Short Stories

Remember the Pickle Bandits

* * *

We took the long way home from school. After I un-tucked my red polo, I played with the hem of my plaid skirt. Finally free from after-care. I couldn’t wait to get out of my uniform, but first we had to stop and grab dinner on our way to see Grandpa. 

It was a Wednesday–the longest day: two more days until Friday, two more days until payday. We had two more days of fast food dinners ahead of us, but Mom never let me think of it that way. She was sifting through her purse to find a tiny pouch where she usually stashed some extra cash to make sure we didn’t run out. She glanced back at me in the rear view mirror; her eyes were bright with mischief. “What you want for dinner tonight, Monkey?” I squinted my eyes and squished my nose up searching for an answer on the beige ceiling. Her short, brown, wavy hair peaked over the top of the headrest. 

“I don’t care Momma, what you want?”

“Hmm,” she teased for a moment, “I’m in the mood for a McDonalds Cheeseburger. We haven’t had McDonalds in a long time.” She flashed her eyes at the mirror again as if pleading with me to give the OK. 

“I guess that’s true, we can go if you really want,” I said as I smirked back at her. She contorted her right arm into the back seat and tried her best to stretch her fingers and tickle me. 

“You’re such a little stinker!” she said, giggling with me as I leaned toward the middle seat so I could try and get her back. The second she saw me reaching for her she drew her arm diagonally across the armrest to block my shots.

“Remember no messing with the driver,” she said as her voice shook with a leftover laugh. 

“Excuses, excuses.” I chided back at her, and answered her fake pouty face with my lower lip pudged slightly more than she could manage. Her freckles crinkled as she tried to conceal laughs and play the role of “serious” mom. 

Mom was first to break from our goofiness at the stoplight. She glanced over her right shoulder and snickered, “Why’ve you got your seat belt all twisted up?”  I slid my seat belt back across me like its supposed to be, instead of tucked under my right arm. 

“It gets up against my neck and chokes me, and scratches and–”

“I know babe,” she said in a way that made the air thick like we’d been sucked into our own vortex, “its just one of those things in life you’ll eventually get used to, but you’ve got to put up with it for a while–”

“Because you have to pick your battles,” I finished in a sigh and slouched deeper into my seat, burrowing my shoulders into the back and stretching my legs toward the seat in front of me so she couldn’t catch me in the mirror. 

“Hmmff,” She muttered with a warm crescendo, stifling a laugh “And? What else? This one’s the most important!” 

“Its ok to be silly?” I giggled, twitching the left corner of my mouth up. 

“As long as you know when you need to be serious,” Mom finished, hardening her face dramatically by furrowing her eyebrows until they were nearly parallel to the creases she made with her forehead. So, of course, we burst out laughing.

I bounced up with the car as we pulled into McDonalds. Mom ordered the usual: a single cheeseburger minus the pickles for her, and a chicken nuggets Happy Meal for me. As we pulled out onto the road it was officially dinnertime.

“15 minutes to Grandpa’s,” Mom cheered as she handed me my Happy Meal. Grandpa didn’t approve of mom’s dinner choices. 

As mom bit into her cheeseburger a crunch was met with a squeaky groan. I set my nugget box down on the seat next to me and met her gaze in the mirror. She rolled the widows down and declared in her most regal manner: “It is time for the Pickle Bandits to come to order! Mask on my dear!”

I pinched my finger and thumb together, lifted my arms up so I could bend my wrists, and cupped my eyes while spreading my other three fingers across my cheeks. “Ready,” I screamed.

And mom gracefully whipped her two tiny pickles out her window and into the street proclaiming: “The Pickle Bandits have struck again!” 

* * *

The air smelled like “old people,” as Mom used to put it, which of course makes sense considering it’s filled with them. 

“Hi, Grandpa. How’re you feeling?” I asked as I rested my bag against the wall of his room. 

The blue in his eyes became bright again at the sound of my voice. “Marie, I knew you’d be home any minute,” he said as he sank his shoulders back and rested his head against the pillow. 

“Grandpa, it’s Jessie,” I tried my best to remind him. “But yes that was close.” I muttered to myself in a melancholy grin.

His brows furrowed toward his oxygen tube and he asked me again “Why haven’t I seen your momma this week?” He recognized, but he’s forgotten.

I didn’t have the heart to remind him, so I said, “Momma was just here. She’s always here with us.” I took a seat on the edge of his bed, and checked the clock. It was 4:40 pm. His gaze followed my eyes and he noticed the time. 

“Tell me a story before they make me go to dinner.” He teasingly pleaded with me like I used to when he watched me before. He placed his dry, rough hand over mine to catch my attention. 

“Alright. What kinda story you in the mood for?” I said playfully and smiled up at him.

“Anything you want, Marie. All your stories make me laugh.” His fingers gave a pulse over my palm; his squeeze helped me remember to breathe. 

I looked down at our hands to hide the tears I accidentally let well to my eyes. 

“Hmm,” I murmured as I composed myself. “Have I ever told you the story of The Pickle Bandits?” His head tilted slightly back to his left as he pursed his lips and squinted at me. I knew I had him hooked.