Public Toenails and My Fights Over Stolen Chicken and Such



  GRANDFATHER’S PUBLIC TOENAILS, MY FIGHTS OVER STOLEN CHICKEN AND SUCH

  By J T Pearson

  COPYRIGHT Joseph Pearson 2013

  “You stole that chicken, Marvin.”

  I’d been with Beatrice for nearly two years and so far our entire marriage had been constructed of twisted exhibitions like this one, her wrongly accusing me of stealing chicken from the Food King deli while we were shopping and now threatening to make a scene when it was just supposed to have been a pleasant Sunday outing.

  “I did not steal it. She gave it to me.”

  “She didn’t have the right.”

  “What are you, the chicken police?”

  Whenever she was in a mood like this and trying to force a confrontation in public I used my longer legs to my advantage and walked at a pace that left her constantly trying to catch up, eventually stealing her breath, habitual smoker that she was. She reached for my shirt but I became a phantom to her fingers, speeding up, and out of her reach.

  A heavyset older woman with a smattering of lonely hairs on her chin and an overflowing cart, groceries nearly toppling from it, glared at me as we passed, not realizing that I was actually the victim in this scenario and my wife was chasing me.

  “It’s her, not me,” I offered as we passed.

  “Slow down a minute! What race are you trying to win?” She finally caught up, grabbed my elbow and jerked it. I slowed the cart down.

  “You want to fly down the aisles? Fine! Keep it up! I’ll jump into the cart with the groceries and make you push me!” She raised her eyebrows and bulged her eyes like she always did when she was serious. She was barely over five feet tall and I was just under six four but she cast a shadow that was twice mine whenever we argued.

  “Can we at least keep shopping while you yell at me?”

  “I didn’t yell at you, you big baby. I raised my voice to get your attention.”

  “It sure sounded like yelling. Why can’t we just relax today? Have a little fun.”

  “You’re trying to change the subject. Tell me something, Marvin. Where does it end? What if you went to the car dealer to buy a car and because he liked you, he snuck you a second car? Would that be stealing?”

  I had been a relaxed, comfortable, jovial man that tended to put others at ease, made them happy that I was around, a strange gift of sorts. I breezed through life, often given undeserved advantages. No rhyme or reason to it, I just accepted it gratefully as the way things were. And then I met Beatrice and the order of the world that I was accustomed to seemed as though it had been reevaluated by a higher power.

  “A couple of extra pieces of chicken added to an order is not the same as a car,” I defended myself.

  “Because a car cost more than two pieces of chicken?”

  “I guess – primarily.”

  On the day we were wed, my Japanese grandmother watched my bride with great interest. When the opportunity presented itself she cornered me to talk about marriage.

  “Your bride Beatrice is so beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  “She is also full of much life – much energy. Both, a good thing, and difficult.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that.

  “Your grandfather is made the same way, so easy and so hard to love. Floating between extremes, carefree and easy one minute, aggressive and difficult the next. Always fidgeting, prying, discovering, ignoring, arguing, playing by his own rules, seemingly oblivious to others often times. Never operating at the same pace or frequency as the rest of us. I’ve always thought most of the people born that way seem to be men but sometimes it’s a woman.” She smiled at Beatrice as she watched her pull the miniature bride from the wedding cake and hold it out for her sister to examine. She licked the frosting from the bottom of it and returned it to the cake. The priest who had performed the service approached with arms open and tried to congratulate her but she planted her hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him away. He nearly fell over, which caused her to giggle. Then she twirled in her wedding gown before transitioning into some strange dance even though the only music playing was apparently in her head. “You love your Beatrice so much, don’t you, Marvin?”

  “I love her more than you could possibly imagine.”

  “That is so beautiful.” She hugged me tight enough for me to feel her delicate muscles straining. “There is something that I need you to remember so that your marriage remains blessed.”

  I waited for her to continue.

  “Love is forgetful sometimes.”

  “I will remember, Grandmother. Thank you for the advice.”

  “No! You do not just dismiss me! You listen!” she said sternly, speaking in a way that I hadn’t heard since she babysat me as a child. I suddenly became five again, finding my respect.

  “Your grandfather, he does many things that are difficult for me to tolerate. They were not so noticeable when we were first married, but they grew to be quite noticeable, and then nearly intolerable. That is when you must remember that love is forgetful and you must work at love until it remembers. Love is not always magic. Most of the time love is a choice like doing the laundry when you’re tired. Love is often in the form of dirty socks and soiled underwear. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t entirely but I nodded my head.

  “Your grandfather Walter sometimes bites his toes to trim his nails and spits them from his mouth instead of finding the clipper. Can you imagine this? He’s always messing with his toes. He even takes his shoes off when we have guests and messes with his feet. Once he even bit a toenail off in front of one of our neighbors. I was mortified. He often says strange things to people that we barely even know, defending himself by telling me that he is simply speaking from the heart. He told a woman from church that she looked nice and then told her she must’ve washed some of her makeup off. He told me that he was just helping her. The truth must always run free, he says. Sometimes when we’re out walking he covers one nostril with a finger and blows the contents of his nose out of the other nostril. He only does that when he doesn’t have a handkerchief with him but it’s most unpleasant and embarrassing. When Walter does these things, part of me cries inside. I tell him politely to please not do those things. Then, depending on the way the wind is blowing or whether it rained in China or didn’t the night before he either gets angry with me and accuses me of attacking him or he apologizes with true sincerity, insisting that it will happen no more, but no matter which way he reacts he forgets just as quickly. That is when love is a choice and not magic. That is when it is like dirty underwear. Walter also has many good traits. He’s fiercely loyal to those he loves and he is generous with everyone. He holds doors for me. And listens without interrupting when I’m really upset about something. He always remembers to bring a sweater for me in case I get cold when we go out. There is much to love about the man. We have been married for fifty years and I am so grateful for Walter but at times he can be maddening. I have watched your beautiful bride throughout your engagement. She is certainly an extraordinary soul and so easy to love now but it won’t always be the case. There will be times. Challenging times ahead. You must be ready to work at love. You remember that, Marvin.”

  I nodded, kissed my grandmother on the cheek, and thanked her sincerely this time even though I couldn’t imagine having to work at loving Beatrice. We’d had more than a few unusual predicaments and fights while we were engaged but after we made up, our relationship always seemed that much stronger.

  “So where is the cut off line, Marvin? When is stealing not stealing anymore?”
r />   I made the mistake of speeding up again and she did just as she had threatened. She caught up and jumped into the cart where she perched on top of the toilette paper and paper towels like some exotic bird only known to supermarkets, angling herself so that she could continue our argument. As we passed through the produce aisle she snatched up tangerines and Granny Smith apples and dropped them in with her. A man in his railroad uniform looked at me with disdain and mumbled to himself, as if I had forced this angry little woman to ride in the cart. Beatrice was always free to do whatever she cared to in public, never suffering a consequence, simply above the natural order of things, while I became responsible, the mistaken object of strangers’ ire. A curly haired boy that must’ve been around eleven asked his mother as they passed us if he too could ride in the cart. She replied, “That man shouldn’t be doing that with her.”

  “Can you please jump out of the cart, Beatrice?” I asked, obviously surrendering.

  “Are we done racing?”

  “Yes.”

  She climbed out of the cart knocking a can of olives out with her that ricocheted off of my foot and rolled away down the aisle, eventually parking beneath a pantyhose display.

  “Stupid olives,” she chastised them for their escape.

  I turned down the Health and Beauty aisle, our final tour before the register, again keeping a decent pace, but