. Randall lacked drive, he would rather do just enough to get by, relax, and smoke weed instead of propelling himself further. Randall was intelligent, but lazy. David envied his student. He knew that Randall hadn’t read the material, so he looked at his paper, wondering what he could’ve possibly said. The title of the paper was The opening sentence read:

‘I noticed throughout reading some of the Canterbury Tales that Chaucer makes illusion to months of the calendar year, in this paper I will agrue that he does this to make the feelings of the months the general themes of each story, in particularly discussion “The Merchant’s Tale” and its main character: January.’

Jesus, Mr. Sterling thought. He smirked, as if he trapped a rat, at Randall’s misspellings and grammatical blunders, mistakes in meaning and rough diction. Without going further then that sentence, he plucked the essay from the sticky table and flipped it over. He began his note with writing a big letter “A” at the top, then underneath, the percentage: 94. He wrote his comment: Interesting take, innovative stuff Mr. Youngman. See me after class and we will discuss it further. He picked up the stack and placed it into a folder for the class. Some shards of the paper ripped off from the adhesive surface and, sticking to the coffee rings, resembled their diamonds.

++

David Sterling stood there as Mrs. Stevens grew increasingly more uncomfortable with his lingering, uninviting presence. It begged her questions again, “So have you thought about taking a break from work, you know, to adjust?” How intrusive can a woman be, Sterling thought, and decided to dwell a little long in a response.

“I don’t know, I think it’s healthier if I keep my routines up.”

“Well the kids love you, we’d certainly miss you if you were gone.” She offered half-heartedly, knowing this man was not stable enough to be teaching her child.

“Yeah.” He tried to figure a way to pry the cereal box from the Stevens’ family possession. His gaze was fixed on Oscar, who at this point had become worried by this strange man interrupting his trip to the supermarket, punishment though it was. Oscar clutched the cereal box against his body, protecting it from the scary teacher, he saw that it was what he wanted. “So buddy, do you like school?” He tried to be normal.

“No,” Oscar said, dismissively jolting his face away from Mr. Sterling.

“Well you should, your sister does great in school, don’t you want to too?”

“No.”

Both of the adults smiled at the naïve kid as he expressed his frustration with being stuck at the grocery store. “That cereal is good for you, it’ll help you be real smart just like Tracy.” It was his first attempt to get the kid to pick a different box, one that he thought would be less likely to help him succeed. He didn’t budge, wrapped his arms tighter around the brown box of chocolaty delusion.

“Sweetheart put the cereal box in the Mommy’s cart, please,” Mrs. Stevens demanded, but the kid paid no mind, turning his whole body towards the glass door to the frozen waffles. “Please put it in the cart.” Nothing. His eyes lowered towards the ground, pouting as his lips muffin-topped over the box. Surely he could smell the variation from chocolate, David thought. His eyes closed tight as mother proceeded to raise her voice to the child in public, counting to five as slow as possible until at four-and-a-half he begrudgingly slammed the box into the cart, humphffing as he stomped away to look at the ice-cream bars again. The adults began to walk, through the aisle, each according to the other carrying on with their normal shopping tradition.

Mrs. Stevens was rambling about Tracy’s college prospects, where she wanted to go, that he had inspired her to pursue English Literature before the accident, that she’s nervous about letting her daughter go too far away from home. Until she abruptly stopped. Observing Sterling’s practically empty cart, she asked if he was getting anything, why he wasn’t picking things out of aisles like her. Oscar trailed twenty feet behind them, jumping from red marble tile to another, playing his game again.

“Oh I just came for a few things: eggs, milk, cereal.” He patted his breast pocket on his worn grey pocket T-shirt as if convincing her that there was a piece of paper in it. She grinned, aware that he didn’t have a list. He glared down into her cart at the box he needed, and considered grabbing it and running for the exit. Impossible, he thought.

“Well please don’t let us hold you up, you must be bored of me stopping every ten seconds to look at nutrition facts.” She was a good mother, actively taking note of things that would be better for her children’s well being, aware of what they do and where they are. Tracy was a product of her mother’s strict upbringing, that much was clear. David knew this long ago, but it was evident here again.

