My failures of German 101 and Multivariable Algebra in 1971 destroyed my chances of graduating 'magna cum laude'. I worked nights at a discount chain next to the Quincy Shipyard. My best friend from store lived up the street. Wayne's second-story bedroom accommodated a bed, table, two chairs, a sofa, black-and-white TV, and a stereo. The windows overlooked the Fore River. His Pioneer stereo system was light-years ahead of my parents’ Zenith Hi-Fi. Nearly 2000 LPs were alphabetically stacked against one wall according to genres. Wayne picked up a double LP from his coffee table and pushed back his greasy long hair. I had never seen him use a comb.
“You know I could steal records out of the store real easy.” My friend, Mitch, headed the record department.
“I don’t want any trouble and I got money for records.” The heavyset New Yorker unwrapped the plastic from Love’s OUT HERE and placed the 33 on his turntable. The first song was SIGNED DC. I had heard it once on WBCN.
“I’ll do it then.” I owed him a good Christmas present.
“Don’t be stupid.” Wayne joined me on the sofa and lit up a joint.
“I won’t be stupid.” I should have realized that ’stupid’ was every 18 year-old
boy’s middle name. The store needed extra help for the holiday, so I worked double shifts Monday to Saturday. Wayne also pulled overtime.
Three days before Christmas we punched out at closing. He buttoned up a thick overcoat with a fake fur collar and pulled a cheap Chinese Army cap with flaps onto his head. I had on a ski parka, jeans, and Fyre boots. As we passed the records department, I grabbed two LPs; Wes Montgomery’s A DAY IN THE LIFE and the Mother’s of Inventions’ FREAK OUT.
“You said you weren’t doing anything stupid.” Wayne waddled toward the exit. He could move fast for his size.
“No one’s will stop us.” I waved to the two girls at the cash registers. They were counting out the night’s take. Marie was sweet on Wayne. Sookie was skinnier than the super-model Twiggy and I liked the way she looked, but 20 year-old girls weren’t so interested in younger boys.
“You’re on your own.” Wayne pushed open the glass door. The air was cold and he cursed under his breath. “Shit.”
The 20 year-old assistant-manager was trailing us out of the store. His title added 30 cents to the minimum wage of $1.45/hour. This extra wealth granted him the delusion that he was a big deal with the check-out girls. They called him ‘Mr. Pizza-face’ behind his back and he was pissed at me for puking on him at the Christmas party. It wasn’t personal, but drinking Jack Daniels on an empty stomach was never a good idea.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Wayne was holding an ounce of pot. Possession was almost a felony in the State of Massachusetts. A station wagon pulled out of its spot and I flicked the LPs under a black 1965 Thunderbird.
“Stop right there.” The assistant manager shouted from twenty feet behind us.
“What for?” Wayne’s words turned to frozen mist.
“I saw you steal those records.” The assistant-manager eyed our hands.
“What fucking records?” Wayne was tough for a fat boy, then again his older brother ran with a biker gang in Pomona.
“You can’t talk to me like that?” The assistant-manager stepped within Wayne’s reach.
“I can talk anyway I want once I punched out.” The squat New Yorker didn’t take any shit.
“Tell me where those records are or you’re both fired.” The assistant-manager’s voice peaked an octave.
“Then fire me.” Wayne bumped into the skinny 20 year-old’s chest.
“That’s assault.” The assistant-manager spun toward the store. His loafers lost traction and he slipped on the snow, hitting the ground face first. Both of us laughed, as the assistant-manager scrambled to his feet like a duck running on ice. Blood streamed from his nose.
“You think that’s funny. I’m calling the cops.” His clothes were wet from the slush. He stomped off to the store.
“It was funny.” Wayne shrugged to me.
“As funny as my throwing up on him?”
“No, that was hilarious.” Wayne pointed to the T-bird. “Get those records.”
“Are we giving them back?” This was my first act of larceny.
“Fuck no.” He walked off to his house. “We’re getting rid of the evidence. You take the back way to my place.”
I crawled under the car. A little snow was on top of the records. I brushed them off and then ran from the parking lot in a crouch. Wayne was waiting on his porch. He checked the street for the coops and then ushered me inside. His mother had food on the table; a tuna-and-cheese casserole. He said nothing about the LPs.
After dinner his step-father watched HARPER’S VALLEY PTA on the TV. He had worked a double-shift. A cigarette died between his fingers and Wayne plucked the smoldering butt out of the old man’s fingers. His mother waved for us to leave the old man alone and we climbed the stairs to his room.
“Merry Christmas.” I handed him the two records.
“Thanks.” Wayne laid FREAK OUT on the turntable and loaded the bong with Panama Red. We listened to HELP I’M A ROCK in a reefer haze and harmonized to the chorus twenty times. The check-out girls arrived two hours later. Marie threw off her long sheepskin coat and sat on Wayne’s lap. Her friend, Sookie, stood in the corner like she had a curfew.
“You guys are lucky.” Marie’s big breasts were nearly popping out of her store uniform. Some boys might have called her chubby. To Wayne she was the new Jayne Mansfield. He liked his girls big.
“Lucky how? We got fired.” No one in my family had been fired in two generations.
“The assistant manager wanted to call the cops.” The blonde cashier had graduated from Weymouth High School last summer. Her job at the store was full-time. She had planned on attending beautician school in the summer. Her make-up was impeccable. “He said you beat him up. I told the management that he had slipped on the snow. The manager ordered him back to work.”
“So we’re not fired?” I was counting on my Christmas check.
“No, you’re fired all right.” Marie grabbed the bong out of my hands. “What’s that shit on the stereo?”
“The Mothers of Invention.” Wayne hummed two bars of the melody. I sat next to Sookie. She smelled good. It was a fun night for thieves.
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