“What?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“There’s a fucking roach in the bacon,” she shrieks, swinging the towel at the plate. Our unburnt breakfast crumbles under the force of her swings and flies into the air, falling to the floor. Poesy swings over and over, determined to kill our food-ruiner.
But the cockroach gets away.
By the time she figures it out, most of the bacon is on the floor, and she’s out of breath.
“It’s those dirty motherfuckers next door,” she says with tears in her eyes. This place has had a roach problem, but I can’t bring myself to stop her when she starts banging on the adjoining wall we share with the neighbors and shrieks loud enough for them to hear. “You owe me a package of bacon.”
Two weeks later, things go from bad to worse when Poesy comes home from school empty-handed. Her pretty face is blotchy, and her eyes are red like she’s been crying. My girl rubs her nose on the sleeve of her sweater and admits, “I fell asleep on the bus.”
I stop the movie I’m watching, worried she’s upset but not understanding what the problem is.
Her chin quivers, and her face crumbles, and I know there’s more to her story.
“Someone stole my school books, Low.”
“What?” I stand to my feet.
Small-framed and exhausted, Poe crosses her arms, and a few tears fall from her eyes. “I sat my books on the seat beside me and dozed off. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. The driver woke me at the stop, and my books were gone. He said he didn’t see anyone get off with them.”
I rub the palms of my hands up and down my face.
“They took my notebook,” she continues, “with all of my notes and assignments.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I offer, if only to make her feel better. My heart sinks to my stomach.
Poesy slams the front door closed and storms through the living room to the kitchen. “Even if we did have the cash to replace all of my books, I don’t have the time to make up those assignments, Lowen.” The refrigerator door opens and shuts. “We never have any fucking food.”
“We can go get something,” I say with five dollars in my pocket.
Crushed and defeated reappears from the kitchen, mad in the eyes and distraught in the face. The girl who is usually strong enough for the both of us has reached the edge of patience and is quickly tipping over.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” she says in a sharp tone. “Just like I didn’t want you to beat the shit out of that store clerk and go away for two years.” My jaw tightens. “The only thing I want is for things to be easy. I want my car to work, I want all of the fucking roaches in this hellhole to die, and I want to be left alone.”
She leaves me standing by myself, while she goes to our bedroom and locks the door.
POESY ASKS TO borrow the money from her parents to purchase new books for school, but they claim hardship. I ask my mom, but all she can spare is a twenty-dollar bill and a few bucks on her food stamp card.
Unable to make up the assignments that were stolen with her notebook, and without the funds to replace her books, Poesy throws in the towel and drops her classes.
“I’ll start again with the new semester,” she says. “I need a break, anyway.”
As February and March pass, work slows down at the recycling plant, and my hours are cut each time a new schedule is posted. I offer to do more around the yard to make up time, but the last person Jorge is worried about is the white boy with the felony record and no real family to feed.
I search for a second employment opportunity, but things haven’t changed. Restaurants won’t hire a crook with a tattoo on his face. Construction work is on a decline, and with the drop in the economy, people aren’t hiring out to have their lawns mowed and their hedges trimmed.
When April rolls around, we’ve run out of options, and I’m in the position where I have a choice to make again.
Only this time, the decision isn’t so simple.
I SIT AT the bus stop in front of California Credit Union for hours, staring at the front doors, wondering if I can go through with it. All morning long, customers rotate in and out of the bank. People form a line to use the ATM machine, and others use the drop box to make deposits, car payments, or mortgage payments.
The noon sun shines down on me, and sweat beads above my top lip. My heart beats steady, occasionally picking up speed when thoughts of robbing these people blind cross my mind. Going inside to case the place would be too risky; going any closer than this bench across the street could raise suspicion. But as the day passes, I’m able to tell business is slowest between ten and eleven a.m. and busiest at one p.m. While the bank technically closes at five p.m., the parking lot’s still full, and customers slowly file out until about six.
Sunburnt and hungry, I jump on the six-thirty bus and ride toward home. The air’s thick—cool with processed air. I walk down the aisle past a lady and her child, a filthy homeless person who smells like gin, and a teenager with earbuds in his ears and his hoodie up, and I sit alone in the back on a sticky seat.
As we slowly roll down the smoggy streets of Inglewood, I recall the conversations I had with Johnny in the pen’s laundry room. He was able to rob four banks in the area before his wife turned him in, and he wasn’t as desperate as I am. His lady wanted a trip to Alaska, but all Poesy wants is to finish school and be something other than white trash. She deserves more than a mattress on the floor and roaches in the cabinets.
I tried to live the right way, but with a record like mine, I’m fated to live a life of crime and poverty.
Once a felon, always a felon.
“Thanks, man,” I mumble to the driver, exiting the bus two blocks from the apartment.
The evening’s brisk, and despite the ugliness of the streets, the California sky is painted in beautiful pinks, oranges, and purples above the layer of pollution that constantly surrounds the city. A police car with its sirens on speeds past me on the road, sweeping trash from the gutters in its wake. An alley cat rubs against my ankle as it strolls by, and a stray mutt with its ribs showing sniffs the sidewalk toward the scent of anything edible.
