I’m holding up four fingers, at this very moment, even though you can’t see them.

But, that’s it: four items. Four, random though purposeful, inconsequential items.

One of those items was a candy bar. A Kit-Kat, actually, and it was easily stolen because I used to run the “candy store” between class periods, at my high school. 

The smart kids got to do everything fun, especially when it involved cash handling.

What do you want from me? The Kit-Kat logo is copyrighted.

I only stole one candy bar and only the one time because I had convinced myself that morning that I was experiencing the onset of premature adult diabetes, which I think is how most people experience it…very suddenly.

I mean, it can’t take, like, what, about twenty minutes, tops?

I had my assumed hypoglycemic attack right before third period (World History), standing behind that booth in my maroon windbreaker and tight-rolled jeans and I didn’t want to walk all the way to my locker to get my money (rather, I couldn’t. Who would run the “candy store?”) so I just took the Kit-Kat and ate it, right then and there.

I never paid for it.

Then there was the time that I thought I’d stolen ice cream. But, it was at a buffet. So, there’s that. Shan dared me to do it, truth be told. We were returning from a church youth trip where we’d done some noble thing like sing hymns to the homeless outside Wal-Mart, something like that, and we’d stopped on the way back to eat at this restaurant called Quincy’s, now gone the way of the dodo. It was a country-style buffet, so naturally everything was included in the price, even the ice cream.

Still, I thought I was being a rebel. I was, let’s face it, not the brightest bulb in the tool box.

Oh, did they laugh at me.

What was I to do to get even except roll their yards.

During my formative years of high school (when most of my five-finger discount days were lived), there was something akin to an unofficial moratorium on rakish youth purchasing more than one package of toilet paper. Honestly. A policeman, Toby (as it was a small town, we all knew each other. Also, he went to my church) would patrol the aisles, but especially on Halloween and Valentine’s Day.

(Far be it from me to tell you why Valentine’s Day was the other hallmark holiday of choice for Those Who Rolled Yards).

This problem then, as you see, was what led to my next stolen item: toilet paper. Now, I wasn’t about to waltz into Piggly Wiggly and try to manhandle a suspicious amount of TP. I couldn’t risk the scorn come Sunday if Toby caught me.

No, I had to plan this out, accordingly. And it began with a sudden rash of sleepovers. I planned this crime spree out over three weeks, with my cousin Mikey’s help. It was a perfect cover. Who didn’t like a sleepover?

Ninth graders in my town, at my school, certainly did.

If you look closely, you can see better.

We all had freshly minted driver’s permits, which meant you could drive to one of three places, without much issue: Piggly Wiggly, Sonic, and the movies (and sometimes if you played your cards right, the First Baptist Church parking lot across from the funeral home…but let’s not push it). 

The sleepover came in handy because we didn’t all have cars.

So, under the guise of liking people I didn’t, I spent several long nights, “hanging out,” driving the “strip” about a million times over for some unknown reason – it always tickled me that I ever did the “strip.” I mean for crying out loud, I saw these people every day, all day, the whole week long.

This must be what they mean when they say that youth is wasted on the young.

Then back at the house of choice, as we all settled in for the night, I’d excuse myself to the bathroom and snatch a roll of their toilet paper; incidentally, you can tell a lot about a family from their choice of toilet paper. Anyway, I’d carefully hide it in my overnight bag, and after a few weekends of drivel and driving, I’d amassed a goodly pile of paper products.

The rest I stole from my own house, which, when all was said and done, was not the best of ideas.

Now…that’s what, like, three items, right?  Well, two, I guess:  the ice cream doesn’t count.

Nor do pens. I’m not sure if you know this or not, but it’s never wrong to steal a pen.

And it’s not always your fault, either, the stealing. I mean, I inadvertently stole one of Matt’s CDs, but it’s only because I borrowed it and forgot to give it back. And that’s been since…well, he moved to DC in 2001, so…oh whatever. Point is: that’s not the same thing as out-right stealing.

