Autobiography: 2. Second Memory [a.k.a. The Heist]

2. Second Memory [a.k.a. The Heist]

I can’t be sure if this memory is my own, or if it is in fact the product of frequent, embellished story-telling and dusty VHS tapes. All the same, it seemed a fitting place to continue the prosaic tale of my life. It began as a hodgepodge of bright colors, swirling in a confusing dance before my eyes. There were two children in strollers pushed by mothers with hair that was so large that it likely had its own gravitational pull. A boom box on a nearby street corner blasted Nirvana and a baby boy bobbed his head rhythmically with the music.

     The boy with excellent taste in grunge sported a platinum blonde bowl cut. The other baby was an unremarkable female who wore a pink bonnet and a matching pink dress. She looked like she belonged on top of a cake rather than in the realm of the living. All the same, the other baby admired this pink bonnet. It was nothing special, just a blend of polyester and dyes that dateline later exposed as having a high led content. Hell, it wasn’t even fashionable, but the baby boy had an eye for things that weren’t his, and set his mind to acquiring it. 

     If I had to guess at the baby boy’s thoughts, I would say that they went along these lines: That is some dank grunge spitting out of that fly-ass boom box, but that pimpin’ pink bonnet is far danker. The baby looked up at his mother who resembled a bug behind her oversized, colorful glasses. It was still the edge of the eighties and some of the stylistic atrocities had managed to cling on, despite common sense dictating they go the way of the dinosaurs. The tint made it impossible to ascertain whether the boy’s mother was paying attention, but he knew destiny was a fickle bitch, and was not to be toyed with.

     In a deft move that can only be described as herculean, the baby boy reached through the impossible distance from one stroller to the other and snatched the pink bonnet for his own. The girl found herself the loser in the game of life, and rather than learning a lesson, began to sob. The baby boy looked at her and babbled, “Possessions come and go, but your knowledge will not. Be thankful it was only the bonnet and not your life.”

     Deep within the ear canal of the girl’s mother, a vibration upon a miniscule bone sent her instincts into over drive. A crying child meant trouble. Nine months of pregnant hell, accompanied by twelve hours of torturous labor made this baby an investment worth protecting. “Hey! That’s not very nice,” the mother spat, with foam frothing from her mouth, and a demon’s glow in her eye.

     Good intentions or not, the matriarchal police swept down with an unholy fury. The boy only possessed the hat for a brief moment before they stripped his prize from his chubby hands. It was a lucky thing that he was a mere baby. The combination of babbling and cooing led to an immediate release from matriarchal hell, and rather than swift justice, they all went for ice cream. The memory of the genius heist was lost to adult interpretation and minimization to be recalled only as a ‘cute moment’.

     Next time that hat shall be mine, he thought as he licked the vanilla ice cream clutched in his clumsy grip. That little hustler was of course me…