I drop a few cents into a bum’s cup and buy a half-gallon of milk from the convenience store before arriving home. Poe’s sitting on a pile of blankets on the floor in her pajamas, watching a movie, barefoot and elbow deep in a bag of chips I know was almost gone yesterday.
“I like crumbs,” she says, reading my mind.
I pocket my house key and walk across the living room toward the kitchen and place the milk inside the fridge. My stomach pangs with hunger, and I know before I search the fridge there’s nothing in it.
“I’m hungry,” I say, slamming the freezer door shut.
Poesy shakes her bag of chips. “There’s a little left if you want some.”
I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly out of my mouth. With my palms flat against the freezer, I look down at the dingy linoleum floor at my feet.
“Do we have any money?” I ask.
Frustration and resentment fill me, constricting my respiratory system and flexing muscle over bone. The unbearable pressure behind my eyes battles with the pressure in my chest. My teeth grind, and my jaw aches.
“Yeah, the rent money.”
“Fuck this,” I whisper to myself before standing straight with my head high. “We’re going out to eat.”
“LOWEN, YOU KNOW how much I love this place, but we can’t afford it right now.”
I smile, shaking out the white cloth napkin before settling it on my lap. My girl sits across from me with tired eyes and her lips in a worried, straight line. She fidgets with her fork, tapping it lightly against the knife and bouncing her knees so fast the table shakes.
“We’re fine, Poe.” I take a sip of water from the glass in front of me. “Order whatever you want.”
Poesy scans around at the other guests. Their utensils scrape on their plates, and their laughter and conversations hang in the air around us. Diml
y lit and intimate, the restaurant smells like fresh baked bread and bitter vinaigrette dressing. Wine flows freely, and I can’t wait to dig into the all-you-can-eat salad.
“What about keeping a roof over our heads?” she whispers. “We need a home, Low.”
Our waitress sets a basket of breadsticks onto our table hurriedly before rushing away. My stomach makes the most ridiculous gurgling noise.
“I have a plan,” I say, grabbing a piece of bread and breaking it open. Even the burn on my fingers from the warm dough is delicious.
Poe snags her own breadstick, biting off the end. Her eyes roll back, and she hums as she chews.
“What’s your plan?” she asks, her mouth full of food.
I just smile and chew another bite.
An hour later, our stomachs are full, stretched with a satisfying pain, and worries about the rent and past-due bills are clouded with the sweet haze from the cocktail or two we had with our meal.
“The buses don’t run this late. How are we going to get home?” Poesy asks. Her cheeks are liquor-heat tinted, and her eyes are glossy.
I drop four twenties onto the table and stand. “We’ll walk. I want to show you something, anyway.”
Hand-in-hand, a little bit drunk but feeling easier than I have in years, I lead my girl toward the bench I spent my day on across the street from the credit union. A flickering light and a graffiti-covered, illuminated sign advertising some movie or TV show light the bus stop.
I grab a seat on the cement bench and pat the spot beside me for Poesy.
“Get up, Lowen. I’m tired,” she complains, pulling on my arm. “Public transportation is closed for the night.”
“Trust me,” I say. “Please.”
With a sigh, she surrenders and sits. Poe leans her head on my shoulder. “Awesome. We’re sitting at a bus stop at ten o’clock at night in South Central. We’re practically asking to get mugged, you know?”
“Look,” I say, nodding my head toward the bank.
It’s different at night when the parking lot’s empty and the security lamps are on. The ATM out front is brightly lit, but the line of customers is gone. The glass entrance doors are locked, and the windows are unlit.
“It’s a bank, so what?”
As I feel the weight of the girl I love against my side, my heart starts to beat with bold determination, and the choice is made.
“I’m going to rob it.”
Poesy suddenly sits straight. “You’re going to what?”
I study her, forcing courage into my tone and posture. “I can do it. I can take this fucking bank, and we’ll have enough money to get you back in school. We can get the car fixed, Poesy. There will be money to fill the fridge with food.”
Hazel eyes under thick eyebrows search my own, and I watch the color fade from her face.
And then she slaps me.
With her bottom lip between her teeth, the corner of Poesy’s mouth lifts. The right side of my face stings, burning from the impact of her flat palm across my cheek. But I can’t help but smile, too.
“Fine,” she answers. “But I’m helping you.”
SEVEN DAYS LATER, our landlord tapes the Two-Day Pay or Vacate Notice on the door as Poesy and I get ready to catch the bus to the bank. With the ink on my face, Poe thinks it’s a better idea if she goes inside to check things out—an ordinary blonde girl will blend in better than the six-foot bandit with a tattoo under his eye.
We get off at the stop across the street from California Credit Union ten minutes after nine in the morning, right after they’ve opened for business. Instead of going right in, my girl and I walk down to the convenience store at the end of the block and spend more of the rent money on coffee and donuts.
Blowing away steam from her cup, cooling the dark caffeine inside, Poe and I linger around the store before heading back.
“What exactly am I looking for again?” she asks, sipping her drink.
I lean against the wall and keep my voice low. “We know the front entrance doors swing open when pushed, going both in and out.”