This is, though:  I stole a pair of sunglasses, once…again, from a friend. Well, sort of. I didn’t like her all that much.  But she was a friend’s friend, which is the same as being so far removed from my Zone of Concern that she might as well have been missing, and…I don’t know, I guess that’s why I took them.

They were beautiful, large, ovalled, with a beige undertone. I still have them, in my car.

But, here’s the kicker: I can’t even wear sunglasses. I never have. I’d have to spend a fortune to because I require prescription glasswear. However, she got a little too tipsy, one evening as we lay out at the beach, and my being bored coupled with my seeing an opportunity to be aggravating, I took them.

Gas Light (1944). Starring Ingrid Bergman. It's also Angela Landsbury's first film role.

I spent the rest of that week gaslighting her. Making her think she was losing her mind, but trust me, she was no Ingrid Bergman.

To be sure, I am not claiming to be a kleptomaniac; I’m far too anxious a person for that hobby. Though I did know a former preacher’s wife who was one.

For years, I thought a kleptomaniac was someone who stuttered.

And I was amazed that she was being called one by the ladies at church. She spoke crisply and well. When one of these ladies’ purses ended up in the backseat of this woman’s car, though, the picture came a little more into focus for me.

Of course, that particular lady of the church was always losing things, come to think of it. Her keys, her patience, her lipstick, her older daughter. And I don’t really think that the former preacher’s wife stole all of those things. She only drove a Toronado, after all.

All I know for certain is that I didn’t steal them, either. Because that’d make eight items.

And I’ve only ever stolen four, like I told you, but – and here’s where you’ll be disappointed – I cannot for the life of me, right now, remember what that fourth thing was.

Hm.

Imagine that…

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See how it mocks me with its tongue?

And I love me a good Chinese fortune cookie. I live for them; I just don’t eat them – in case they come true. The only reason I frequent any Chinese buffet, though, even the one in Dekalb, is for the sole purpose of receiving, $9.00 later, that little baked, folded, American invention we call the Chinese fortune cookie.

I guess there’s a little of Ya Ya in me, after all.

Because of her, I reserve a small portion of my spirituality for the sake of superstition. It’s fun. And she taught me that anything worth doing might as well be fun or lead up to it. Let me give you an example: I must have been nine or ten, and I was sweetly feeding the squirrels and birds in the front yard, down at Fish Camp, when out of the clear, blame blue swooped a hawk. It flew straight down and killed a redbird that was calmly eating, right in front of my face.

I stood, transfixed. Trying to scream, my mouth wide open, but nothing was coming out. Ya Ya had actually seen the whole thing from the garden, and came running to me, arms stretched out. She carefully explained how Things Work, and we cleaned up the mess and made a fan with the remaining feathers.

Of course, I never get anything worth anything from a fortune cookie.

They’re never really useful or inspired, it seems. Usually, they’re throw-away advice only, or trendy refrigerator art, like my macaroni Ark of the Covenant that I made for U.L. in Vacation Bible School, in second grade.

Rarely, do I get a fortune cookie with something I can walk away with. Yes, yes, a few times, I’ve gotten the old, ubiquitous standby, “You’ll be surrounded by great wealth.”

But, that hasn’t happened yet…unless you count that time I met Michael Eisner, when I worked for Disney. But, his knees were bent by dollars earned from my hard work…which rubs a little of the shine off, for me.

Mostly I get stupid ones, funny but not encouraging, not uplifting.

What I long for is the day I get a fortune like, “Beware the man two booths over. He’s wanted for identity theft in eight states,” OR, “This date is a loser. He lives at home and is allergic to squash. Get out.  Now.”

 I mean, those are good fortunes. That’s what I’m looking for. Something that would or could make a difference in my life, such as maintaining my own identity and finding someone who will appreciate a good squash casserole. A lot of the world’s problems would be resolved if we could just do these two things, I think. I mean, identity is everything, and squash—well, I’m sure I don’t I have to tell you all about the virtues of squash.

