Don’t Eat the Purple Ones

By Toni Kief

 

DON’T EAT THE PURPLE ONES

By​​ Toni Kief

 

I’ve been​​ bound into​​ stillness and​​ I try to remember. ​​ The nurse promises​​ to​​ remove​​ the restraints​​ if​​ I​​ stop pulling​​ out​​ the IVs.  ​​​​ It has to be​​ bad when the police​​ bring in​​ Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms.  ​​​​ I​​ am​​ shocked to​​ hear a reference to a​​ four-​​ day spree. ​​ I​​ only remember the push mower and the median strip on I 80. ​​ Will a community service defense help with the $560 fine? ​​​​ ​​ 

I’m tired of their​​ questions, and they​​ only​​ stop when I close my eyes. ​​ Luckily they don’t​​ realize​​ sleep is​​ impossible? ​​​​ The​​ state​​ troopers are​​ back​​ and I can​​ hear their low voices. ​​ The​​ ATF agent​​ sounds as if the​​ crumbled vitamins​​ in my pocket​​ are​​ a very big deal. ​​ They​​ think I’m withholding, but​​ I would tell​​ it all​​ if I knew. ​​ They​​ finished the​​ search​​ of​​ my​​ home; I​​ thought​​ I had nothing to hide. ​​ Oh Hell! ​​ They found​​ my furniture is in the yard, and the rugs​​ are pulled up. ​​ Apparently​​ everything is painted​​ lavender and green,​​ including​​ the​​ floors and ceilings. ​​ They​​ discovered​​ only​​ my​​ foot prints​​ tracking cross the fresh paint. ​​ Thank goodness they secured the​​ scene;​​ it appears my​​ belongings​​ were being​​ carried away.  ​​​​ They​​ located​​ my​​ freshly​​ lilac​​ car at the homeless donation box, loaded with frozen food. ​​ The keys were​​ taped to the window with​​ a note​​ asking​​ someone​​ to​​ lock it once it was unloaded.

The trooper is laughing about the Monday morning calls. ​​ Half Priced Books found my credit card on their front counter with cash and a thank- you note. ​​ The police watched​​ the video​​ and it appears I​​ alone​​ reorganized the​​ shelves​​ based on​​ the​​ Dewey decimal system. ​​ They​​ all snicker​​ about this​​ morning delivery of​​ two​​ tons of​​ cat chow​​ to the animal shelter.​​  ​​​​ 

My​​ mental cash register​​ computes​​ past​​ my life long earning​​ capacity. ​​​​ I can barely​​ hear​​ what they say about the​​ almost​​ empty​​ bottle of​​ purple chewable​​ vitamins​​ in​​ my kitchen. ​​ I understand the pills have gone to the lab​​ with my clothes.​​ ​​ 

I begin to cry​​ as​​ I​​ notice​​ my reflection.​​ ​​ I guess it is reasonable to​​ tweeze​​ a chin​​ whisker, crazy to pluck all​​ your facial hair. ​​ The ATF officer has​​ been with me for hours,​​ and​​ tries​​ to assure me that I can recover from this humiliation. ​​ He pats my hand and tells me​​ the eyebrows will grow back. ​​ He reveals phone calls from​​ Dateline and First 48, and suggests​​ I write a​​ book. ​​ ​​ I can’t even look surprised,​​ the world knows​​ more​​ about this week​​ than I do. ​​ I have nothing to offer.​​ ​​ 

As I calm down​​ I​​ recognized​​ the​​ fine​​ line between good works​​ and​​ bat shit crazy. ​​ There is talk of a plea agreement if I help find the source of the pills. ​​ I​​ don’t know if I have the courage to tell them​​ that I bought​​ the​​ vitamin and energy​​ supplements​​ from a​​ giant​​ white rabbit​​ with a card table​​ at a​​ medieval fair. ​​ I​​ fear​​ tomorrow may be worse. ​​ 

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About The Author

Toni Kief, a child of the 60s, Midwestern by birth, Northwestern by choice, Toni challenges the boundaries for women of a certain age. After a long career as an insurance adjuster, she fell into writing through a challenge from a friend. She has released her first book, Old Baggage, with two others in the grinder. Toni never dated Mick Jagger, but marched for civil rights, shared bread with icons of politics and art. She is spending her retirement, gathering stories prime for embellishment. Writing has taught her inspiration without perspiration is just a good idea. www.tonikief.com.