Hitchhiking Thief and Pizza Hut

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How does attempted shoplifting lead to free pizza? Is a diary evidence? How can we inspire others by understanding motivation instead of actions?

Nostalgia is amazing. We get to remember the beauty. But sometimes the good things we remember happened to escape the bad.

My life sucked in 1982. This was the third year my mom was married to a cruel man. Life was hell and the library was my only escape.

I would sit there in the children’s section for as long as I could consuming magazines, then I would check out some books and go home.

One day on the way home with three fresh books in my bag, I came across 3 bullies. They roughed me up and took my book bag. I ran home and my mom’s husband and his best friend were in the house.

He wanted to know why I was crying. I told him what happened. I got roughed up again by him for being weak and told no one was going to pay for those books.

A few days later I went to the library and tried poorly to explain what had happened and I was told I could not get more books until the debt was paid. I looked at her for a moment trying to hold back tears. She stared at me, pursed her lips, and told me she had other people to help.

With her tone and in that tender age, I felt I was banned from the library.

I would spend the next few weeks just walking around the streets after school avoiding home, avoiding bullies, and just trying to survive.

I missed books. I needed the stories. When I was reading the world around me melted away. I was no longer a target for kids at school and the horrible things my mom’s husband and his best friend did to me did not exist. There were worlds with dragons and elves and spaceships and cowboys. There were heroes and hope and happy endings. I needed these things. They were the only things making existence bearable.

A block away from the library was a small bookstore. I had no money, but I went inside. It was amazing.

The floors were old wood and the shelves were oak. There was a magazine rack and comic books. It had everything and it smelled of leather and wood and paper and dust! There was a thin old woman with grey hair, kind smile, and reading glasses hanging from her neck on a beaded chain. She gave me a smile and I looked away ashamed of what I was intending on doing.

I walked over to the Sci Fi section. Something caught my eye immediately. It was a book called “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams. The cover thrilled me. I awkwardly grabbed it from the shelf and stuffed it under my jacket.

I was about to leave when I saw something else catch my eye. It was a yellow diary with a gold lock on it. I knew when I saw it that I needed this. I had to have it.

An intense desire to write down my thoughts took over. The lock would protect my words and my thoughts. This would help me. I needed help. So I awkwardly stuffed it in my jacket as well.

I put both my hands into my jacket pockets to keep the books from falling out. With my heart racing in my throat and the telltale heart beating beneath the floorboards, I headed for the door. Then I heard the old woman’s voice.

“Would you like a bookmark to go with the books you are stealing?”

I turned to face her. She was still behind the counter. I had no idea what to do. I walked toward her slowly as I pulled the book and the diary from my jacket and laid them on the counter. She asked me my name. I told her.

“I’m Marilyn. So what do we do now?”

If she calls home, I am getting more broken ribs. In a small voice I tell her she should call the police. I figured I could go to juvie and not have to go home. Looking at this moment through the lens of an adult, I suspect she knew home was not a good place.

“That is an option. But I have a better idea. You come here on Tuesdays when my orders come. You help me stock, put the boxes in the dumpster, and clean a little. And every week you do that I pay you with a book. One week I choose, the next week you choose. But you also have to tell me about the last book so I know you read it.”

I looked up and her pursed wrinkled lips smiled much in the same way the librarian didn’t. I did not smile very often back then, but I did that day. She put the book, the diary, and a bookmark in a bag, handed it to me, and said, “I will see you on Tuesday after school.”

I knew I was coming back on Tuesday.

Every Tuesday I showed up to stock shelves, clean, dust, sweep, and take trash to the dumpster. And every Tuesday between customers I got to talk about the latest books. Her books were my exposure to Poe, Twain, Harper Lee, Steinbeck and others. I was getting satire, comics, sci fi, fantasy, and after being exposed to Agatha Christie, mysteries.

Every day I wrote in my diary. I wrote about wanting to die. I spoke in detail of life at home. But then one Tuesday in the summer of 1983 everything would change.

She gave me a copy of “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” by Dr Maya Angelou. She said to me, “I thought really hard about this one. We are not going to talk about it. I’ll know if you read it.”