After last Thursday, however, I may be inclined to accept the quality of the Chinese fortune cookie based on its entertainment value alone.

And that brings me to Amanda, the case in point.

He has found enlightenment and a good buffet.

Amanda and I are known to be Buffet Buddhas. We divide our time between the two good Chinese buffets in town with the devotion of a nervous monk. And when we can’t go because of the weather, we make them come to us. We order in. We wait. We get excited. We polish our own personal sets of chopsticks and make our own hot sauce (well, Amanda does). We settle in on the couch, and again, we wait. We talk about the food, like we’ve never tasted it before. We wonder if they’ll forget the steamed dumplings this time; if they have shrimp toast, still; if it’ll be late, like it always is; if they’ll want to come in and pet the dog, again, just whatever, until the food finally arrives.

Then we lay back, and shoosh the cats and dog out of the way, turn on the TV, and watch whatever’s on. We don’t even care what’s on.

It doesn’t matter because we’re eating Chinese food.

It’s that good. (And I can’t tell you why; I don’t know why). I certainly didn’t grow up eating it. I don’t even like half of what’s on the buffet, but you see, it’s that half of the buffet that I do like that matters.

Last Thursday, though, was a good weather day, and so we decided to go to them, instead. We chose the buffet out towards Wal-Mart, so you know we were committed to have to drive that far.

We took plates and plates of our favorites: the Broccoli Cheese Thing, the Cream Cheese Thing, (NOTE: these are really just my favorites), the Egg Omelet Thing, and so on.

I was in heaven, or wherever Buddha lives, is it Shanghai? I was in heaven or Shanghai. The point is, I was there, and happy to be so.

And then came the fortune cookies, nestled on a little black, plastic tray. I grabbed mine.

I opened it and read: “You’re a good person. Thank you.”

Touching, but obvious.

I eagerly stared at Amanda until she put her fork down (just one little bite of Meat-Wrapped Shrimp Thing left!) and made her open hers.

I’m so glad I did.

Hers said: “You are capable, competent, creative, and careful. Prove it.”

Prove it? I mean, ouch.

Here she’d had such a long day, and now her fortune cookie is yelling at her? I laughed so hard I spit my cookie out. Well, what was left of it.

I hope someone invents a self-cleaning house, soon.

And every day since then, just to make sure she doesn’t forget, I’ve told her at least thrice a day to do just that. As a matter of fact, no matter what she says to me, or asks of me, or talks about, or references, I merely wait until she’s through and say, very plainly, “Prove it.”

She went on and on Sunday about cleaning the house, the house needed cleaning, etcetera, etcetera, I just stood there and when she finished said, “I agree. Now, prove it.”

I’m just hoping she won’t resort to her fists to do the proving.

Not that I’d blame her.

I never know when things get old. Ooh…wouldn’t that make a good fortune?

“Your joke is getting old. Change it.”

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And not just for drinking. I love to be near, on, and in it. Each year, a group of friends and I make a sojourn to the beach and do little else than sit on the sand until we crisp. All for the sake of that liquid salvation.

"Any way you want it; that's the way you need it."

Sometimes, it’s enough to just hear those waves, you know.

I wait all year for this one week (usually in May, because no one is on this particular beach in May) constantly envisioning the glare of the sun from the sugar sand, salivating for the long evenings, lounging in linen pjs, with the windows raised listening to the surf.

I even like rain and thunderstorms. (Actually, I LOVE a thunderstorm) I mean, that’s water, too. (But, it’s the element of danger that comes with every storm we have in Mississippi that heightens my love of inclement weather, and of the word “inclement”).

Now, for me, the grandaddy lovefest of All Things Water Related would be a genuine, bona fide cruise to somewhere off the coastline of these contiguous Forty-Eight.

