BEER BOTTLES

I’ve never told anybody this before, but I spent one year in Reform School. I was twelve and I wanted a pair of cowboy boots something awful.

“Dad,” I asked one day, “can I have cowboy boots?”

“Sure. Go pick beer bottles.” That was his answer for everything, “Go pick beer bottles.” Beer bottles were a penny each back then. Do you know how many 1¢ beer bottles make up $79.97? Too many, that’s how many.

I already had the pair picked out. Tan suede, with a design in green thread stitched on the toes and sides. I would stand in Folley’s and gaze at those suckers all day long, the air rich and sweet with the smell of leather.

One day I tried them on. Folley was busy with a customer. I walked back and forth in front of that little mirror that is slanted so you can see your feet. I looked grand. Then, I walked right out the door. Bold as brass, stupid as sin. I didn’t get ten feet when I heard Folley holler, “Hey, come back here!”

I broke into a sprint, not easy in a pair of boots that are three sizes too big. I ducked into the alley behind Rexall Drugs. There was a ladder leaning against the wall. I scaled the ladder and jumped onto the store. Where I was going to go from there, I had no idea.

By this time half the town had gathered at the foot of the ladder. Morris, the town cop was there. He took charge.

“Better come down kid, you’re in a heap of trouble.” I didn’t answer. “I called your old man,” he added with a chuckle, “there’ll be hell to pay.” There were many snickers now.

I scanned the rooftops. The stores were so close together that you couldn’t squeeze a piece a paper between most of them. I gathered myself, let out a whoop and leapt from Rexall Drugs to Jackson’s Clothiers. This is where it gets sticky. Jackson had just re-tarred his roof. The tar was still wet. I skidded in the gooey tar, the tar bunching up around my boots like a black lagoon. The boots were ruined, Jackson would need to do a bit more re-tarring, and I was snookered.

Morris moved the ladder to Jackson’s and coaxed me down. Red-faced, black-booted, I crawled down. He took me to the police station to wait for my dad. After Morris and dad talked for a while, dad took me home. It was a silent ride, much like the night mom died. A week later, I stood before the judge. “I hereby charge you with theft and damage to public property. In addition to one year in Reform School, you will pay the following charges: Boots, $79.97; tar removal from the police car, $57.41; and repairs to Jackson’s Clothiers, $206.86. How will he be paying for this?” he asked my dad.

“Picking beer bottles,” dad replied.

For the next 365 days I thought of nothing else but picking $344.24 worth of beer bottles. It was a long year.