Minnesota Mobsters & the Ransom for Licorice

The world has gone crazy. It’s changed almost overnight to something unimaginable. One news clip leaves me reeling and a day’s worth puts me in bed with the covers over my head. Oh, for those days of ‘normal.’ Oh, for those moments of innocence when we could look to the future with clear and joyful eyes. It’s worth looking back and remembering….

“The soul is healed by being with children.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky

“Hey, Zeke, there’s licorice in the pantry!” announces seven-year-old Drover to his older-by-one-year brother. The back of his grubby hand leaves a dark smudge across his mouth as he wonders, “Do you think we could get some?”

The package of chewy red vines that he spied on the pantry shelf on one of their dozen forays into the kitchen is calling Drover’s name like a splash-able mud puddle.

The two boys are stretched out on the lawn like lazy cats. They’re tired of Legos and tossing the football. They’ve done a million miles on their bikes and a whole Olympics routine on the trampoline.

Zeke, on his stomach contemplatively chewing on a blade of grass, hears the word ‘licorice’ and pops up from his lethargy faster than you can say, ‘I smell trouble!’

Brown eyes alight, Zeke swings his blue, worn Nikes that struggle to fit in as much as Zeke himself into a ‘ready, set, go’ position! “Yeah! Let’s get some licorice! We gotta figure out a way!”

How to get the licorice? It feels as though they are facing the equivalent of getting into Fort Knox. They’ve traipsed into the kitchen a dozen times to ask for something to eat, only to be shut down like a lemonade stand during a coronavirus epidemic by Chica, the drill sergeant babysitter sister. Drover’s puppy dog eyes could move mountains, but they don’t faze Chica as she shoos them out for the dozenth time.

Hmmm…how to get the licorice? The young boys are stymied. Zeke noodles on the problem, contemplatively poking his fingers through the holes in his multi-colored, striped t-shirt. One rowdy tuft of hair sticks up like a banner on the back of his head as Drover eagerly focuses his Hershey colored eyes on Zeke’s ruminations.

“I know!” says Zeke, gesturing a ‘come-on’ to Drover, “I think I figured out what to do! Follow me!”

Two desperados tippy-toe from their hide-out. Pistol Pete pulls the crumpled hat he rescued from the dress-up box lower over his shades. Tommy Karate follows his older brother, gripping his coat hem so he won’t trip.

“This coat is too long!” he gripes.

“Quiet!” growls Pete, “I can’t help that you’re too short for Dad’s suit coat. Don’t yell and bring Chica out to ruin everything!”

They shift their eyes worriedly toward the house and sneak toward the trees where little sister, Zoey, can be heard talking to her imaginary friend. She is startled from her play when Tommy loses his battle with the coat and crashes into bushes nearby.

“You’re such a dunce!” mutters Pete, “You’re going to ruin everything!”

“You’re a dunce,” retorts Tommy, valiantly extricating himself from the pokey vegetation. With a leafy branch stuck above his ear, he determines to regain some dignity. He stalks over to Zoey who peers at him questioningly.

“Why are you wearing Dad’s suitcoat?” she queries.

“It’s a trench coat!” Tommy sputters.

“That’s not a ‘drench’ coat!” chortles four-year-old Zoey, “I’m telling Dad you have his Sunday coat!”

“Not if you want licorice!” grins Tommy triumphantly.

“Licorice?” Zoey wants licorice!

Pete leans his shaded glasses ferociously into Zoey’s face, “Listen, we can get lots of licorice! Just do exactly what we tell you!”

Chica is lounging on the couch chatting on the phone, iced tea in hand, when the door suddenly bangs open. A mysterious pair of characters sidles in. The duo marches over to Chica, each with stick ‘pistol’ held steady. The shorter one with a shriveled leafy branch wobbling feebly above his ear hands Chica a crumpled piece of paper. Chica scrambles to sit upright setting her glass on the side table.

“Call me after a bit, Sara. I gotta see what’s cooking here,” says Chica ending her call, “Good grief! What are you boys up to, Zeke and Drover? In Dad’s Sunday suit jacket, no less??”

“We’re not Zeke and Drover; we’re the Minnesota Mob, and we have Zoey. If you want her back, you have to do what the note says,” announces Pete bravely.

Chica hastily scans the note. Scratched in penciled letters reads: ‘We have Zoey tied up in the camper. Give us licorice if you want her back.’

Chica shakes her head, “Hahaha! What kind of kooky idea is this? Do you really have Zoey tied up?!” she guffaws. “You better get out there and untie her mighty fast and get out of Dad’s clothes or you’ll be in big trouble! And sorry, no licorice!”

“Oh man,” they whine, “but we’re hungry!!” Both pairs of eyes move longingly to the pantry door knowing the prize is so close, yet so far.

“Out! Out!” commands Chica, “Shoo! Scoot! Outside you go!” Her phone buzzes in her pocket and, tossing her long blond hair, she leans back into the leathery seat, grabs her iced drink and presses the phone to her ear, “Sara? You wouldn’t believe what these two boys are up to now…!”

The two ‘gangsters’ from the Wild West know when they are up against an unbeatable foe, and dropping their ‘pistols,’ they slink out the door.

Well! That wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out! Now the two hooligans have to explain to Zoey that they have no licorice for her despite being bound hand and foot with jump ropes!

The boys drop onto the ground crestfallen. Drover unsuccessfully attempts to use a blade of grass as a whistle. Zeke throws handfuls of vegetation aimlessly this way and that, some of it settling onto their hair and clothes.

“Hey, Drover,” says Zeke.

“What?” queries Drover.

“I think I can still get some licorice.”

“You can?? How?”

“Well, if you get Chica to come outside…like maybe you get hurt or something…”

And there they go again, the Tricky Twosome on to more shenanigans! Will Chica be lured outside opening the way to the pantry and treats? Do they finally score licorice? I would almost dare to bet they do!

The Minnesota Mobsters eventually reined in to the corral of adulthood, but echoes of their untamed natures linger. You will, without a doubt, hear peels of unbridled laughter when they get together. I see the responsible adults they have become, but this mother fondly remembers the rascals with cowlicks. I smile and hand out Twizzlers. Because, I really think those two each deserved at least one piece of licorice, don’t you?