So, I go into the Kentucky Fried Chicken place about 6:00 on a Saturday evening. I don't go there much so I'm not familiar with the menu. So I hang back from the counter and start reading the billboard to see what my choices are. There's nobody in line in front of me, and the girl at the register is getting really antsy. She wants to take my order really bad, even though it's clear that I'm not ready.
"Can I help you?" she blurts out.
I ignore her for a moment, then say, "In a minute." I continue to study the complicated combinations being offered on the billboard. Do I want two pieces of chicken or three? The leg and thigh combo or the wing and breast? Do I want two sides with that? Or should I pick one of the numbered options that include a drink?
The girl is clearly agitated now by my indecision. Hoping to rush me along, even though there's no one behind me in line, she yells out: "Will this be for here or to go?" How this will help her prepare for my order is not clear. I ignore her again for a few seconds, then mutter "Here."
Do I want a drink? I can't decide. And what exactly is this biscuit that seems to come with every order? The girl is gripping the counter with all her might, trying to hold herself back from leaping over the barrier and strangling me for not knowing what I want before coming in. And here I thought I was being polite by standing back from the counter.
Finally I'm ready. I order three pieces: legs and thighs. Plus the potato wedges and mashed potatoes. But this isn't good enough for the girl.
"Do you want a Number Two?" she jumps in. "It's the same thing but you get a drink."
"No, I don't want a drink. Just some water," I counter.
She doesn't like this. Everybody orders one of the preselected numbered combinations. I'm obviously a real jerk. She studies her register. She punches buttons. She punches the wrong buttons. I catch her, but not till after she sends the order to the back.
"Change that to dark meat," she bellows over her shoulder. The guy in charge of compiling orders glares at me, as if it were my mistake.
By now there's a line. My food arrives and I grab the tray, then I go find a table. Everyone behind me in line seems to be ordering by numbers. Fast food regulars. I'm just not hip enough for fast food.
We hadn’t ridden the Big Wheel in years. So when it disappeared one day, it took a while for any of us to even notice.
We kept it stashed in the shed out back, where it was mostly something we tripped over while getting out our bikes. A few years before, though, my brother Jimmy and I had zipped around the neighborhood on that little, plastic, three-wheeled bike, its pedals protruding, tricycle-like, out of its oversized front wheel.
Since only one kid could ride it at a time, Jimmy and I had devised a method by which we could both enjoy the Big Wheel simultaneously. He would stand on the back, behind the seat, and I would pedal extra hard to move us both down the street.
It was in this manner he and I made our first big road trip, at the ages of eight and six, respectively. We took off down Holly Knoll Drive and soared down its two big hills, laughing and whooping as we sped farther and farther from home. At the bottom of the hill, a good half mile away, we discovered one of Jimmy’s school friends, and spent half the morning playing with him before making the long trip back uphill.
Later that year, after reading something about stenciling in a Boy’s Life magazine, I had cut the letters of our last name out of a piece of paper and convinced my dad to let me use some blue house paint to stencil various items in the yard. I defaced some planters and our lawn mower before turning my attention to the Big Wheel.
On its back side, just below where my brother had stood on our tandem rides, I tried to paint our name with the stencil. But the paper was not strong enough, and the initial letters looked more like smeared blotches. Instead of Neubauer it read Smear-bauer. Still, it was close enough, I thought with pride. Now the world would know that this Big Wheel belonged to the Neubauers—or the Smear-bauers.
A year or so later our Big Wheel was gone. I hadn’t ridden it in ages, nor had my brother or sister. Still, I was upset at the discovery. It wasn’t that I wanted to use it again. It was the sense of loss that came from knowing I couldn’t.
I conducted a search of the property, visiting the basement and the garage, but to no avail. My parents knew nothing about its disappearance, and probably were just as happy it was gone. The issue bothered me for a while, but it was soon replaced by other concerns. Eventually I forgot all about our precious Big Wheel.
Then, about a year later, as I pedaled home from school on my bike, I saw it. It was sitting on a neighbor’s lawn, about five houses away. I circled back to make sure, but there was no mistaking it. In sloppy blue letters, the Smear-bauer logo was still visible on the back.
I went numb, unsure of what to do. The lawn it sat on belonged to the Millers, the hillbillies of the neighborhood. The mother had deserted her family, leaving the scraggly-bearded father in charge of three kids, two of whom were a few years younger than me. Toys and garbage always littered their lawn, and the driveway never had fewer than three cars on it, two with their hoods eternally open.
Scared of the challenge that lay ahead, I chickened out and rode home. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. They had stolen our Big Wheel! What’s more, they didn’t care if we knew. They’d left it sitting out on display: “Hey, look everyone! We stole the Neubauer’s Big Wheel!”
I grew more furious the more I thought of it. That fury drove me back onto my bike and back up the street to the Miller’s house.
My head swelled with questions and accusations. Why did you steal our Big Wheel? Don’t you have enough toys already? What’s wrong with you? But as the house loomed before me, I grew timid once more.
Then I saw a movement. Mr. Miller stood on the driveway, his head under one of the car’s hoods. I steeled myself and walked up to confront him.
“Excuse me,” I began, far too politely. He looked up, unsmiling, his beard untrimmed. He looked even more like a hillbilly up close.
“That’s our Big Wheel,” I challenged. His eyes darted over to it.
“No it’s not,” he said.
“It is too,” I continued, taking up the challenge. “Our name’s on it.”
He pondered this for a second, then stuck his head back under the hood, evading me. I stood there awkwardly, awaiting an answer.
“It was laying in the road,” he said at last, weakly. “I thought someone threw it away so I brought it home.”
This stopped me. Had we left it somewhere by mistake? Could he be telling the truth? I knew I hadn’t abandoned it. Hell, I hadn’t used it in years. It was possible Jimmy had left it out. But not on the street. It would have been on our lawn, if anywhere. And our parents would never have let it sit for more than a day without yelling at us. So this guy must have grabbed it, probably at night, knowing full well it wasn’t abandoned.
He ignored me and continued playing with the engine. I didn’t know what to do. Finally I just repeated myself.
“Well, it’s still ours,” I said.
He didn’t raise his head, his silence confirming his guilt in my mind. He was a thief, and a little kid had caught him at it. All he could do now was hide his head until I went away.
Somewhere inside of me I knew I had won. I had confronted him and he had tacitly admitted his crime. But it was an empty victory, I suddenly realized. I didn’t have the guts to grab the Big Wheel and go home. Besides, what were we going to do with it? We had already outgrown it. Why shouldn’t his kids have fun with it, like we once did?
Turning away, I threw a final, pensive look at our Big Wheel, remembering one last time that summer day Jimmy and I rode it together down all those hills, laughing, carefree and blissfully ignorant of our futures. Perhaps our Big Wheel would bring the thief’s children such memories, as well.