Low (Low #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “Thank you.” Poesy sighs, holding the key against her heart. “God bless you, Marla.”

  Twirling a pink plastic bead from the rosary worn like a necklace amid her fingers, delight inches across the good doer’s face. She’s enamored with Poesy, glad to conquer injustice with godliness, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  Then she looks at me, straight into the eyes of wickedness.

  “Make sure you come by in the morning so we don’t have any problems.” Color seeps from Marla’s face, and her tone has a sharp edge.

  Protected by sanctified knickknacks, she wishes us a blessed night as she retreats behind a blonde curtain of hair, fidgeting with the cross around her neck and forcing a smile. The motel worker watches me, not like she knows who I am, but what I am.

  “Fucking weirdo,” Poesy mumbles as we exit the small lobby, entering the muggy summer evening. “What the hell was her problem? Do you think she knows?”

  “No,” I say, sliding my arm over her shoulders.

  Beetles and moths the size of my fist circle around yellow-orange lights illuminating the path toward our home for the night. Chirping crickets accompany the sound of travel on the highway behind the motel, and roaches scuttle up the stucco walls and between the cracks in the walkway.

  There’s comfort in four walls and dusty sheets.

  Poe and I strip out of our road-worn clothes, leaving a line of denim and cotton from the door to the shower. We scrub our bodies of perspiration and discomfort under hot water trickling from a rusted showerhead, lathering lemon-sage-scented soap until it bubbles and burns the cuts on our hands.

  Old pipes clogged with other people’s hair traps dirty water and days on the road around our feet, slowly seeping down the drain.

  “Marla’s onto something, Lowen.” Poesy closes her eyes and stands under the showerhead, allowing warmth to drench her body. “This is a gift from above.”

  The ends of my girl’s hair hint the color blonde, still pouring rivers of artificial pigment along her back. Red-tinted water ripples down her spine before cascading over her round bottom, streaming around her legs like ribbon.

  “You’re a gift,” I say, kissing the top of her shoulder, drinking liquid from her skin.

  Poesy turns toward me, and hazel eyes darken as her pupils expand, echoing my sudden need to be touched. Despite being surrounded by moldy tile and a yellowed shower curtain, with the odds stacked heavy and high against us, I look at what love is and know this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.

  Even crooks have a destiny.

  “Show me we’re going to be fine.” Poe wraps her long legs around my waist and circles her arms around my neck, pressing her slick breasts and hard nipples against my chest. She rubs her hot center along my cock and says, “Fuck me until this is okay.”

  YOU DON’T KNOW what you got until it’s gone, I think to myself as I wake up with a bed coil lodged in my kidney and a long strand of black hair tickling my nose.

  We didn’t have a box spring or frame, but I should have appreciated our mattress on the floor in Inglewood. It was heaven, seamlessly molded to our forms and clean, a true dream giver. Unlike the torture device under our bodies now, with sharp points and cushion in clumps.

  There’s no doubt our apartment was raided, every square foot searched for insight into the minds of serial bank robbers. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fradil rented the space right away, fully furnished. Whoever the new tenants are, I hope they savor every second of slumber they get on our old bed.

  “Low, you need to get up,” Poesy says. The white light from the television illuminates her.

  “I am,” I say, turning from my back to my stomach. “What time is it?”

  “A little after two.” She’s upright with her knees to her chest and the remote in her hand. “We need to leave before sunrise.”

  Poe’s grim tone triggers my defenses, and I follow her gaze toward the replay of last night’s ten o’clock news in time to see our pictures on the TV screen. We don’t stay under the sheets long enough to listen to the report; they all sound the same at this point. She and I gather our things, slipping dirty shirts over our heads and worn jeans up our legs.

  We leave the room with bedhead and deteriorating optimism, ditching the stolen car to trudge into the heart of Junction City while the sunless a.m. conceals us on foot. We need transportation, we need food, and we need clean clothes. But in a small town made of brick and concrete buildings dating back to the 1800s, the streets are empty and eerie. There’s nowhere to go.

