by Gregory Hill
I fold our correspondence into quarters and squeeze it, along with Charlene’s diary, into the secret compartment within the secret medicine cabinet door and I close the latch.
66
I adjust Vero’s body into travel plank position so she hovers feet first, level with my bellybutton. I press on her shoulders and she slides forward and we exit the backyard thru the gate and enter the dark streets of Keaton.
Before we leave town, I bring Vero to the grocery store, where I introduce her to Charlene. The lights in the store are on. I assume they’ve been on since I first arrived in town, although I don’t recall noticing one way or the other. With the sun out, the lights make the building downright homey. I can practically hear the hum of the refrigerators.
I pose Vero upright so she faces Charlene, the dedicated, hospitable baby-finder who doesn’t like to talk about the weather.
“This is the woman who saved my life.” I say this to both Vero and Charlene. “You two would get along, I think.”
I leave them like this and make a final walkthru of this store that has kept me alive for these many moments. I make sure all the doors in the frozen food section are properly closed, I tidy up floating candy wrappers, bread displays, straighten the cereal boxes, and, as a favor to Charlene, I remove all the expired cheese and milk and meat from the shelves and coolers and put them in a shopping cart, which won’t roll, because things don’t roll for me. I drag the cart into the stockroom, with the intention of bringing it out the back door and placing the expired products into the dumpster behind the store.
This is my first time in the stockroom, and I discover two things.
The store’s back door is padlocked shut.
The store has a resident kitten, and it’s adorable.
I am uncertain as to the legal status of this cat. Its presence here surely violates several health codes, being as it’s a cat in a grocery store. So what? It’s a kitten. Laws against kittens are laws against decency.
This kitten is black with orange stripes, an inversion of a tiger’s coloration. The kitten, about two months old, I’d say, is curled up in a basket on a shelf above the computer on the desk. Next to the cat basket are a water dish and a food dish, the latter of which still contains a lump of well-licked tuna.
I touch the long hairs inside the cat’s ear. The cat does not react. I stroke its fur. The kitty is warm and cuddly. I scoop her out of the basket. She fits easily in my palms. I hold her against my cheek and sniff her neck. The cat smells like clean laundry. I kiss her teeny wet nose. I peel back the cat’s lips and run my finger over her cute widdle kitty teeth. I love this kitty. I wish I had found her a long time ago. I will put her in a papoose and carry her everywhere. I will be kind to this kitty and hug her and she will be my friend.
I will do none of this. Only an asshole kidnaps a cat. I return her to the basket and then I drag the shopping cart out of the stockroom and to the front door and bring armloads of expired milk and veggies and meat products around back where I shove them into the dumpster.
It’s time to go. I stand next to Vero so we’re both facing Charlene Morning, the woman who was nearly my mother, and I cry for several minutes, and it’s thank you, but goodbye, my friend. So long, Keaton. You’ve been kind. So long, vast prairie of Eastern Colorado. You’ve fed me and entertained me and tolerated me and kept me calm when I should have been losing my mind. You are a space that tells us nothing, but which allows us, if we tilt our heads just right, to listen.
I hug Charlene and then run back to the stockroom and pet the cat one last time. Then I return to the front of the store where I horizontalize Vero and push her out the door.
67
I’m standing in front of the grocery with my fiancée hovering next to me. My headlamp scours Keaton’s two roads and its various buildings. Across the street, kitty-corner from here, stands the Keaton State Bank. A bank, just sitting there, completely unattended.
I’ve never robbed a bank.
Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll go in, find out where they keep the cash, bring a bag of money outside, check Rob a bank off my list of things to do, and then I’ll immediately bring the cash back inside and check Return stolen loot to a bank off my list of things to do. And then I’ll get the hell out of Keaton, I promise.
Deal? Let’s go!
The Keaton State Bank is a ranch-style building made of beige bricks. A bizarre contraption is leaning against one of the outside walls. The contraption is an antique bicycle that’s been modified to accommodate an engine that I presume was transplanted from a lawn mower. It’s either a poor man’s version of a motorcycle or it’s another of Keaton’s quirky lawn sculptures. There are three civilian-type automobiles in the parking lot.
