The Melon Heist and Other Stories--Tales from a Hoosier Boyhood

12. The Melon Heist

Bobby squeezed under the bottom of the rusted fence. Earl followed right behind, using a prone wiggle instead of Bobby’s supine sliding motion. Grasshoppers fled. Sticktights attached themselves to their clothing. Crows congregating for the night in the nearby woodlot nervously objected to the intrusion.

"Can you see him?"

Bobby rolled over, then raised his head cautiously. Jewel weeds obstructed his view. As he parted them, several popped their seeds into his hair.

"Yeah. He’s rockin’ on the porch like he always does when he’s done with chores."

"Lookin’ this way?" Earl asked with hushed voice.

"Can’t tell. He’s facin’ this direction. I don’t know if he can see this far. Lately, his left eye’s beginning to look like fried egg white. Mom says he’s got a cadillac."

"Cataract."

"Yeah, well, whatever you call it, he can’t see out of one eye and I don’t know how good the other one is."

Bobby adopted Earl’s prone wiggle and inched towards the goal.

"There’s a beauty over there. Look at that monster."

"Better thump it. You can’t always tell by looks."

"I can tell. This one’s ripe and ready."

To humor Earl, Bobby snapped his middle finger against the striped green surface. The resulting bass note triggered a salivary response. To be doubly sure of his appraisal, he unfolded his jack knife and cut out a plug. The melon’s bright red flesh extended right to the rind. Bobby took a bite from the plug and handed the remainder to Earl as confirmation of his expert eye for ripeness. With a few sawing strokes of the knife on the melon’s stem, the prize was ready for export.

Meanwhile, Earl had squirmed to a neighboring specimen. Instead of Bobby’s finger snap, Earl rapped on the fruit with his knuckles.

"Sounds good. Toss your knife."

Earl performed the surgery, returned the knife and asked, "Now what?"

Bobby peered over the top of his melon, in the direction of the farmhouse. In an alarmed whisper, he hissed, "He’s gettin’ up. Headin’ towards us."

Earl raised up on his elbows. Forgetting the need for stealth, he exclaimed aloud, "He’s got his gun!"

Bobby pushed Earl’s head down, shushing him in the process. "Geez, Earl! Don’t panic on me. It’s only a four-ten and we’re out of range. He can’t have seen us – his eyesight being what it is. He’s probably just gonna try to shag the crows out of his woods."

At that moment, Jerry Smith’s shotgun belched a puff of smoke. Pellets rained on the tree tops. Crows screamed and scrambled into the air, forming a black cloud twisting noisily in front of the pinkish gray sky. The crows’ panic amplified Earl’s terror. He wrestled his melon into his arms, struggled to his feet and started running towards the fence, hunched over his booty. He was sure that the front sight on the old man’s gun was now centered on his behind. Bobby said, more to himself than to Earl, "Well, Jerry for sure knows we’re out here now."