The Telltale Cookie

Poplar Grove Number 17 was our bus to go home. It stopped in front of The Magazine Shop on Main Street between 200 and 300 South. While waiting for the bus, my friends and I would loiter in the shop looking at MAD Magazines and raunchy paperbacks. The best thing that the store had to offer though, were the cello-wrapped marshmallow oatmeal cookies. They were heavenly. They were fifty cents. 

One afternoon as I stood in line to purchase my cookie, my friend Ernie shouted “The bus is here!” I freaked and ran out the door and boarded the bus in the nick of time. I took my seat and glanced down to see a stolen cookie in my hot little hand. I was mortified. I didn’t dare eat it thinking I would return it the next day or at least on my next trip uptown. It sat on my nightstand for a week as I pondered my choices. Then I ate it.

Not an uptown jaunt went by that I didn’t think of paying for that cookie but didn’t dare set foot in the store for fear I would be recognized as “That Kid.” That cookie was a heavy, nagging burden for a long time, for a little kid.

Years later, there was a job listing for a cashier at The Magazine Shop. I was desperate for work and decided to gird up my loins and go into the store to apply. One of the questions asked was if I had a criminal record. What—was this some sort of trick to goad me into admitting my guilt? I checked the “no” box knowing, in truth, I had barely dodged a bullet one afternoon years ago. Karma wasn’t on my side. I didn’t get the job.

Some time ago, just before the building was to be demolished, I mailed an unmarked dollar bill to Bob’s Magazine Shop. No name, no note—just a clear conscience. My cookie-eating can now be done guilt-free.