I read it that week. I read it twice that week. As she wrote openly about her sexual abuse I read through my diary. I hardly slept. The next Tuesday I came in and hugged Marilyn. I do not think I had felt the arms of another human around me since I was 9 or 10. I cried. No words were said, I just let it all out and she held me.

The next day my mom was in the kitchen. Her husband was gone for the day. I packed a little blue suitcase with my favorite books, some clothes, and my favorite comics. Then I tucked my diary under my arm, called my grandparents and told them to come get me. I went to my mom in the kitchen. I told her I called my grandparents and holding my diary in front of her told her, “I’m telling them everything and I’m living with them.” I went outside and sat on the stoop.

The familiar green station wagon pulled up. I ran to the car. My grandfather was alone. I got in and looked at him and said, “We need to go before he gets home.” He put the car in gear and I went home. My new home.

When I got there my grandmother asked me what was going on. I handed her the diary and went to the guest room that would become my bedroom.

The next day I sat in the kitchen while my grandmother made oatmeal. She handed me the diary and said, “You live with us now. We’ll figure it out.”

A month later I was enrolled in 8th grade in their school district. A school district I was in before my mom married the monster.

I still had to face the bullies, but I could ride my bike home as fast as I could and be safe to read my books and write in a new diary. Then I got to write in class.

We were given an assignment. 3 handwritten pages of a creative story that we had to read aloud. I wrote a story about a boy who was dead and invisible. He could not touch anyone or anything. He could not be seen or heard. All the boy wanted to do was find other ghosts like him so they could see and hear each other. The last line of the story was, “He knew what he had to do.”

She asked me to stay after class. I did. She told me that I had a gift and I need to write and keep writing no matter what happens in my life. She told me she noticed I read a lot and asked me what my favorite books were. I told her sci fi and fantasy books. She gave me a copy of Frank Herbert’s “Dune” and said, “You will enjoy this.” She was right.

A few weeks later she passed out some information about a new program by Pizza Hut. You set reading goals, you read the books, you told the teacher, you got a certificate for a free personal pan pizza and buttons for your jean jacket!

I was already reading and now I could get pizza and buttons?

I did not have many friends. But I had something I could do and get recognized for.

Every certificate was an accomplishment. Every pizza was earned. The button was cool. And I continued to honor the deal I had with Marilyn.

I read something I wanted to read and I asked my teacher what she thought I should read.

The Book It Effect

For many the Pizza Hut Book It program is a source of fond nostalgia. The free pizza. The reading your butt off. For me there is nostalgia. But it is tied to so much more. It is escape, discovery, wonder, and belonging.

Today, many people my age start threads on social media about what they are reading. And all of them are reading non fiction books about important matters or the popular book that is abuzz. I do not participate in the threads, because I am a little embarrassed.

I’m still reading about spaceships, time travel, elves, dragons, and solving mysteries. I need my old friends and they are in the stories.

The Pizza Hut Book It program is still going on. The attempt to ban books is still going on. Pizza Hut and the Book It program are not as popular as it once was, but the banning of books is more popular than ever. One breathes life into children that desperately need life. The other carries deadly consequences. Adults that see children and encourage them and talk to them about life can change a life. Adults that “protect” them from ideas can also change a life, but it won’t be for the better.

The book that saved my life is a book that has faced many bans. The book has also saved many lives. When we ban books, we ban ideas, imagination, freedom, and hope.

In the 80’s the small bookstore gave me life. A pizza chain gave me incentive to continue that journey. Books were the fuel in both those engines.

We used to have small bookstores in every mall, downtown, and strip plaza. We used to have a Pizza Hut in every town where kids would go to get their free pizza. Both were parts of our landscape.

We cannot bring them back. But we can go to school board meetings and fight for books. We can write letters to our elected representatives and tell them we embrace ideas, imagination, and hope. We can see beyond the behaviors of young people and remember that there is often a motivation that is good. And while out and about, maybe we can grab some Pizza Hut and get some information on the Book It program to give to the school.

These little things will do more than cute memes ever will.

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