His problem had grown into an annoyance. Frustration. His palms and armpits sweat as he talked about parent teacher conferences and new members of the PTA. The English Honor Society had elections coming up and he suggested that Tracy run for something. The woman blushed at the acknowledgement of her daughter’s success. He scanned the canned food and soups as they walked past them, grabbing a few tomato bisque cans and placing them in his cart. He thought to push them all onto the ground, making a scene of chaos then from the rubble grab the box and flee. But every plan seemed too ridiculous to carry out. How could he possibly convince this woman to let him have this box of cereal without having to explain why. She would infer: why couldn’t he just go grab one from the cereal aisle? She would think: isn’t he a little old to be eating Cocoa Puffs? Man this guy is a wacko. He thought of all these things as he pressed on with the family, dismissing his boredom, saying that he quite likes the company. Even Oscar could tell that that was a lie.

_

In the classroom at the beginning of the period, Mr. Sterling handed back the reflection papers to the students, some more eager to receive them back than others. Randall twitched in his seat, knowing there was no chance that he got a good mark. Some students groaned as they saw their grades, others clenched their fists and pumped them hurriedly at their sides, proud of themselves. Randall waited as Mr. Sterling walked through the gridded seating arrangement like a ghost in Pacman, seemingly avoiding Randall like he was the last dot to eat, savoring the disappointment. Finally, after shifting up and down and side to side countless times, he saw that his teacher only had one paper left as he approached the desk.

“Mr. Youngman”

“Dave?” Randall had to appear to remain cool, showing his lack of commitment to the class who laughed at their peer’s apparent slyness.

Mr. Sterling waited a moment, looking Randall in the eyes, making him sweat. Frowning, the teacher handed his student his poor paper back, turning away quick and saying nothing. Randall flipped through his paper, uncoordinated and frantic in turning the pages, loosening the staple. He saw the back of the page and saw his grade. He sat up in his chair and puffed his chest out, making it clear to the class that the lazy stoner in the back got a good grade, smiling broadly. He read the note about staying after and looked up at his teacher who had already found his way back to the chair in the front of the room. Mr. Sterling only gave a solemn and brief nod and a thumbs up to his student. Sterling looked okay, better than he had. He had shaved and wore a pressed shirt, though it remained untucked. His hair covered the brow of his eyes in curly, greasy threads and his facial expression wasn’t one of complete disinterest.

“So since you all clearly worked so hard on your papers, taking the necessary time for research and clear structured analysis,” it seemed the teacher was getting back to his old self, “I figured we could all use a break and watch a movie in class today.” The body of students cheered and high-fived each other, ecstatic at not having to learn. As he popped in the outdated VHS and the opening credits of Romeo + Juliet began to roll, the students promptly either put their heads down to fall asleep or a blue hue appeared across their face and their thumbs fluttered with urgent news to their friends in another class. “Now don’t just not watch, we will be moving on to Shakespeare next so try and take notes on how well Mr. Dicaprio plays the roll.” The students laughed, both in a way shrugging off the teacher’s half-hearted beckon to pay attention and hiding the fact that they all actually love Leo.

Class came and went quickly, and the bell rang for the students to go home for another night of putting off homework, watching television and, for some of the adventurous ones, sneaking out to try and find a party to enjoy a beer. Randall lingered, per request, his backpack sagging open over his left shoulder as he stumbled like a camel over to his teacher’s desk.

“So what did you want to talk about Mr. Sterling, did you really like my paper?” He asked, trying to receive praise for a job well done. His long, thick brown hair pushed out of his eyes as he stood lean and lanky.

“Do me a favor Randall and shut the classroom door please.” The student obliged, adhering to the school’s code of teacher-student privacy.  He returned to the desk with his face excited at the possibility of applaud from the teacher, but giving off a tone of disinterest, like he’s too cool to care. He was rather annoyed that he couldn’t have just left school to go have a joint in his car with his friends, his parents always worked late into the evenings.

