Bankery
i've been told this story needs something....what do you think?
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We traveled from town to town, driving hours at a time. Sometimes days would pass without any news of our misadventures. Jen loved getting every county paper with news of the bank and bakery robberies. She referred to it as the "bankery" robbery. Only she found her word play funny. It was too serious of an issue for me to joke about, let alone discuss in public.
"Maybe we should get a step-van, you know, the UPS ones," Jen said with a straight face. She was lying on the bed of what could have been any of the motels we stayed at over the last few weeks. They all have the same royal red floral print that stunk of smoke even though all the rooms were non-smoking.
"Why?"
"It's better than that piece of shit we have now," she started to make angels in the comforter as if it was made of snow. "They can't trace the money."
"I know," I scratched my nose.
She flopped over, inner child oozing from her pores. "They did this study on 20/20 about the sheets in motels just like this one. They put a black light to them and found all kinds of shit."
I shifted, uneasy in the chair. Why isn't the TV on? I need noise. Instead, I doodle big circles on the customary notepad.
"I might get pregnant or maybe the clap from this bed, right here," cracking a smile, "Aren't you worried I might have a strange man's baby?"
"Maybe you should keep your clothes on, then. I don't want to get the clap," my attempt at humor, "Why a step-van? Why not an other car?"
She sat up straight, realizing I was listening. "We could join the circus, no, a traveling fair. And I don't want a camper, those are lame. I want a big ol' step-van." She picked at the corner of her eye. "We could run the little duck game." Saying in her best announcer voice, "Everyone's a winner!"
"Let's go all out and get an ice-cream truck and live off popsicles." I moved from the chair to the bed, nudging Jen to scoot over.
She looked up at me and declared, "I claim all bomb pops."
We pulled in to a truck stop and Jen bolted from the car. It was a Sunday and that meant newspaper day in this dinky town. We were front page. Not us, actually, but the story about us. I was always worried it would have our names and faces.
"I'm starting a scrap book," she declared triumphantly.
"Don't you think that might give us away?"
"They have to find it first. And to find it, they have to look for us, thus, they have to know we did it in the first place," she was proud of her retort.
Later that night, we are in a different motel, I think. Jenny sleeps. If she can make a scrapbook I can write down this story, right? In the end table, next to the Gideon Bible, is a notepad. It says B&R Towing along the top. I jot down a few notes about how we did it all spur of the moment. How we just wanted muffins and it got out of hand.
A knock on the door. "Yeah?"
"Police, open the door please."
"Just a second."
The noise woke up Jen and she sits up quickly. I walk over to her.
"Open up now!"
I kiss her on the forehead and start towards the door. "I'm coming." As I open the door I look back at my Jenny. Her eyes are huge and gorgeous. She cries a tear, just one. "Jen, I think they may have came for the scrapbook." She cries some more.
"Maybe we should get a step-van, you know, the UPS ones," Jen said with a straight face. She was lying on the bed of what could have been any of the motels we stayed at over the last few weeks. They all have the same royal red floral print that stunk of smoke even though all the rooms were non-smoking.
"Why?"
"It's better than that piece of shit we have now," she started to make angels in the comforter as if it was made of snow. "They can't trace the money."
"I know," I scratched my nose.
She flopped over, inner child oozing from her pores. "They did this study on 20/20 about the sheets in motels just like this one. They put a black light to them and found all kinds of shit."
I shifted, uneasy in the chair. Why isn't the TV on? I need noise. Instead, I doodle big circles on the customary notepad.
"I might get pregnant or maybe the clap from this bed, right here," cracking a smile, "Aren't you worried I might have a strange man's baby?"
"Maybe you should keep your clothes on, then. I don't want to get the clap," my attempt at humor, "Why a step-van? Why not an other car?"
She sat up straight, realizing I was listening. "We could join the circus, no, a traveling fair. And I don't want a camper, those are lame. I want a big ol' step-van." She picked at the corner of her eye. "We could run the little duck game." Saying in her best announcer voice, "Everyone's a winner!"
"Let's go all out and get an ice-cream truck and live off popsicles." I moved from the chair to the bed, nudging Jen to scoot over.
She looked up at me and declared, "I claim all bomb pops."
We pulled in to a truck stop and Jen bolted from the car. It was a Sunday and that meant newspaper day in this dinky town. We were front page. Not us, actually, but the story about us. I was always worried it would have our names and faces.
"I'm starting a scrap book," she declared triumphantly.
"Don't you think that might give us away?"
"They have to find it first. And to find it, they have to look for us, thus, they have to know we did it in the first place," she was proud of her retort.
Later that night, we are in a different motel, I think. Jenny sleeps. If she can make a scrapbook I can write down this story, right? In the end table, next to the Gideon Bible, is a notepad. It says B&R Towing along the top. I jot down a few notes about how we did it all spur of the moment. How we just wanted muffins and it got out of hand.
A knock on the door. "Yeah?"
"Police, open the door please."
"Just a second."
The noise woke up Jen and she sits up quickly. I walk over to her.
"Open up now!"
I kiss her on the forehead and start towards the door. "I'm coming." As I open the door I look back at my Jenny. Her eyes are huge and gorgeous. She cries a tear, just one. "Jen, I think they may have came for the scrapbook." She cries some more.
... jesse !. move your slack butt, petal