The Melon Heist

Moonlight larceny with a side order of nostalgia

The plan was simple. Everything was always simple in the summer.

Just past sunset, when the air turned thick and the lightning bugs blinked their Morse code across the soybean fields, the three of us would cut through the ditch behind the Jenkins’ barn, slip under the barbed wire, and make a beeline for Old Man Keller’s watermelon patch.

And that’s just how it played out. For a while, at least.

“Easy pickin’s,” Drew whispered, crouched in the tall grass at the edge of Keller’s yard like we were about to storm Normandy. He grinned, dirt on his cheeks, BB gun slung over his shoulder. You never knew when a hostile tin can would jump out of the darkness, demanding to be shot.

Toby adjusted his oversized hand-me-down overalls. “I heard Keller’s got a dog now. Real mean one.”

“He doesn’t,” I said. “I ride my bike past here every day. No dog.”

Still, all three of us flinched when the grass behind us rustled and a rabbit shot past us into the melons.

“Now or never,” Drew hissed.

We bolted.

Rows of green stretched out in moonlight, each vine curling around fat, striped melons. I picked a plump one close to the edge of the field and hoisted it like a trophy. It was warm against my hands, sharing the sunbeams it had stored all day. Drew struggled with an even bigger one. Toby brought up the rear, dragging his bounty along by the stem, like a sack of flour.

And that’s when we heard it. A screen door creaked open and clapped shut somewhere beyond the field. The farmhouse porch light flicked on, casting a pale glow over the yard and the melons.

Toby pointed toward the house.

Old Man Keller stood on the porch with a mug in one hand and a shotgun in the other. He wasn’t aiming it. Just holding it like someone might hold a broom.

“Well, heck,” he said, loud enough to stop us in our tracks if we hadn’t already grown roots. “If it ain’t the annual watermelon bandits.”

Drew dropped his melon. It cracked open on the dirt, guts spilling out.

I held mine like it might save my life.

Keller stepped down from the porch, not fast, not angry. Just…steady. He walked to the edge of the yard and looked us over, one eyebrow raised.

“I was hopin’ you boys would show,” he said. “Melons are just gettin’ ripe. Was worried you forgot about me.”

We stared at him, confused.

He nodded toward the porch. “Well? Don’t just stand there like fence posts. Bring the goods.”

Still wary, we followed him up the steps, melons in hand. Drew grabbed a smaller, less gory one on the way. The porch smelled like pipe tobacco and cut grass, and Keller had set up a table, complete with plates, a big knife, and three metal spoons.

The old man sat down with a grunt and gestured. “Go on. Crack ‘em open.”

So we did.

Sweet juice spilled out, sticky on our hands. Toby laughed. Drew dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days. I took my first bite and nearly fell over.

It was perfect. Cold in the middle, somehow. Crisp. Summer incarnate.

Keller leaned back, sipping from his mug.

“You know,” he said, “back in my day, I used to swipe melons from Farmer Hicks across the road. Every year. Like clockwork. One summer, he caught me and said, ‘Next time you want one, just ask.’ So I did.”

He took another sip. “But it was never as fun after that.”

We ate in silence for a while, lighting bugs blinking in the yard. The shotgun rested against the porch rail, listening to the quiet summer night.

Before we left, Keller gave us each a melon to take home.

“Same time next year?” he said with a wink.

We nodded, mouths sticky, hearts light.

Back on our bikes, Drew looked over at me and said, “You think he’s just lonely?”

I shrugged, melon cradled in my arm like a baby.

“Nah,” I said. “I think he remembers being a kid.”

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