Tilly And The Contraband (#3)
The black-out curtains kept the outside from peeking in, allowing Tilly to safely open the pantry door in the kitchen. Behind the ketchup and spaghetti sauce, squeezed in by the pickles and fancy rice, were the last two boxes. Contraband that would last quite a while, especially seeing she could only use them at home. Alone. But what about after that? She trusted her friends, sort of. But you never really knew for sure. People were scared and some were only too happy to score points by turning government informer. Although a member of the resistance, putting up posters and scattering flyers, Tilly had no intention of going to jail over a cylindrical piece of paper.
The writing had been on the wall ever since Prime Minister Popover had been elected. Every time someone said the word “tariff,” Canada bent a little further backwards. Any further and we might snap in two. For Tilly, this latest law was the last straw. What could one insignificant person do? Tilly tossed back her luxurious black hair and put her hands on her hips. Well, this insignificant person had had enough.
Two hours later, camouflaged in brown pants and with her onyx hair trapped under a beige poncho, Tilly stood in front of a Mom&Pop general store. She had forsaken her knee-high boots for running shoes, the better to escape in. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the store. As she did so, she pulled up the mask that dangled around her neck and feigned a coughing spell. With a sneeze thrown in occasionally, people would keep their distance, and she could browse without interference. It was safer that way.
With a hand-held shopping basket, Tilly strolled past birthday and sympathy cards. She ran her fingers over wrapping paper, seemingly unable to make a choice. In the clothing department, she selected three pairs of socks with beavers on them for $9.99. An empty basket might attract attention. The reluctant shopper ambled over to the stationary section. Writing paper, pens of all shapes and colours, staplers, erasers, but not what she was looking for. Tilly took one last glance around to see if the elusive product wasn’t in some random department. But no. They had probably been removed from the shelves. No one wanted any trouble.
Tilly stood in line behind the only other shopper in the store. She had needed new socks, so the foray wasn’t a complete loss. She would have to try somewhere else for the elusive purchase, but that could wait until tomorrow. She had used up all her courage for today, and there were pamphlets to deliver tonight.
She was just about to take the socks from the basket when something on the counter caught her eye. It was in that last-minute spot where stores put things that made you say “Oh, yeah, I needed that!” as you added it to your cart. Afraid to touch it, Tilly bent down to take a closer look. Yes, this was what she had been looking for. But did she dare pick it up? She watched as the woman in front walked away. The clerk was giving Tilly the evil eye, like ‘do you want the damn socks or not?’ Tilly’s hand trembled. Should she put it on the counter or try to shoplift it? There was no choice. The other woman was watching her too closely. Tilly coughed, picked up the black-market product in the shrink-wrapped packaging, and laid it on the counter beside the socks. Above the mask, her eyes dared the clerk to confront her. The other woman’s hand hovered above the extra purchase. She raised her eyes to Tilly’s. Neither woman breathed. It was high noon in the Mom&Pop. Tilly wondered what it was like in jail. The clerk wondered the same thing. Sweat poured down Tilly’s cheeks and came to rest in the mask. The clerk tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as the Sahara. She lowered her eyes and stood up straighter. She rang up the socks and dropped them into Tilly’s bag. Then, she discreetly slipped the second object into the bag. No sale, no receipt, no proof.
“That will be $11.05 with the tax”, the clerk said.
Tilly handed over $12.00. The clerk handed her a loonie. No sale to show on her debit or credit card.
Tilly slowly reached for her bag, her eyes darting around the store, waiting for the police to storm in. She backed away from the counter.
“Have a nice day,” the clerk said in a soft voice. Just before Tilly turned away, the woman behind the counter put one hand to her chest with her arm out at an angle and mouthed the words “Elbows up.” With a huge grin and a sigh of relief, Tilly nodded and made the same motion.
Tilly waited until she was back home with the curtains drawn to open the bag. You never knew who was peeking and peering. She removed the tags from her new socks and glanced around as if to look for hidden cameras. She pulled the secret purchase from the bag. Tearing off the outer packaging, she ran her fingers along the cool metal. She rubbed it along her cheek, imagining that this might be the last one in the city. She would hide it with the knives in the cutlery drawer. Only she would know it was there. While her stash of paper straws lasted, she would use them. But this metal, re-usable straw, this symbol of resistance would be waiting for her, hidden in plain sight. One less piece of plastic that might or might not be recycled. It wasn’t much. But it was something.