Poesy nods, peering down at her shoes.
“I need you to count how many teller windows are inside and how many clerks are actually working. Scope them out. Try to figure out who’s soft and who calls the shots.”
“What about security?” she asks. Poesy takes a bite of her maple bar.
“They’ll have surveillance videos, but there’s nothing we can do about that. My face will be covered when I go in.”
With a deep breath, my girl stands straight with strength.
“Look for a guard. If there is one, check out his body type. Take notice if he’s bigger or smaller than me, and see if he’s strapped.”
Her eyes widen, and her cheeks redden. “Do rental cops usually carry weapons?”
I shrug, taking a drink from my coffee. The hot liquid singes my tongue, numbing my taste buds.
“Sometimes,” I answer.
Poe groans, running her fingers through her hair. She flips her long blonde strands from one side of her head to the other.
“I don’t know, Low. What if I can’t remember all of this?” She closes her eyes for a moment before beholding me with expectant hazel irises. “You can’t go back to prison. What would I do without you?”
Tilting her chin, I kiss Poe’s forehead before pressing mine against hers. “I’m not going to get caught. In and out—that’s the plan. We can do this, and then everything will be okay.”
So we’re not seen together before Poesy goes inside the bank, she’s twenty paces ahead of me. I keep my hood up and my head low, but my girl strolls with the sun on her face and ease in her step.
A block from the credit union, I cross the street with my hands deep in my pockets. I’m warm under thick, black cotton, and as I watch Poesy pull open the heavy glass door into our mark, my palms sweat, and my heart pounds, sluggish and heavy. Anxiety nearly cripples me; worry for my girl tightens my jaw and pushes me to the edge of madness.
Five minutes in, I sit on the bench I’ve made a home for the last week but get right back up and pace back and forth.
Ten minutes have passed, and every time a customer exits the bank, my pulse stops until I see it isn’t Poesy, killing me a little more each time.
After fifteen minutes, there’s no air. I’m being strangled, bound inside my hoodie and consumed by unease. Stretching out my neck, my hands rattle, and my knees rock with each determined step I take back and forth, back and forth.
Twenty minutes later, discomfort eats me alive, destroying my self-control and corroding any confidence I had in this plan.
I’m an idiot for letting her do this, I think to myself.
Pushing my hood back, I grip my sweaty hair in a fist as the city bus pulls parallel with the curb and stops with screeching brakes, blocking my view of the bank. Thick, black exhaust swims into the air, filling my lungs with toxic oxygen that smells like motor oil, tastes like petroleum, and burns coming up.
A crowd of passengers exits the bus and scatters, each heading toward different destinations, living out distinctive lives. The few who were waiting for their ride, board the bus, leaving me alone to simmer in this craziness.
“Are you getting on?” the driver asks.
“No.” I shake my head.
She pulls the lever, closing the door. With a rumble and a shake, what has played as my means of transportation for the last six months slowly pulls away, heaving more poisonous fumes into the air.
With my view of the credit union returned, I watch as Poesy finally walks out with a small smile on her lips and a stack of papers in her hands.
As planned, she stays on her side of the street, and I stay on mine. Approaching the next large intersection, Poe hangs a right, and I cross over, meeting her when we’re hidden inside an old parking garage, blocks from the bank, without surveillance cameras, and out of sight from prying eyes.
My girl runs into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist and laughing in m
y ear.
“Oh my gosh, Lowen,” she says between vocal amusement. “I totally fooled them.”
I place her down on her feet, but keep her close with the palms of my hands flat on the sides of her throat.
“I lost my fucking mind,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Her face lights up, flushed and beaming. Under my touch, Poesy’s pulse flies, and her whole body rocks with excess adrenaline.
“I told them I was interested in opening an account.” She speaks so fast her words blend. “They sat me down, and I was able to see the entire bank. Five teller booths in all, but only three were open—all female tellers. There’s four desks for selling home loans and shit, but only the guy helping me was around.”
Her excitement bleeds into me, and as anxiousness races into exhilaration, my head is light, and my heartbeat is swift.
“There was one guard, but he’s old, and he doesn’t have a gun.” She goes on and on about where she saw cameras and the layout of the interior of the bank, often backtracking because she’s forgotten a detail. “There was one lady with keys on her wrist. I didn’t catch her name, but she had black-rimmed glasses on and brassy red hair.”
Once she’s told me everything she knows, it’s as if I were inside, casing the bank with her the entire time. The details are clear, down to the burgundy color of the carpet and the refinance ads on the wall.
“There’s nothing protecting the tellers from you, Low,” she tells me. “We can do this. We can take this place.”
THE NEIGHBOR HOOKS me up with a guy who sells me a clean .44 Magnum for two hundred dollars. It’s old, but it’s the best I can get last minute.
He doesn’t ask me what I need it for, and I don’t offer the information.
THE NIGHT BEFORE the robbery, Poesy and I stay up all night, lying side by side in bed, not saying a word. When the stars outside fade and the sun starts to rise, turning the room from black to murky blue with dim morning light, she and I get out of bed and quickly dress.
Low (Low #1) Page 5