“So whatsup?” He said sticking his hands into his pockets, smiling.

“No, from what I read, which wasn’t a lot, your paper was poorly constructed and not thought out at all. It was clear you didn’t do the readings and had no idea what you were talking about. You didn’t even address the prompt.” Randall’s face went a pale cream, flushed of blood.

“But.. uh.. what?”

“That’s right. You’re a poor student Randall. You don’t care, and why should you? You’re graduating, you’ll never have to think about this shit again. Right?”

“Er. Mr. Sterling, what’re you talking about?”

“Look Randall, I know you. You’re a pothead. You take the easy way out and you smoke weed and you get by because you’re smart and you know it. Its fine to live that way, I’m just saying I have you figured out.”

“Hey I don’t…”

“Save it. Look I need something from you. Because like I know you, you know me. Now without going into too much detail, I’m not okay, Randall. And I have a deal for you.” The boy didn’t respond, intrigued by his teacher’s abrasive vulnerability. He stared at him, silent, waiting for him to continue. “You give me weed, which I know you have, and you ace this class. If I actually graded your paper, you’d be failing. I just want some weed, Randall, and I can’t have anybody know about it. And you can’t fail one of your last classes of high school, can you? So that’s the deal.”

The student just stood there in front of his teacher’s desk like an idiot, his hands shoved far in his pockets, tense. Dumbfounded, he searched for words. All he could come up with at first was a very unfortunate laugh.

“This is not a joke. Now lets work out a deal so neither of us get caught, you get to graduate and I get some relief. Do you know what I mean?”

Holding back his confusion, fright and unhelpful grins: “O-Okay. Look I get it from my brother’s friend. I only sell it to a few people here and there. You’re not going to fail me if I don’t, right?”

“I wouldn’t take the risk, Mr. Youngman,” the teacher replied calmly.

“Okay I have an idea, my brother said he did this to sneak green into the house. He’d put it in a cereal box and reseal it.”

The teacher was baffled with the stupidity of that remark. “That is the fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said to his student, rending Randall small.

He got confident, “No, no it works great, nobody has any idea. I’ll go home and grab some, put it in one of the boxes I got at home and bring it to the grocery store. I’ll put it some place only you know which one it is. You get there, put it in a backpack, actually buy a few things, your outta there like that.” Like some cheesy noir actor, the boy snapped his fingers after the “like that.” In truth, Sterling was convinced by his student, it didn’t seem as terrible an idea after all. Maybe he actually did know how to apply himself.

“Innovative stuff, Mr. Youngman.”

+

The situation was intolerable for David Sterling, and a few times he caught himself inching his hand down the side of the cart, reaching for the box. These attempts would only be relieved by Mrs. Stevens glaring at the man, uncomfortable and trying to figure out what the heck he was doing.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Sterling?” She prodded the one time he managed to actually feel the box. She knew nothing, but he felt like the smell of marijuana wafted around the two, accusing him. He couldn’t have her figure out what was in the box, certainly he wouldn’t allow her to take it home with her and pour it into a bowl for Oscar the next morning. Then she’d know he was after it, that that’s why he was there following her around the grocery store for an hour without actually getting anything himself.

“Yes everything is.. fine.” He sighed, knowing he had to act soon. His signs of stress did little to help her growing impatience with the unstable teacher. Regardless of the outcome, she was sure to say something to administration about David Sterling’s mental well-being. He would be called in to have a conversation about whether it was in his best interest to continue teach students, hopefully she wouldn’t be there. They would make him take a leave if he showed signs of imbalance. If he could just get it though, he thought, he’d relax and be able to get back into his normal life, be liked around the town again. Eventually no one would pity him, would worry about him, question his sanity. This was a terrible idea, he thought. Fucking ignorant teenagers, he thought. Oscar was growing restless in the store, he needed to be taken home. He was picking up yogurt cups and dropping them to the floor, he pushed away things when his mother tried to put them into the shopping cart, telling her in such a subtle way that he was done there. This was punishment enough. “So Oscar have you about had it here?” David offered to the boy, trying to slow his mother down.