I approach the bank’s front door to peer thru the tinted glass for one simple, innocent look born of harmless curiosity.
Hey there, what’s this? A flash of light has erupted from within the bank. The flash grows bright and stays bright, illuminating the lobby. There are several people inside, which explains why there are still cars in the parking lot so long after closing time. They had to work late, maybe, celebrate a birthday, maybe, and now it’s time for a group photo with the whole gang.
That sure is a big, bright flash. Perhaps, rather than taking a group photo, the gang has gotten drunk and decided to shoot off some roman candles in the lobby. The gang certainly isn’t posed for a photo. They’re spread around the room as if they’re in the midst of a game of Smear the Homophobic Slur. But why the roman candle, and who’s holding it? I can’t tell because thon is obscured by the flash, which is just now starting to shrink back into itself.
With my hands cupped around my face, which is pressed against the tinted-glass door, I daresay it appears as if some sort of solid projectile has escaped from the mysterious flash and is now traveling across the lobby, toward me.
The lighting situation is not ideal for the identification of the projectile, what with the flash turning everything into a silhouette, so I’ll just wait here until either the flash has completely diminished or until the projectile comes close enough for me to make it out, whichever comes first.
While it does appear to be traveling blazingly fast in the normal time stream, in my time stream the mysterious projectile is creeping along at significantly less than one mile per hour, so don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly safe.
Several moments later, the mysterious projectile butts up against the tinted-glass door, at which point the glass bulges, at which point I back away from the door, at which point a hole appears in the glass and a bullet emerges, spinning, distorting the air itself.
This is not a post-work birthday party, this is not a fireworks-laden game of Smear the Homophobic Slur. There’s some lunatic in that bank and he’s fired a gun.
Goddammit. Why hasn’t anyone called the cops?
There are no cops. I’m the cop. I’m the hero. This is why I’m here.
Before I go in, I drag Vero around to the south side of the bank, away from the bullet, and sit her on the ground with her back against the brick outer wall. She’s safe, I’m safe. I watch for several minutes until I’m certain the bullet’s trajectory will send it harmlessly over the roof of the Keaton Cooperative Grocery, into the starry sky.
Time to kick some ass.
68
I lean into the bank’s front door and push at the puckered web where the bullet has passed thru. I pound my shoulder against it until the glass starts to bend away and the hole grows until it’s large enough for me to step thru.
The first person I see as I point my headlamp around inside the bank is a thin piece of white trash with bad teeth and stringy hair. He’s standing splay-legged in the lobby, holding the AK-47 from whence the bullet has recently emerged. His pupils are pissholes in the snow, his face is flared nostrils and homicidal intent. Let’s call this man Johnny Sunshine.
Johnny Sunshine is doing his courageous best to ignore the man who has leapt onto his back. Let’s cal
l this man Dom DeLuise. Dom DeLuise is balding, early sixties, dressed in black slacks and a white business shirt. One of his loafers is missing and his hands are duct-taped together. His thighs are cinched onto Johnny Sunshine’s hips. Dom has reached over Sunshine’s head and is leaning rearward so his portly weight draws his bound hands into Sunshine’s throat.
This act has compromised Sunshine’s aim, such that the bullet from the AK-47 has, as we know, exited thru the bank’s front door and flown out of town rather than piercing the flesh of the brown-suited man who is currently kneeling on the floor, his back to Johnny Sunshine, and with his fingers interlaced behind his head. Although the brown-suited man is in what would be called a “pose of execution,” he maintains the cocksure expression of someone who considers himself too important to die.
Given the look of things, I’d wager that the brown-suited man is affiliated with this bank in a significant administrative capacity. Several framed photos of him, brown suit and all, hang on the walls. In each of the photos, he is shaking hands with various dour-faced farmer-types whom he’s probably defrauded out of thon’s land. In one image, he’s shaking hands with an old man in front of an airplane that looks suspiciously like the one I mistook for a one-legged seagull and which is currently putting on the airshow above Cookie’s Palace Diner in Holliday.
