Variety Store Virgin

Though fiercely independant and impetous, I was chicken to try new things. Like my father, I did not take risks; afraid of the outcome, the unknown, the consequences. The free-spirited me conflicted with the subsconscious chains that bound me. A lot of the uncertainty stemmed from how my father brought me up. My mother was indifferent. She too was bound by the same restrictions and her response was nonchalance. But for me, I had to fight and struggle between these two worlds. I was a living and breathing oxymoron.

One day my friend Shanta came over with her wagon full of empty bottles. She announced that she was going to the store to return and get money back for her father. Smitten with the idea of getting money so easily, I told her to wait while I checked for bottles in my house. My mother collected them from under the sink and remembered that there were some in the garage. I threw them into a bag and headed out the door, excited by my new adventure. My father was outside cutting the lawn and upon seeing us, he turned off the mower.

"And where do you think you are going with all those bottles?" he asked.

I looked at Shanta, unable to explain the plan.

"We are going to return these bottles and bring back the money," she said while I hid behind her.

My father stood still for one entire minute and then scratched his head.

"Do you know how many bottles you are taking and how much money you need to collect?" he asked loudly. I knew this question was meant for me. I stepped around Shanta to present myself.

"Stop slouching," he demanded.

I stood up straight. "I have ten bottles...and I ....will get the money and bring it to you," I stuttered.

Damn. My original intent was to pocket the money and buy candy at the variety store.

"Carry on," and he waved us away and turned the mower back on. I exhaled deeply and lifted my bag of bottles onto the wagon. One neighborhood boy, Frank, ran up and joined us on our way to the variety shop which was about a ten minute walk away. On our journey, I became increasingly nervous. As Shanta and Frank chattered away, I was now apprehensive about what was about to go down.

How much was each bottle return? What would be the total? What was I supposed to say? Who did I need to ask? What counter took the bottles back? The whole idea of the bottle return became a huge business deal that could go all wrong. And I was too scared to think if I messed up what the consequences would be.

As we entered the shop, I watched Shanta in action. She picked up the bottles from the wagon and placed them on the counter top. A large, burly man with a goatee, extremely long sideburns and several tattoos on his arms nodded to her, opened the cash register and handed over the cash. It utterly confused me that no words were exchanged--only subtle body language. She pocketed the money and then they both looked at me.

I cautiously approached the counter. Everything seemed large to me. At age six, everything would be. The counter, the man, the shelves around me that threatened to box me in at any given moment. My knees were shaking from sheer nervousness. I heard a clock ticking somewhere. Everyone was silent while I stood looking up at the scary man with the tattoos. At once, he became agitated and leaned towards me.

"Well, what is it? Speak up!" he grumbled. His words knocked the wind out of me. I can do this, I thought, despite the sense of dread that monopolized my inner core.

Instead, when I opened my mouth to speak, I started to cry. I was so overcome with fear that I lost my confidence. I wasn't supposed to speak. Things should have gone the same way with me as they did with Shanta. But now it was as if he knew that I was new to this experience and it became a test of my wits.

Shame on him. Shame on Shanta. Shame on my father. Shame, shame, shame. All three had become instant scapegoats by my fear.

Frank grabbed my bag of bottles and placed them on the counter.

"How many bottles are in here?" the burly man barked. I stood immobilized, still crying like a baby. Again I coaxed myself to speak. Only inauduble squeaks seemed to escape my mouth. I knew I had brought ten but I was completely unable to communicate it. When I did not reply, he shook his head and started counting loudly.

"ONE...TWO...THREE...FOUR....." I was utterly ashamed of myself. What had gotten into me? Shanta looked at me curiously and then reached out to hold my hand. Frank shook his head and rolled his eyes.

The cash register opened and the man handed the cash over to Frank who instantly put it in his pocket. My mouth fell open. Another dilemna. I was without bottles AND the money.

"Is this your first time returning bottles?" asked the man. He was staring down at me. Waiting. Expecting an intelligent answer. There was an explanation. However, I had no idea what to say.

When I started to speak, I began to cry again, pointing at Frank. No one could understand my nonsensical language. I pulled Shanta and we all left the store.

I cried all the way home. Shanta tried to calm me down but I was inconsolable. Frank was so embaressed that he began to whistle loudly--I was sure it was to drown out my incessant crying.

We arrived to Shanta's home. Her father was walking down the driveway from the porch to meet us. He had heard me crying from the corner. Shanta handed him the cash and the wagon.

He turned to me with amazement. "This is the first time I have seen you so upset! What happened?"

Shanta explained the whole story to him and he laughed. His belly was very big and I remember seeing it shake while he laughed. "You are one of the most fearless girls in the neighbourhood and returning some bottles got you upset? How much money did you get back?"

Frank was loitering at the end of their driveway. kicking stones with his foot. I suddenly remembered that he had pocketed MY money. I instantly stopped crying and charged at him. He was taken by surprise when I launched onto his back and threw him on the grass. He was older than me by a year and foot taller. Shanta's father came barrelling down behind us and pulled me off of him.

"He has my money," I growled. There was grass in his mouth and dirt all over my clothes. Frank, always known to be a quiet and respectful boy, shrugged his shoulders,  gave the money to Shanta's father, turned and then shot me a dirty look.

"I was going to give it back to you but since you cried like a baby in the store I held onto it to keep it safe!" He stood there, waiting for an apology.

I felt even worse. To top it off, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father heading over from across the street.

"Did you jump on this boy?" he yelled even before reaching us. Shanta's father explained to my father what happened while I lowered my head and stared at my shoes. Shanta had been called inside for lunch and left me alone. After hearing the story, my father stood for five minutes to think.

In retrospect, when I reminisce about how my father approached the decision-making process, it made me wonder why he took so long. I notice a tendency of normal people to formulate a decision WHILE hearing a story. But no, my father made it more dramatic then it actually was. He would pause for what seemed to be an eternity, inconveniencing the other party by making them wait while he sorted out all the outcomes.

"Please give the money to the boy. Clearly he was the one who did the transaction." Shanta's father began to argue but my father stopped him with his hand. Frank looked at me sheepishly but I turned the other way while my father collected the money and handed it to him. We all parted ways -- I, particularily with a heavy heart.

Later that night, after finding out that the money had been given to Frank, my mother came to my room, down on the third floor of the house. She sat on my bed but I turned my back to her.

"I know you were scared to go. I know you didn't know what to do. It is ok. We all learn from our mistakes. If you don't do it, how will you ever learn? It is ok to be scared. I came all the way from Pakistan to Canada and needed the learn how to do everything--and I was very scared. Learning can be hard. But it gets easier once we do it again." She wiped my brow and then snatched her hand away. I had a raging fever. I heard her leave and loud words were spoken upstairs. She returned with a cold cloth and medicine. She crawled into the bed and slept with me that night.

When I woke up the next morning, my mother was gone. In her place, on my pillow, was a crisp dollar bill. I smiled. Ten cents for every bottle.

When my fever broke later that day, I called Shanta.

We arrived at the same variety store and I chose my candy. One for me, one for Shanta and a chocolate for Frank. I put everything on the counter and stared the large, burly man down.

"Thirty cents please," he smiled with one eyebrow raised. I decided he was not that scary after all and confidently handed him my dollar bill.

And while we three sat on my porch and ate the candy, my mother smiled at us through the front window.