We Were Sisters

It is Thursday. After 44 hours of work in four days, it is my evening to rest. I barely toss a couple of bean tostadas together and head straight for the TV when the tune of “Time After Time” blares from the bathroom, where I must have left my phone when I washed my hands. I make my way in there and see “PeeWee” flashing across the screen. It’s my sister, Viki. I answer, “Hello?”

“Hey, is that KFC still open, down the street from you?”

“Umm…I’m not sure but I think, probably, why?”

“I got some new posters and stickers today. Wanna hit em tonight?” She laughs excitedly.

“Uhh..okay,” I respond, confused, as I pick at the lettuce on my plate. I am not sure what she is talking about but that is somewhat the norm with my sister. I rarely know what I am signing up for, but I know there is about a fifty percent chance it is risky, whatever it is, but right around a one-hundred percent chance it is going to be fun. Looking forward to an adventure I ask, “What time?”

“Okay, well it will have to be after dark for KFC, and after they close of course, but first we can go to Meijer with the stickers.”

“I’ll pick you up around nine then?” I ask.

“That works. See ya then Peewee!” This is a mutual nickname she started between the two of us after watching the movie, PeeWee Herman’s Big Adventure, she found hilarious as a child. We always exchange lines from it for fun and no one knows what we are talking about.

I pull into her driveway and text, “I’m here.” Before I can hit “send,” though, she struts out her door with arms full of paraphernalia, I assume later could quite well have its name changed to evidence. I have a better idea of her intentions at this point. I am playing Matchbox Twenty in the car, and the big sister doesn’t miss a chance to make fun of the little sister, “Oh, kick-ass adventurous tunes for the road, huh?”

I quip back with the first thing I can think of, “Oh okay with your mighty mega vegan activist pack huh, okay.” It probably would have been a better comeback if I could have thought of something bad to say about Marilyn Manson.

“Shut-up, Fran-ces!” She chuckles, another line from the old movie.

“So, Meijer?” I ask.

“Yup!”

As we pull into the parking lot, she begins to coach me, “Put your poker face on and remember, if anyone says anything to you, just keep walking. If they call the police and for any reason we separate, I’ll meet you at the park across the street.”

“Wow, so what exactly are we doing?” I ask. “You make it sound illegal.” I’d gotten the gist by this point, but her advice makes the risk sound more real.

She holds up a roll of round yellow stickers with sad little chicks that read, “I am NOT a nugget.” And says, “Today we speak for these little guys and gals, and technically it is vandalism but c’mon, do you think police here don’t have anything better to do?” She wears that devilish grin, and I realize I sport its identical twin. She stuffs a handful of stickers in my bag, and we walk together through the brightly lit entry, now covert activists.

As we approach the frozen foods section, she sticks the first sticker on a Banquet chicken nugget with mac n cheese meal, outlining it with the tip of her finger to make sure it’s secure. She glides stealthily and naturally across each aisle with purpose and joy as I nervously glance over my shoulder.

My sister, the vegan. Ironically, also the person who taught me how to cook a mean steak, but now a vegan, and an immensely proud and active member of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) to boot. This is not just a prank for her. For her, this is us sticking it to the big guys, the corporations who use the assumption and justification of human superiority to engage in unethical treatment of animals, for profit. She is on a mission for something in which she believes passionately. I admire her for a moment. She doesn’t let anything hold her back. With newfound excitement and inspiration, I start stamping anything with a chicken on the packaging.

She slides next to me as I’m branding a Marie Calendar. “Three o’ clock,” she mumbles through tight lips. I turn to my right and spot an older lady in a smock, glaring at us. “She calls out, “Hey, what are you doing? You can’t do that!” My sister whispers, “Go, just go.” At this point, I feel as if we are on an episode of Curious George as I imagine her shouting, “Don’t let em get away! Get those monkeys!” We quickly make our exit down the main aisle, giggling the whole way. We liberated nearly every chicken, big and small, in the freezer section of Meijer. Our duty is done.

We jump in the car, slamming the doors quickly. Out of breath, she reaches in her bag. Pulling out her inhaler, she asks, “Still up for KFC, Peewee?”