I don’t really care where I go, I just want to know what a cruise is like, the full, overeating, aggravating cruise experience. I want to know every single thing about it: from the insularity of being stuck on a ship for a full day at sea (this is of course if you take a 4-day cruise to Costa del Playa or Cozumel, or wherever, from Mobile), to the endless buffet (one of the Seven Deadly Sins and also, fun), all the way to the random 24/7 “night clubs” and Broadway-style shows that I see in the promos at carnival.com (these are less fun, and more funny, I would think)…but still, I want to know this for myself: every inch of indigestion, dancer’s charlie horses, and Senor Frog’s.

And so, next on my agenda is answering the (according to some of my friends who get tired of hearing me talk about taking a cruise) “dreadful” High Seas call and booking a small Gulf excursion.  There seem to be several acceptable trips with an originating port in Mobile…an easy drive down.

I’ll even go by myself, if I have to.  I’ll just have to make sure I don’t disappear.  I read that a lot of that seems to be happening lately on these cruises, though most seem to occur during a honeymoon.

I can assure you, I will not be on a honeymoon. So, I should be safe.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered.

Sadly, the closest I’ve ever come to a dinner cruise, to date, was last month, while in Tacoma. Apparently, part of the package we purchased to attend the national festival (aact.org) included an evening out on Puget Sound.

And what an evening it was.  Although, exactly how much of an “evening it was” I wouldn’t fully grasp until the following afternoon.

I don’t remember much about being on the boat, itself, per se. What little I do recall, I’m not able to repeat here…but there were far more entertaining things I forgot – until the next afternoon, that is.

For instance, I completely forgot about the fact that it was a dinner cruise. I ate not one solitary thing while at sea. I don’t know if I passed by the buffet, or ridiculed it, and thus, was snubbed by it, but the fact is I went without anything on my stomach, aside from, ahem, wine.

The boat, and let’s get this right out there on the table, was not large enough for the number of people who spent the $75-100/ticket. I feel fairly safe in saying that the boat, by virtue of its design, could barely support a family of six in relative comfort…we numbered, I feel sure, just at the tip of over one hundred total.

So, whereas I ate no actual food, I did manage to suck an elbow or two – and, according to the reports given me by several nameless individuals the day after, I also ate a crow or…three.

I remember spotting a seal, somewhere near the tip of Alaska – I really have no idea how far we traveled; it felt like we were out there for days – and I saw a tanker.

I also punched a young woman in the face.

Not hard, and not on purpose. But, she was one of the nameless strangers who ran into me the following day and recalled (with glee, I should add!) the funny story about how she’d asked me to air-draw a map of Mississippi for her and show her where Starkville was on said map.

I'd show you were Starkville is, but I don't want to hurt you.

She was just tall enough, I guess, to receive, with decisiveness, where I chose to put Starkville – her upper lip…I used three fingers, for emphasis.

She was quite sure, she said, that she’d never forget how close to Alabama we sat. Thank god she didn’t want directions to Tuscaloosa.

That, most assuredly, would have led to a lawsuit.

The whole of the following day ran along these lines: “Hey, there you are…I remember you from last night.” OR “You, you, you…certainly seemed to enjoy the dinner cruise, didn’t you”…OR, on more regular occasion, I just got pointed at and grinned at and well, what do you do but smile back as if it had all been a part of your master plan.

I also, it seems, was asked out by the bartender. And a lady and her husband. 

I may never be ok with this.

All these years I thought the Pacific Northwest was populated by an abundance of timber and the lovable, slow Clydesdales of mankind.

I guess anything goes on the open seas, huh. Out on the water, there aren’t any rules: you can gamble, encounter seismic sea waves, befriend a volleyball, hook giant squid, or be a pirate.

I think being a pirate would be fun. Besides, I never really cared that much for volleyball (or the movie Castaway).

Oh well, the point is I finally got a little taste of a cruise. The trouble is, I just can’t really remember it.

So, back to the drawing board.

I wonder what Nassau is like during Christmas.  Anyone?

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