I’d bet the brown-suited man drives a pickup shaped like a yacht and I’d bet he’s an asshole. If any of his employees were to suggest that the bank adopt a cute little kitten, he would fire that employee immediately.
Or, hell, I don’t know. He could be a fucking saint. Let’s call him Brown Suit Balthazar.
It would seem that Brown Suit Balthazar has said something inappropriate to Johnny Sunshine, such that Sunshine is taking action steps toward hastening his death. It also seems that Balthazar would be dead were it not for the heroics of Dom DeLuise, who I suspect is one of Balthazar’s brave employees. I sincerely hope Dom gets a raise when this is all over.
There are several other humans—hostages, innocent bystanders—here in this dark-paneled, shaggy-carpeted small town bank lobby. Among the other humans:
A balding man, middle aged, slouched in the corner. He’s alive, unharmed, eyes downcast. We will not discuss him any further.
A man, very tan, lying on his face on the ground, his hands and legs spread wide. He, too, is unharmed. We will not discuss him any further, either.
An incredibly ancient, shriveled male human near the front entrance. He’s lying on his back with his arms on his belly. His eyes are closed, perfectly content. It’s possible that he’s in the midst of a heart attack. I have no clue. It’s not like I can check his pulse. We may or may not discuss him later.
So far, no blood. But it’s probably wise for me to engage in some disarmament. I peel Johnny Sunshine’s fingers away from his machine gun, confirm that the trigger is in its non-firing position, look for the safety button, fail to find the safety button, and place the weapon safely on the floor so it points away from human flesh. I leave Dom piggybacked upon Johnny Sunshine, arms wrapped around Sunshine’s throat.
Situation neutralized. Thwarting robberies is easy. Nobody can control a situation like the man in the zebra skin shirt. I’m glad I checked this place out. Otherwise this town would be fucked.
To that end, I shall now gather a reward for my heroics. Let’s have a peek down that darkened hallway over there. Surely, this is where I’ll find the Giant Safe. There’s gotta be a Giant Safe, otherwise, what’s the point of a robbery. Already, I’m feeling less inclined toward my previous plan of stealing money and then returning it. A bag of cash would be a nice little nest egg for Vero and me when we get to California.
I walk toward the darkened hall. My headlamp will show me the way to the Giant Safe. It’s a very dark hall. The lights are on in the lobby. You’d think someone would have turned on the lights in the hall.
There’s a glow from deep within the darkened hallway, followed shortly by a flash, followed a few moments later by a bullet, which emerges in a flower of smoke. It appears that this robbery requires some more neutralization. If this bullet is allowed to travel unimpeded, its trajectory will come to an end in the ass of Dom DeLuise.
I hustle to the bullet, which is still a dozen feet from Dom DeLuise’s backside, and press my thumb against it. This has no impact on the bullet’s trajectory. I attempt a karate kick. My foot actually manages to strike the bullet, to no effect. Inertia, mass, force, speed, it all lines up to that bullet being stubborn as shit. I may as well try to deflect John Henry’s pickaxe.
Fuck it. If I can’t move the bullet, I’ll move the people. I pull Johnny Sunshine and his human backpack out of the path of the bullet and watch as it travels over the head of Brown Suit Balthazar, across the lobby, and safely thru the gaping hole I created when I entered the glass door.
I must have a word with our mysterious new gunman. With my headlamp swooping wide arcs, I enter the darkened hallway, crouched, ready to dodge a bullet, should the gun fire again.
At the end of the dark hall, I find a malnourished woman pointing a pistol at the bullet that just went thru the door. Given the advanced state of dental decay, I’m going to assume that this pistol packin’ mama is in cahoots with Johnny Sunshine. Let’s call her Bonnie Sunshine. I remove the pistol from Bonnie’s grip, successfully engage the safety, and press her face-first into the carpet. Situation neutralized, again.
