the pickle thief
It’s late. Really late. My sibling is showering in the bathroom across the kitchen. “Maybe I’m safe,” I think to myself. I walk over to the fridge, frightfully mindful of how loud my sandals are on the tile. Wincing at every clang and clap. “This isn’t a big deal” I remind myself. “You can chill out.”
I reach my goal and I open it. And there they are: the pickles. Those mouthwatering, PNW delicatessen pickles that you can tell some new-age hippie sold for $25 at the local farmers market. Exactly my kind of thing. Except that they aren’t mine.
I know my parents would never spend more than ten cents on a pickle and by my great powers of deduction I woefully conclude they belong to my sibling. Which translates to: “I’m dead if I have any.”
But I am so annoyed by this. They won’t let me use anything. I can’t touch a 15k grand piano that they never use anymore. I can’t even look at the $2 shampoo in the shower that they don’t buy for themselves (my parents do). God forbid I use their cocoa, or touch their chair, or eat those mouthwatering pickles.
So I’m feeling a little righteously annoyed and a little naughty. And I reach in, with a touch of thrill in the forbidden and a big dollop of well-calibrated fear. “They always take hour-long showers,” I reassure myself, “no way they come out the second I’m eating one of their precious pickles.”
But of course, you know how this story goes. As soon as I have my hand fingers-deep in the pickle jar I hear the most dreadful sound: the water turns off and there are footsteps on the tile. “Shit.”
“Okay, just act cool, Aysja, just act cool.” I don’t want to make too much noise because if they hear anything unusual they will poke their head out and see my deceit. They’re always on the lookout for ways I could be harming them. As I write that I realize I must seem like a total villain and from their point of view I probably am. From where I stand, though, they are the insane person vigilantly guarding their shampoo and their pickles so…
I quickly pop the pickle in my mouth and put the lid back on in a carefully super cas way. Right as I’m about to close the fridge door they come out. “How in the fuck did they come out right then?” I’m thinking. “Do they have a fucking pickle sensor?!”
I only have a few short seconds to hide my betrayal. I begin to chew and realize in horror that there is actually a very specific “pickle-eating” noise with all its crunchiness that they will surely notice (since they have the aforementioned pickle sensor).
I run over to the sink to wash my hands. Two birds with one stone! The running water hides the crunch-crunch and it gets the smell of pickles off of my hands. “Genius,” I think, “Fucking genius, Aysja.”
I gulp down the rest of the pickle as I vigorously rinse away my sins. I notice that they’re moving towards me and a slow horror dawns on me as I realize that they are going to interact with me. They pull out their phone, they want to show me a video.
Fuck.
They’re going to smell it on my breath if I get too close. There’s no quick fix for that, I’m just gonna have to ride this one through and hope for the best. Maybe since it’s a video I can get away with not talking much?
Indeed, they ask if I want to watch and my silent nod is enough to avoid any suspicion. As we’re watching I’m trying to swallow over and over as quietly as I can. I throw in a few chuckles that require minimal mouth-opening for good measure. I have so far detected no pickle-sensing and I’m feeling pretty good.
The video ends and I’m quick to step away – yes I did desperately need to grab an orange right at that second. We talk about it for a few seconds, well, I let them do most of the talking which is generally how it goes anyways. Miraculously, my pickle-breath never reached them and they left without any doubts of my person.
The biggest sigh of relief ensued.
***
The next evening I returned. Why? Why would I subject myself to this again? Well how unlikely was it that they just happened to get out right when I was hand-deep in the pickle jar?! They don’t actually have a pickle-sensor right?
Wrong.
They do, they so do. I don’t know how, I can’t tell if they’ve acquired future tech or if they have some sixth sense we didn’t know existed, but they can 100% tell when I am nearing their pickle jar.
There I am again, that little thrill of the taboo, and right as I’m stepping back from the fridge: water off. “What in the actual fuck!” I’m thinking to myself. “This can’t be happening.”
Thankfully this time I improved my tactics substantially. I managed to grab a glass of water, wash my hands, and swallow that pickle in one fell swoop before they even got out of the bathroom.
I’m a pickle-thief pro, now. And yes, I’m proud.
One might think – Aysja, why don’t you just buy your own pickles? Why are you stealing them from your sibling who obviously cares so much about it? It doesn’t really seem like a big deal, just let it go and get your own damn pickle jar.
And yes, that would be the mature response. But I have lived through a lifetime of forbidden pickles, untouchable chairs, taboo shampoos, off-limits instruments, and cats I was banned from petting. It is too much and there is no reasoning with them. So I take what I can get in the little thrills. The 4am pickle thievery and the exhilaration of winning.