What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

      What would I do for a Klondike bar? Do you really want to know what I’d do for a Klondike bar? I don’t think you really want to know. Does anyone want to know? Like, truly, who would want to know? Well, since you’ve persisted, I’ll let you know my little secret about Klondike bars. I used to love them. I don’t like them now. I’ve gotten quite sick of them actually, but it’s become quite a fun task to risk it all for those stupid ice cream meltaways. So ask me again. What would I do for a Klondike bar? I’ll tell you what I have done for a Klondike bar.  

        Three years ago today, I saw a man walking out of a corner store. Silver, squared package in one hand, bamboo walking cane in the other. With my heart racing inside of my chest, I knew my mission at that moment was that Klondike bar. Morally, it is wrong to steal from old men with cataracts, but my body and mind were not of moral sound at the time. Hiding around the corner, I laid flat against the red brick of the building. Right beside the “NO LOITERING” sign showing in the window. Technically, I was not loitering. More like waiting for the best opportunity. The sun shined brightly, and the rays reflected off the metallic wrapper right into my eyes as the old man struggled down the ramp. The man was heaving as he approached my hiding spot—as if he was hiking up Mount Everest and not walking down the street. I jumped right in front of him just as he turned the corner. He had no idea what I wanted but handed me the Klondike bar as a peacemaker. Little did he know, that was exactly what I wanted. Walking away, I realized how much that old man with the cloudy eyes and ghost white hair resembled my grandfather.

       Two years and four months ago, another Klondike bar but a difference place. The public swimming pool. Tons and tons of Klondike bars are moved throughout the days of hundred-degree weather. And yeah, I bought a few myself in years past, but that day, I could not bring myself to buy one. This was in the middle of my transition of becoming a man. Klondike bars were for babies now. I needed a more mature ice cream to snack on while running after my friends in my new turquoise trunks. I settled on buying a boring old ice cream cone with no sprinkles or anything. Just how my dad liked it. But after I finished the cone, I felt my stomach grumble for more. My friend CJ knew I was up to no good when I raised an eyebrow at him. He often tells of this day like it’s a past he never wants brought up again, but everyone loves to hear the story of the Klondike Bandit that eventually ran the concession stand to the ground. CJ distracted the ladies up front. CJ had devastatingly great hair ever since the start of puberty. Everyone thought he was charming, even though he was the most awkward person I had ever met, because his hair spoke wisdom. I grabbed the Klondikes from the back. As much as I could carry. But CJ was still chatting the ladies up, and the line was starting to wrap around the corner. I had time to do some damage. I kept throwing more and more of the packaged silver into my book bag and then into his book bag. We made a real dent that day. And the following days. Yeah, the Snack Shack at the public pool was closed by the end of summer, but at least CJ and I had Klondike bars to spare.

       I have not killed anyone for a Klondike bar. No. It’s not that serious. A few minor injuries is a different story. If I would have to karate chop a hand off for the feeling of melted chocolate running down my hand as I grip into the wrapper so the square doesn’t fall onto the ground at my foot, I would. I would break a finger if I had to. I would do anything for a Klondike bar. It’s the the thrill of thoroughly escaping the moral codes of normalcy as I eat a stolen Klondike bar.

     So, now I ask you, what would you do for a Klondike bar?

–Miranda Kishel