  “We need to keep walking,” I say, tucking Poesy under my arm.

  “What about these cars, Low?” she asks, pointing toward the three or four sedans parked along the vacant street.

  “Once the sun is up, whoever owns those will realize they’re gone and report them stolen. We shouldn’t leave a trail of auto thefts behind us. Let’s get one and drive as far as we can before lifting another.”

  My crime partner and I walk through dark alleyways and grassy fields, hoping to come across a large parking lot or rest stop, keeping the main highway in sight. The small grocery store, diner, and post office are all closed. It isn’t until the impending sunrise turns the black sky a milky gray and we’ve walked halfway to the next city that we run into another living human.

  “Coming through.” A paperboy with a backward cap on his head rings his bicycle bell. He tosses newspapers at the doors of businesses without abandon, zooming past us with sweat dampening his forehead.

  “Hey,” I call out, picking up today’s print of The Junction City Gazette.

  The kid on the bike screeches to a halt, drifting his ride around in a half-circle, burning rubber marks into the sidewalk.

  “What’s up? Did I break a window or something?” he asks, pulling an earbud from his ear. “My boss is going to fire me. Third time this month.”

  “You didn’t break anything, kid. Are you from around here?” I ask, trying to keep my tone friendly and non-threatening.

  If his parents ever gave two shits about him, he got the lecture about not talking to strangers. Paperboy breathes heavily and wipes sweat from his brows, eyeing me suspiciously before teenage ignorance kicks in and he deems himself invincible.

  “Nah, man. I’m from Gamsby. It’s about two miles east from here. My paper route’s in JC, but I try to finish before people wake up or anything opens. It’s all scripture and Bible thumping after that. They should change the name to Jesus City. JC. Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it.” A smile cracks my face. “Is there a place to stay in Gamsby? You know, with Wi-Fi and shit?”

  “We’ve got everything there,” the boy says with a smirk. “Hotels, gas stations, Starbucks. All damnation-free.”

  He rides off, and I open the newspaper in my hand. On the front page of this miniscule, Godly community’s newspaper is the bold headline, THE FOUR-FOUR BANDITS ON THE RUN.

  “What the hell?” Poesy takes the newsprint and recites the article about face tattoos, stolen Chevies, and the largest reward in recent history. “Jonathan Henning’s family raised another two hundred thousand dollars for information leading to our arrest. It’s like the fucking lottery, Lowen. Reports of our whereabouts are popping up all over the place. People are losing their minds.”

  I watch her eyes move over each printed word as she reads the editorial, delivering a play-by-play of our journey up to a confirmed sighting in Colorado forty-eight hours ago.

  “He must have really been loved,” I say, running my hand through my overgrown hair.

  Then I kick out the thin glass door to Harry’s Hardware, subscriber to The Jesus City Gazette. Tiny shards of glass explode onto the sidewalk, tinkling against the concrete like a broken melody.

  “You’ve lost your mind, right?” Poesy leans from hip to frustrated hip.

  I take the paper from her, roll it back up, and toss it into the storefront. Bicycle paperboy isn’t responsible enough for his job. He shouldn’t talk to
strangers, because he never knows when he’s giving information to America’s most wanted murderers.

  They might not all be as nice as us.

  He was right about Gamsby, Kansas, though. The hustle and bustle of city life is on full blast, and it’s the perfect place to blend in. Poesy and I hide in a laundry mat, filling our stomachs with fast food, gagging on every processed bite while our garments spin in the wash cycle.

  We snag an extra pair of clothes from the dryer beside ours, tossing in a twenty-dollar bill for their troubles and our appreciation.

  With only two days between the law and us, Poesy and I hijack a Ford from an employee parking lot outside a phone company.

  “Dammit,” I say, pulling out onto the street in our new-to-us Fusion. “It only has a quarter tank of gas.”

  “We’ll have to stop, anyway. I have to pee.” Poe opens and shuts the glove compartment and searches through the center console, looking for anything good. She smells like Tide and warm air.