“Yes.”

Maybe he could try to switch the box with another. “Oh silly me,” he scoffed and patted his hand on his head, “I forgot cereal,” and he motioned to his cart filled with the eggs, soup cans and gallon of milk. Mrs. Stevens looked at him with absurdity, wondering how anybody can forget an item on a list of four things. “Say bud, do you mind going to grab me a box of cereal like yours, the Cocoa Puffs?” Directed at the boy’s mom, “Do you mind?”

“No not at all,” she laughed and though definitely questioning why a grown man would be interested in Cocoa Puffs, felt a little more at ease at the arrival of a friendly gesture from the man who had been following her. “Oscar go get Mr. Sterling some Cocoa Puffs please, then we’ll leave, promise.”

“No.” He crossed his arms and looked away, not willing to accept that the man liked the same cereal that he did.

“Well why not that’s rude of you?”

The boy ran and attached to his mother’s leg. “I want to go home,” he said, beginning to cry. It was heartbreaking, David thought. He knew that she couldn’t leave with the box in her cart. His hair grew static as his face rubbed against the denim of his mother’s jeans. She gave a look down to her son that stressed how much she loved him.

At David, “Look Mr. Sterling its been nice but I think its time to get this one home, why don’t you take the box we have and we’ll just run and grab another on the way out.” A chance. Don’t sound too eager, like you’ve been waiting for it, he thought to himself.

“Oh are you sure? I can grab on myself its okay, he’s tired it seems.”

She dismissed the offer like he had hoped, “No, no I insist, take it.” She reached into the cart and grabbed the box, the orange bird on its face smiling bright as it dove into the chocolate morsels. He snatched the box, and threw it in his cart, startling the woman.

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it. I must be going now too.” He looked at his watch as if to nonchalantly realize that he’s spent an hour lurking around this woman’s cereal box like he was a shark to wounded seal, passing it off like he was enjoying himself. It wasn’t convincing. “Tell Tracy to be ready for class tomorrow,” he said as a parting remark as he turned around and finally walked away from Mrs. Stevens and her infuriating son.

“Good to see you!” She yelled back, “Stay well.” Then she redirected her attention to her seeking Oscar, coddling his crying reaffirming that they will go get another box of Cocoa Puffs.

Once out of sight, David pulled his backpack off of his back and, after searching the area for a camera, store worker or observing shopper, jammed the box in and zipped it up in a single motion. He moved swiftly to the checkout lines, all in use by a line of three or more. So he stood there, impatient and nerve-wracked. He had it; it’ll be fine, he said to himself. Shifting his weight from one ball of a foot to the other, he waited as the eternal checkout of the person in front of him commenced.

“Oh, fancy seeing you here,” he heard from behind him. Mrs. Stevens once again laughed at her joke like it was the funniest thing a person had ever said. What a bitch, he thought.

“Ha yes, imagine that,” he forced, barely turning around. He saw Oscar clutching his new box of cereal the same way he had originally done to David’s, this time not letting it go for anybody. It was his turn to check out.

He began unloading his very empty cart onto the treadmill, the items looking scattered and weird along the black surface. As the cashier started scanning the soup cans, Mrs. Stevens noticed that he had forgotten to put an item on for check out, and she peered into his fully empty cart noting that it wasn’t there. She looked at the bag on his back, taking note of the hard corners pressed against the loose fabric. She wouldn’t stand for shoplifting, even from a man in his condition.

“Umm, David, where is that box of Cocoa Puffs we gave you a moment ago, aren’t you purchasing that too.” He whirled around and looked at the good-natured woman. Good-natured, but really ruining what was meant to be a straightforward trip.

“Oh, I, uh. Decided not to get them. What’s a grown man like me doing eating Cocoa Puffs anyway?” He forced a chuckle, his eyes screamed guilt. He turned back around and faced the cashier who was waiting for Mr. Sterling’s payment method.