I know this is the highlight of the night for her. PETA has expressed condemnation of KFC for accepting their supplier’s treatment of chickens in the farms and processing plants since 2003, when they launched a campaign called Kentucky Fried Cruelty. After KFC continually claimed that they require their suppliers to meet strict guidelines in order to remain their providers, PETA sent an undercover investigator, who took video footage in a Tyson processing plant, a main supplier for KFC. Employees are seen kicking, stomping, and smashing birds against a wall. I know the images are playing in Viki’s mind and the sadness and disgust from this is flowing through her neural pathways now. Feeling the rush of the moment though, I answer, “Let’s go!”

As we pull up to the KFC parking lot, she insists I park in the lot next door. I realize how experienced she is in this moment, and how inexperienced I am. I do what she says. We get out of the car, and I hear her sigh, “Awe man, we don’t have any tape.”

“Well, everything will be closed by now,” I respond, shrugging.

She begins shuffling through my glovebox, “Come on, you must have something!”

“I really don’t. Who carries tape in their car?” I rummage through my purse and find a sheet of goo from my son’s class project. “I have some green gunk that resembles gum,” I tell her.

“Yes!” She screeches. We rush out of the car and stick the first poster on the drive-thru menu sign together. Feeling empowered, I head to the back of the building, and she jets to the front. I can hear her saying “oh my god,” and laughing her contagious, obnoxious laugh, which gets me laughing. I try to shush her, but I can’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of our situation, yet our solid desire to see it through.

I begin to focus and stick the smaller poster on the first drive-thru window, then the larger poster on the window looking into the dining area when I notice flashing red and blue lights. In this moment, my heart plummets to my stomach and I hold my hand over my mouth. Do I go out there or do I leave my sister to pay the price for both of us? I am sure of it that the police officer will just tell her to clean up and go home, maybe issue a citation. Rounding the side of the building, I hear him saying something I can’t make out, then she loudly insists he put the cuffs on her hands in front of her body.

I can’t move. All I can think about is how she is the one I connect with most in the family. She is the one who comes through when I need a babysitter, when I needed a place to live for a couple of months, when I needed sanctuary, when I need someone to be understanding about whatever I am upset about. She wouldn’t want me to show myself and possibly spend a night in the slammer with her, I know that. She is the one I can talk to in the family. It was her and one friend who helped me with my wedding. We bond over good vegetarian food, vegan in her case. I can’t let her be there alone. I have a young son. She has a daughter too, though. I just can’t. I step out and yell, “Wait!” She throws her head back as she rolls her eyes and sighs, as if I just broke every code and rule laid out in the Protesting for Dummies manual, and she couldn’t be more disappointed in me.

I am embarrassed but I would feel like a coward if I ran and left her there. Wait, I can’t believe my eyes. I recognize this guy. “Mike?” I say, losing my breath. He stops in his tracks and peers toward me.

“What the hell, who is that?”

I know many police officers and firefighters in the city because I have relatives and relatives of friends in these professions, but I only know one in the township. This one. This one who is usually home by 3 pm. “Cherrie, what are you doing out here?” I mean what the…you? He squints in disbelief, “What are you doing and who is this, your friend?” I didn’t know what to say. In the worst moment, my sister starts laughing, which of course makes me laugh.

“My sister,” I answer as I try to compose myself.

He raises his brows and points back and forth between my sister and me, “Well, your sister was about to go to jail. This ain’t funny.”

“I’m so sorry, Mike, I’ll take her home.” I am so embarrassed. I work in mental health and volunteer for the state of Michigan, sorting and delivering donations for families and foster children. Mike is a police officer I have collaborated with many times. He came to my son’s school in his cruiser for Transportation Day, and he recently moved his daughter to the same school, with my son.

He shakes his head, “Yeah, well I’m going to call you tomorrow because you out of all people, and this? Out of all things, I don’t even know what you’re doing out here.” He removes the cuffs, I thank him, and we leave.

Viki and I laughed until we cried the whole way back to her house that night. This is an old memory, but by far my favorite. I am ever so grateful to have shared this time with my sister in her realm. She is gone now, but my experiences with her have helped shape my beliefs and who I am today. My life would be so much narrower without her. We were so different, yet so much the same. We were sisters.

Text to my niece: “Hey, let’s see if your uncle Bill still has your aunt Viki’s PETA stickers. What do you think?”