  Quickie Gas Mart is a block from the freeway entrance, offering generic fuel at a discounted price. Only one other car sits at a pump, and the woman behind the wheel scrolls through her phone, in a technology spell.

  Poesy makes a beeline for the ladies’ room, and I put fifty dollars on pump number seven, tossing a few candy bars and a stick of jerky onto the counter for the road.

  When exiting the store, I notice a TV screen above the door. Beneath it is a banner that reads, Smile, you’re on camera.

  By the time the gas tank is full, I’ve eaten both candy bars, and Poe isn’t back from the restroom. I stand between the mini mart and the car, looking through the large glass windows for my girl. She likes to search every aisle for weird things like hair color, tampons, and nail polish, but it’s already mid-afternoon, and we need to hit the road.

  I’m ready to go inside after her when she emerges from the back, gun in hand.

  I immediately reach for my pistol and rush to her side as she approaches the register. The man behind the counter raises his hands above his head and squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t stop Poesy from pointing the barrel of her Glock in his face, grip tight on the handle with her finger on the trigger.

  “Baby,” I say carefully, watching the door. “What are you doing?”

  “We need the cash,” she says from my peripheral. The gunwoman has her hair tied back into a sorry excuse for a ponytail, with only a pair of sunglasses disguising her face.

  “Don’t you think we should have talked about this first?” I keep my eyes on the doors in case anyone approaches. All pumps are empty.

  “Last minute decision,” Poesy says. Her chest rises and falls with each heavy inhale and exhale. “It was now or never. I hope you understand.”

  In every sick, twisted, felonious way, I do understand. Other couples—ordinary twosomes—buy flowers or jewelry to show their affection. They spend lifetimes throwing surprise birthday parties, going on vacations they can’t afford, or renewing their vows just to say I love you over and over in an unending pattern of boredom.

  Poe and I sling guns.

  We rob banks, steal cars, and outrun an entire nation of jaded fucks.

  Chaos is our marriage certificate.

  Mayhem is the bond that keeps us together.

  I watch her spit demands, wave her weapon around, and scream, “Put the fucking money in the bag, asshole!”

  She’s small, forceful, and straight-up sinful.

  She’s lawless.

  GAMSBY WAS THE beginning of a crime spree that’s taken us through thirty-four states in six months.

  Zigzagging across the country in buses, trains, and stolen cars, we’ve made homes out of ragged hotel rooms, rooftops, and backseats. Poesy and I have danced down Bourbon Street, tasted lobster in Maine, and looked at our reflections in The Bean in Chicago. My girl lost the Glock somewhere in Tennessee, so we bought her a 9mm from a junkie in a Houston back alley. From tulip fields in Washington to the Smoky Mountains in Nebraska, we’ve outmaneuvered and tricked consequence, always two steps ahead.

  Our names and pictures remain on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, but a two hundred thousand dollar reward for our heads can’t keep us on the front pages when the world’s melting and terrorists kill in the name of divinity. Stories about our robberies sporadically air on the nightly news, but they’re repetitive and short.

  “The Four-Four Bandits strike again…”

  “What do you think about these?” Poe asks, sorting through a stack of Mexican blankets. Her hair’s shoulder length and colored black, still damp from the shower we took this morning. She has a large pair of circle-framed sunglasses covering her hazel eyes, and a silver hoop in her nose.

  It was pierced in Detroit.

  Hidden under a pair of black-rimmed faux eyeglasses and an oversized beanie, I face the crowd at the Chelsea Flea Market in New York City and keep watch while she shops. Poe has a bag over her shoulder full of jewelry, dresses, and scarves she’s purchased with money from the dozens of robberies we’ve committed. It’s a sack of souvenirs she’ll have to let go of when we move on to the next state. Poe likes to hunt for patterns and colors, and doesn’t have a problem passing them on to the next person when it’s time.

  “I miss having covers,” she says, pulling out a purple one and wrapping it around her body.

