Is That a Pickle in Your Pocket?

A short story about one man's big pickle problem

Let me tell you about how the cost of pickles changed my life forever.

I hadn’t bought pickles in a long time. Pickles are one of those things I kinda like, but seldom buy simply because when I go to the grocery store, I don’t stroll around and browse. I get my four staples - meat, milk, wine, chicharrones - and get the hell out.

This particular day, however, I felt like pickles, and so I strolled to the pickle aisle and browsed the selection. What I saw there made me want to set fire to the whole damn place.

A jar of pickles - just the regular kind with that stupid bird on it - was seven dollars. Six dollars and 89 cents to be exact, so it was actually more than seven dollars with the government’s fee. 

I stood there, staring at the price, just completely stupefied. 

How could this be happening? Pickles are barely a food. They’re nothing more than an activity for your teeth or for filling up your stomach so you can drink more alcohol.

There’s no nutritional value other than sodium, which most people are getting too much of. Seven dollars for salt water and crunch? It made no sense.

I picked the jar up and looked inside, half - but only half - joking to myself that there was something else in this damn pickle jar. But there wasn’t.

Look, this was about more than just the price of pickles. This was about inflation and politics and who I should vote for, as if voting actually matters and the country isn’t run by a cartel of corporate overlords making us fat, sick, and so poor that we have anxiety over the price of a jar of pickles. And it was about realizing all this either makes you a sucker for knowing it and worrying about it, or a sucker for not knowing it and being stupid.

I wanted to do something. I had to do something. Something was going on and that something had gone too far. 

So I decided to steal that fucking seven dollar jar of pickles.

---

I put the jar of pickles in my little handbasket with my meat, milk, wine, and chicharrones, and went to the self-checkout aisle. I probably would have gone here anyway because there was only one human working and it would have taken too long to wait. But I told myself that I was only going to bag my own groceries and contribute to the dehumanizing automation of society because I was about to carry out an act of defiance.

I scanned my wine first, to get the over 21 approval, a power that hasn’t been given to the machines yet. 

A schlubby 20-something man with thick glasses and sweaty face dawdled over like a constipated duck. He didn’t ask for myID despite the signs on the registers that say everyone gets carded. He just sighed, put in a code, and dawdled back over to where he was. He was tired of it all, too. I wanted  to hug that moist, pudgy man and tell him that things were about to change.

I scanned my chicharrones and meat. And then I grabbed the jar of pickles. I turned it so that the side with the barcode wouldn’t face the scanner and glided it over the red laser. There was no beeping sound - the sound that always denoted permission. And now the lack of that sound denoted transgression. 

My heart beat a little quicker and I felt ashamed that it did. What kind of man gets nervous about shoplifting a jar of pickles? A man with a wife, kid,  job and mortgage? Did having these things make me more fearful? Is that how they get you? Was I trapped? 

No. I won’t let them. 

I put the jar of pickles into the bag with the rest of the things I actually wanted and pressed the “pay now” button.

I put my credit card in the slot and waited. Approved.

The receipt printed. I left it, not wanting to touch the chemicals on the receipt paper because that’s another thing they do to get you. And I headed toward the exit with my bag, my heartbeat getting even more noticeable to me.

The automatic doors opened.

- WHOA WHOA WHOA!

The warm, Miami night air touched my face.

- HEY HEY HEY!

Just as I was about to exit the store, the schlubby man jumped in front of me with impressive agility, his former dreary dawdle now a graceful gallop.

- YOU DIDN’T PAY FOR THOSE PICKLES!

He had the receipt in his hand and waved it around for all to see. 

- THERE’S NO PICKLES ON THE RECEIPT! THIS MAN IS STEALING PICKLES!

He yanked the bag out of my hand and it ripped open. Everything fell out and the jar of pickles hit the floor and exploded, glass shards, green liquid, and pickles everywhere. 

- AND NOW HE’S VANDALIZING AND LITTERING!

I looked around and saw everyone in the store looking at me, some with scorn or disgust, some with delighted bemusement. And almost everyone, or at least it seemed that way, had their phones out to record me. 

- SECURITY!

On cue, a very tall and wide man with an ill-fitting uniform - tight and loose in places that didn’t make sense - put his enormous hand on my shoulder. 

- Are you stealing pickles, sir?

I didn’t know what to say. Yes, I was stealing pickles, but I didn’t want to admit it. I was afraid. To get out of this, I could easily say it was an accident. Sorry, I thought it scanned! Please let me pay for the broken jar of pickles! And let me get two more! I’m pretty handy with a mop, too. 

But the whole point was to make a point. I should have said: “Damn right I stole them! And everyone else should, too!” And then everyone in the store would rally behind me and we’d go and take all the pickles and all live happily ever after in utopian bliss. 

Instead, my phone buzzed. I took it out. A message from my wife: 

- WHY R U STEALING PICKLES???

Her next text was a link. I clicked on it and it went to a livestream of me in the store. I looked at myself looking at my phone and wished I wasn’t me and was just looking at somebody else getting embarrassed online.

Comments darted in from around the world. 

- What a loser!

- ¡Qué perdedor!

- Quel perdant !

- Was für ein Verlierer!

- 真是个失败者!

I looked around. People never looked so ugly to me. I had never wanted to be far away from everywhere. The world was tight and cold like a snake wrapping around my chest, tighter and tighter, my lungs collapsing, the snake’s sharp tongue flicking in and out of my ear, savoring the taste of my death.

I could just run. I could. Just run. Sure, it was too late. Everybody knew what I did and I was too weak and stupid to stand up for the reason why I did it, or why I thought I did it.

People were whispering, shouting, laughing: 

- HE STOLE PICKLES! 

I looked out to the parking lot. My car was right there. I could run to it. Would they chase me over a jar of pickles? Probably not. But I didn’t want to run.

I balled my fists up and took a deep breath. I stood up straight and shouted: “I stole those pickles because they were priced at seven dollars and pickles shouldn’t cost seven dollars in America!”

I felt exhausted after saying the words. They were the most difficult words I had ever squeezed out of my throat. But I was glad I said them. I just wanted to make a case, that’s all. People might not agree with me, but a stand had to be made by somebody, and that’s what I did.

The problem was that nobody heard what I said.

“What the heck did you say?” the security guard said. “I didn’t understand nothing with all that sobbing and crying you were doing trying to talk.”

My wife texted me: 

- JUST SHUT UP AND PAY FOR THE PICKLES! 

I had to get out. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran towards my car. I opened the door when I saw the flashing red lights in the corner of my eye.

- STOP RESISTING!

I stopped immediately. Only cops about to do something bad say that. 

Maybe it was time to pay for these pickles now. After all, I didn’t want my kids to see videos online of me getting arrested for pickles. I had responsibilities. Family, mortgage, all that. 

I guess they did get me. Okay. Fine. 

I reached into my pocket for my wallet… 

- HE’S REACHING!

The last thing I heard was lead moving through my brain - a deafening slosh that filled my entire head.

And I never even really liked pickles all that much.