Another Chance By James H. Morris
The hot, dry air in this damn town makes me wish I had chosen a profession where I could be stuck in some air-conditioned office, wasting my life away with each stroke of the keyboard. But the path you choose, you need to accept. Sometimes you have the chance to go back, but usually not. And going back and changing may end up being the worst decision than moving forward. When my girlfriend left me five years ago, I had a choice to make—I chose this. It was fast, easy money, and kept me out of the office. Fresh air, fast cars, and an occasional lay in the town I was in. This life really ain’t that bad. But putting this fuckin’ mask on when it’s a hundred and five outside sucks. Not to mention the coat and leather gloves. It should be obvious to everyone why I’m here. While waiting outside, I notice this stupid five-year-old boy walk in with his mother. Holding hands like she was going to save him from the bad of the world. He gives me a look. He knows. Even at five, he can tell I am not here to make a deposit. I wait until they are safely inside before I lower my mask over my face and pull out my 45. I walk in like I own the place. “EVERYONE! FACEDOWN. YOU KNOW THE DRILL.” There have been enough police dramas on TV—When you see a man walk into a bank with a ski mask waving a gun, you don’t play the hero. You just get down on the fuckin’ floor and keep your face down. I throw a bag at the lone teller. “Fill me up. Anyone touches an alarm, I start shooting.” I glare at the kid that looked at me. “Starting with the boy,” I say. I was kidding, of course. It’s not that I dislike children, but if I can use them to evoke an emotional response in my favor, I’ll do it. I feel the teller is taking her time. I help speed up the transaction by pointing my gun at her momentarily. “FASTER! HURRY UP!” 21.
The pore thing. It is probably her first hold-up. She looks to be only about
She finally finishes filling the bag and hands it back to me, shaking like a leaf. I thank her for her cooperation and turn to leave. “ANYONE CALL THE COPS, I COME BACK SHOOTING.” It is an empty threat. If I see any police, I
know if they see this gun, I’m as good as dead. Everyone knows getting tagged as a bank robber is one thing. A murderer is an entirely different game. I hustle back to my car, illegally parked in a handicapped space. It appears everyone has behaved in the bank—I see no police waiting for me, and I hear no sirens. I know, though, it’s only a matter of time. I put my stolen ’97 Taurus in gear and leave in a hurry. The first thing I do is dump it, so I have a chance to get out of town. It’s not as easy as it used to be, with all the damn surveillance cameras on the streets these days. That’s why I opt for the banks in smaller towns. Less likely to have a large police force and less likely to have cameras on every corner. I get to the alley between Walmart and Dollar General, where I parked my car, and make the switch. It seems easier than I had expected. That worries me. I get on the main highway and head north. The next city is 60 miles away. I like hiding in the cities after a robbery. There were more places to disappear, and more people just like me. It reduced the chances of being caught. At least that was my theory. I find a small motel north of the city, just off the highway. It will allow for a fast getaway in the morning. I pay the clerk cash for the one night. I drive slowly through the parking lot, looking for my room. When I spot it, I park and take my duffel bag full of clothes and my backpack full of cash, and head to my room. I make my way to the two-bit accommodation, most likely used an hour ago by some whore and her john. A red and blue glow shines on the back fence. I see another cop car pull in from the opposite side of the parking lot. I’m guessing it was the damn clerk that called the cops. I thought I was done. There is a man walking towards me. I grab him, show him my gun, and pull him into my room. It happens too fast for him to react. I let him loose inside. “Stay calm,” I say. “Do nothing stupid, and you’ll be fine.” He nods. Eyes like a deer in the headlight, shaking like a dog in the snow.
I don’t know what is happening. It went down so fast. I was walking back to the office to request another pillow for my wife. This man wraps his arm around my neck and pulls me into the room. He shows me his gun. I’m not a brave man. I listen and do as he says.
He asks my name. “Steven.” “Steven, peek out the window and tell me what you see?” I do. A whole lot of cops. “How many?” he asks. “Maybe thirty.” in.
“Okay. Sit down.” He moves a chair in front of the main door for me to sit The phone rings. The man brings it to me. “Answer it.”