Standing behind malnourished Bonnie is another woman, slightly less malnourished, and decidedly unhappy. I say the latter because she has tears on her cheeks. Let’s call her Suzi Sadbags. Suzi’s body is unperforated by bullet or blade. Her right fist is gripped around something that glitters between her fingers.
I peel her fingers away. She’s holding a gold coin, a nifty one. Made in 1878, three dollars. Ah, the nineteenth century, when gold was worthless.
I extract from my pocket the silver dollar that I had retained from the kids’ bag o’ coins that I’d stolen from the ol’ Riles Place. I give the silver to Suzi in exchange for her gold. I’ve just saved multiple lives. You’re welcome, people of Keaton. Consider the debt repaid.
With the exception of the old coot, who is either sleeping or dead, none of the other characters seem to be in grave physical danger.
Let’s find that vault. No, first, let’s get rid of these guns. I don’t want them in this building.
I bring Bonnie’s pistol to the lobby, pick up Johnny’s AK-47, and step thru the broken front door and into the calm embrace of Keaton on a late summer’s eve. I wind up and chuck the weapons as hard as I can toward the roof of the bank. Of course, once they leave my hands, they get stuck in the air. But we all know they’re moving. Before any of these people know it, the weapons will land on the roof where they will remain until they rust and die, or until somebody cleans the gutters.
God, damn. I’m a hero! This is all so life-affirming. And it wasn’t scary at all. I’m as calm as if I’d just gone shopping for batteries.
Life becomes less affirmed, and I become less calm, when, kitty-corner across the intersection, I see the front window of the Keaton Cooperative Grocery begin to flex inward.
69
The bullet from Bonnie Sunshine’s pistol has crossed the street in a trajectory that is far from harmless. It’s pressing the glass in the center of the grocery’s front window. Due to the persnickety nature of nighttime reflections, I cannot see thru the window clearly. It’s just a warped darkness with street light reflections crossfaded into a blurry, amberish suggestion of a grocery store within. Translucence issues aside, based on where she’s been standing for the past several weeks, that bullet is on a collision course with the back of Charlene’s head.
The glass flexes, caves. The bullet appears to slow down, and then it pops thru the other side of the window.
The glass, meanwhile, florps back and forth twice and then shatters. This ain’t no safety glass, kids. Silicate slivers bloom into an hourglass explosion.
&nbs
p; Thank Jesus for Vicodin. If I weren’t a little loopy right now, the quantity of adrenaline that just squirted into my bloodstream would make my eyes explode. As it is, I sprint toward the store like a man with a lobster attached to his ass. The shattered glass is drooping inward. I can’t bother with the door. I pull my shirt so it covers my head, and I leap and spin ass-first and fly thru the galaxy of glass dust and shards.
I thereby enter the establishment, skid, gain my balance, suffer no wounds.
Good lord, things are really picking up around here.
Looks like Charlene has heard the gunfire, the first round, at least. She has finally turned her head away from her tabloid and now she is looking toward the bank. In doing so, her upper body has shifted about ten inches to the left. With great relief, and just a hint of disappointment, I watch as the bullet slides thru the air just to the right of Charlene Morning’s left ear. The relief is obvious, the regret is ridiculous; I had hoped to save her life.
Still, I am overwhelmingly happy. I hug Charlene tightly, watching over her shoulder as the bullet continues unimpeded down the frozen foods aisle.
With all parties now completely, unquestionably safe, I slide to the floor and rest for a moment with my back against the checkout counter. I congratulate myself for my heroics, I rub my ankles, I replay the recent events. Veronica is safely seated outside the bank, the bank robbers have been neutralized, the two stray bullets have been accounted for.
Oh, for the love of God. The fucking bullet that I left cruising down the frozen food aisle is heading directly toward the goddamned stockroom, and in the goddamned stockroom there’s a shelf with a sonofabitchin’ basket on it, and curled up inside that sonofabitchin’ basket is a darling, sleeping, innocent, widdle kitty.
I’m on my feet before you can say “Insufficiently thorough,” and I propel myself over the checkout counter and I’m sprinting down the frozen foods aisle staring at a hole in the wall directly adjacent to the door that leads to the stockroom.