  Poesy walks around like that for the rest of the day. She rests it on the grass in Central Park, and I drop ketchup on it when I bite into my hotdog. After lunch, we lie on the lilac blanket and point out shapes in the clouds, falling in and out of sleep as the late summer day cools into early evening.

  “In another life we’ll live here, Lowen,” she says, heavy blinking and tired. “This is probably my favorite place we’ve visited so far.”

  I turn from my back to my stomach, placing my head on my forearm. A black ant crawls across her shoulder, over an uneven patch of skin from a bullet, and across her collarbone before she sweeps it away.

  “New York isn’t that different from LA,” I say, watching her eyelashes flutter as she blinks. “There’s people dancing around in costumes for money, struggling artists on every corner, and everyone’s an asshole.”

  “How can you even say that?” She laughs out loud. The coal color of her hair makes her skin look white as snow. “The vibe is incomparable to home. In fact, everyone in Los Angeles dreams of living in this city. It’s sleepy there and electric here.”

  “You’re delusional,” I say, kissing along her jaw. She smells like freshly cut grass and heat.

  “Let’s stop being criminals and sell counterfeit handbags in the back room of a Chinese massage parlor instead.”

  “Deal. But, that would still make us criminals.”

  Giving back to the world like it’ll earn us brownie points, Poesy offers the blanket to a homeless woman on our walk back to the hotel we’ve slept in for the last few nights. She doesn’t want to leave, but it’s risky to stay in one place for too long. Media may not cover our story daily, but when sightings of the Four-Four Bandits are confirmed, the death of Jonathan Henning is covered, and we can’t count our blessings enough.

  “What’s one more night?” my girl asks, walking backward in front of me. She almost bumps into The Batman.

  “Hundreds of miles,” I say.

  Poesy lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head and rolls her eyes. Braless with a face free of makeup, she fits in with the curiosities and free souls who roam this massive concrete jungle. If it weren’t for me, she could have lived here in this life.

  “But there’s so much to do.” She extends her arms and spins in a circle. Her floral-printed dress fills with air and twirls around her thighs. “I want to see a show on Broadway and ride the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. We didn’t even make it to the Statue of Liberty.”

  “We’ll come back,” I say, not knowing if it’s the truth or not. The day will come when we’ll need to make more permanent plans. Money isn’t an issue. Leaving the c
ountry is still our best bet.

  “Fine.” She throws her hands in the air, unsteady on her feet from twirling.

  I catch Poe in my arms and hold her against my chest, moving strands of black hair away from her eyes. Our hearts beat swiftly and our souls mend as hundreds of New Yorkers move past us on the sidewalk, clipping our bodies with their elbows and knees.

  “These people are so fucking inconsiderate,” I say, rubbing my thumb across her lips. A woman on her cell phone shoulder-checks me and doesn’t bother to stop to apologize. “Let’s go somewhere nicer.”

  “I’ve followed you around the country. Why would I stop now, inmate?” Poesy brings her bottom lip between her teeth and smiles. Freckles have dusted across her nose, and her cheeks have darkened during the summer.

  “One more night,” I whisper, kissing the tip of her nose. My chest fills with pressure, and definite need crackles under the surface of my skin. “But we’re not riding elevators or watching shows.”

  “Promise?” My girl’s cheeks redden. She pierces her black painted fingernails into my arm.

  Poesy leads me to our hotel room, running through a sea of people, past street performers singing love songs and artists painting entire oceans with one can of spray paint. This time we’re the ones who elbow and knee, laughing too hard to say sorry.

  The sun takes a bow, and the city illuminates, painting the streets in glitter and gold. Times Square literally sells dreams on billboards the size of houses, beautiful people and luxurious brands the everyday person can’t afford. Taxis and shuttles honk at each other, like making noise in a place made of sounds will move gridlock.

  Hand-in-hand, we run between bumpers and car exhausts, stepping on chewing gum, kicking up trash, and splashing through gutters. As we dash through the city, chasing possibility, I suddenly know what A New York State of Mind means.