“Hello?” The slight stutter and whisper made it known to the caller I am the one kidnapped and not the suspect they are looking for. “They want to talk to you,” I say. “No. I’m not ready to talk. Tell them to call at the top of the hour.” I repeat the message to the police officer on the line and hang up. “He said he will call back.” The man I’m talking with is troubled. He is in deep thought, sitting on the bed. His gun is in one hand while the other fidgets with his facial hair. “What’s your name?” I ask. He lifts his eyes without moving his head as if he is trying to come up with a fake name to give. “You can call me Joe.” “Hi Joe, if that’s your real name. I don’t know what you’ve done to bring the attention of this many police, but if you let me go, this situation can come to an end with no one getting hurt.” “Steven?” “Yes.” “Shut up.” “Sorry.” I stare at Joe, trying to read his thoughts. I can tell he’s doing his best to develop a plan, but knows what the inevitable is. “Steve, what do you do for a living?” “I’m a business owner,” I say. “Grocery store in New Mexico. We are on vacation, on our way to the Grand Canyon.” “We?”
“Yes. My wife is with me.” “Fuck,” he says softly. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m probably ruining your vacation with this little incident.” I remain quiet because he is correct. “This all started because she left me,” Joe says, looking at nothing, his eyes floating around like leftover Cheerios in a bowl of milk. “Five years ago. Five fuckin’ years ago.” I can hear his voice crack as he thinks back, looking at his feet. He points his gun at one but does nothing. I feel I should say something but remain quiet. “You’re lucky, Steve. You have your own business. I’m sure your wife loves you.” He looks up at me. “Does she?” I nod. “Five years ago, the love of my life left me. She kicked me out because I wasn’t ready to get married.” He stands up. “Fuck. I should have married her. Now, for the past five years, I’ve been living off stolen money and on the run from everyone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, being a gangster on the run. Every little boy’s dream.” I want to reply but feel I should wait for him to ask. I fear a gun may be pointed at me otherwise. Joe sits at the end of the bed, closer to me, and talks some more. “Have you ever had any regrets, Steven?” “Of course. Everyone has.” I nod. “What did you do? How did you handle it?” “You just move on. Accept you made the wrong choice. Life will steer you off course now and then, Joe. But you will always have a chance to make it right and continue down the road you want to be on.” “But what if it’s too late, Steve? What if I can’t get back on course?” “Look. I know it seems like life is thrown you the last pitch, and you have struck out. But the fact is, this game may be over, but the next game is right around the corner and will start when you’re ready.” Joe looks down. “I robbed my seventh bank in five years today, Steve. You think I will actually have another ‘game to play?’” He uses air quotes and gives me a sarcastic look. “This is my last game. And I have struck out.”
“That’s not true, Joe.” The phone rings. Joe answers. “Yeah… okay… give me five minutes after I let him go, and I will be out.” He hangs up. “I told them I’d let you go.” “Do you want me to leave?” “Why? Do you want to stay?” “It sounds like you have a lot on your mind. If you want me to stay and talk, I can.” Joe smiles. “You’re an okay guy, Steve. I wish I had known you five years ago. Maybe I wouldn’t be here now.” “It just sounds like you were dealt a losing hand, and you’ve never recovered from it. What did you used to do before robbing banks?” Joe looks down at the floor and chuckles. “I pumped gas.” “It sounds like you could have gone anywhere and got another job. Why did you start robbing banks?” Joe laughs. “Money. I needed a lot of money fast so I could live. I couldn’t afford to rent a place. I could barely afford to feed my face.” He cries. “She supported me. She took care of me.” He’s looking away, attempting to hide his sorrow. “Joe. When I walk out of here, the police will come in and arrest you. After this is all over and you serve your time, make your way to New Mexico, and I promise you, I will hire you at my store. I will make sure you have another chance at life.” Joe looks at me. “You’d do that for me?” I nod. “You seem to be a guy that just needs help to get back on the right track. I can help with that.” “People like you, Steve. It’s people like you that make me think this world is an okay place.” “Everyone needs help now and then. You just need to ask.” “Alright.” Joe stands. “I’ve held you here long enough, Steve. You’re free to go. And I promise I’ll look you up when I get out.” I extend my hand. “You’ll be fine, Joe.” He extends his. “It’s Mark, actually.”
I smile and open the door. I raise my hands high and walk out. As I clear the doorway, I hear several officers enter behind me. “GUN!” one yells. BAM BAM BAM I fall to the ground while one officer lies on top of me, as if trying to protect me. “NOOOOO!” I yell. Disappointed. Disbelief. “All clear,” I hear someone say. I stand to my feet. I can’t believe what just happened. Three police officers exit the room I was in. Smiles on their faces, high fives being given. “That was easy,” one officer brags, holstering his weapon. My wife meets me in the parking lot and hugs me. I can’t stop looking at the doorway of the room Mark and I were in. They didn’t even give him a chance, I say. “Not even a chance.”