“Then what’s that in your bag there?” She wasn’t going to let him get away with it while her son was there with her. She reached for the zipper and began opening the bag. David turned again to face the meddlesome mother.

“Its nothing, Mrs. Stevens, now please, mind your own damn business.”

“Excuse me, sir. Sir. I think this man is shoplifting a box of cereal.”

“You bitch!” He yelled at her face, prompting her to keep her mouth shut.

The cashier whose eyes had widened, he’d never caught a shoplifter before: “Uh, sir, could I have you open that bag please?”

“Look I have a box of cereal in here, but its mine I brought it.” He opened the bag and showed the young grocer.

“You brought a box of cereal to a grocery store?” He laughed at the nervous man trying to make up an excuse. “That’s pretty hard to believe.”

“No he didn’t, my son picked that box out from the aisle and we gave it to this man here, its from the store. He’s shoplifting.”

David was jerking his face back and forth responding to Mrs. Stevens and the cashier, a scene was enfolding. “Look, you need to stop and go check out somewhere fucking else because I’ve had it with you and your fucking son.” He snapped, it wasn’t a wise move.

Insulted and infuriated, Mrs. Stevens pulled out her cellphone and dialed the familiar three-tone number. “Yes, I’d like to report a verbal assault and robbery at the Grocery store in town. His name is David Sterling. Yes the teacher at the high school. Hurry or he’ll get away.”

David had no time to hit the woman he so desperately wanted to, he jumped over the counter and headed for the door. “I’m a good person,” he yelled, “I’m not shoplifting.” Racing for the sliding doors to the outside, a chance to break for it, a security team member for the store barricaded the entryway with a rather portly physique. David dove through the man’s legs and clambered to his feet, continuing his motion of running away. I’m going to get fired for this, he thought. That fucking bitch, he thought. “I can’t believe this,” he said wincing in pain as he breached the outside. As he fell into the parking lot, trying to make it to his car, he unzipped his backpack and punched open the box revealing a smell of skunks and photosynthesis. The teenager didn’t put the weed in a bag, just mixed it with the cereal. Real innovative, David Sterling thought as he reached his hand in and grabbed a few nuggets and puffs alike, throwing the box to the ground. Climbing into his car, a siren appeared and belted through the parking lot, patrolling for the offender.

If I could just get high, he thought, it’ll be ok. It’ll be like she’s back and I’m normal and life is perfect and everyone likes me again, he thought. He stuck the keys in the ignition and peeled out of the parking lot, affectively revealing himself to the police searching for him. He lost the cops in the chaos of oncoming traffic and floored the gas pedal to his home. He parked and ran up to his front door, opening and closing it, locking the deadbolt and shutting the lights off. He had bought rolling papers before going to the grocery store and pulled one out and began crumbling up the weed and the cereal onto the fragile paper, licking it and breaking it and frantically starting again. Eventually, after three attempts, he produced something smoke-able. He lit it as flashing lights appeared outside of his house, this time more than just the solitary patrol car from the parking lot. They found the box, he figured. He inhaled long and deep, dragging the cherry of the joint halfway through the paper and he erupted in a coughing fit as smoke leaked out of his mouth and nose. A hint of chocolate crept through his taste buds.

A knock at the door with an order to open it, implying that the figures on the outside were aware of the fact that David Sterling sat inside, getting high, a thief. “Open up now.” He smoked the joint without heeding the officers’ requests and they began breaking down the door, kicking it with their boots as the wood splintered. He turned on the television and the hockey game was on, the Capitals were winning in the latter stages of the second period. They conceded a goal, tying the game, as the door gave way to two officers running into the house. They grabbed Sterling and slammed him to the ground, through the scaly brown-ringed coffee table, shattering the glass as his body fell into it. They began reading his rights. “…Possession of illegal substances, robbery, assault, fleeing the crime scene…” He thought of their second date. High and in love, bleeding, David Sterling was relaxed. He was going to be okay, he thought.