Chaos and Consequences

“Are you sure that’s him?” the cop asked. He was a real cowboy, this one. Out of place. “Sure I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll never forget that face.” It was true.

The stark, wide eyes of fear like amazement. A bewildering sense of power and control within them And the terror of wielding it chaos and consequences cracking like thunder. The fun was just a squeeze away.

Scott carried the money in a brown paper bag Cash and credit card receipts from the store A mild December morning The city yawned. 2 blocks to the bank. Laughing about the Grey Ghost Always materializing out of nowhere

And suddenly a man with the gun materialized out of the Christmas Trees Bright eyes of fearful determination; so afraid. Silence rolled over us like a wave

I studied the gun. Vertical ridges Blunt tip Carbon blue Glock 9mm It pointed at me Then Bernardo Waved like a crucifix In an arc as if we were vampires

It settled on Scott At eye level, I’m sure he got a good look down the barrel Before it moved to his heart, then found its way into the hollow trench of Scott’s throat

“Give me the FUCKING bag!” The Gunman shouted for the third time. Scott didn’t care about the bag or the money. We were all shocked into astonished immobility Fear clenches Both Scott’s arms were locked tight around the bag My jaws, Bernardo’s tiny fist, Scott’s arms.

The gun moved again under Scott’s chin His close-clipped salt and pepper beard. Feel the cold steel and think of it’s possibilities, it’s movement seemed to say Release the paper bag

At that moment I thought: Scott is going to die today. I saw Bernardo’s imploring brown eyes Over the outstretched arm of the gunman A flannel sleeve of brown and beige

He spoke softly: “Scott. Give him the money.” With his free hand, the gunman tore the bag away Bundles in rubber bands bounced on the sidewalk As he fled down 79th street Brown paper flapping loosely under his arm

Sound exploded around us The world reeled us back into its noisy vortex A passing taxi’s tires as they jarred a manhole cover Pigeons fluttered down to bread crumbs The squeal of breaks as a bus slowed Car horns in the key of F # 2 trains rocketing through the station below

Bernardo knelt to collect the bundles As Scott beckoned me to follow him. Jesus. I thought. We chased the gunman “…at least see what direction he’s…” I heard.

The gun was still on my mind. I was much faster than Scott, But I ran behind him anyway. A red Lincoln screeched to a halt at the end of the block Then raced away

Scott was out of breath Reciting the numbers and letters I wrote them on my hand with a Sharpie from the pocket of my deli-coat Twenty minutes later from the back of a police car we identified the gunman.

Then on to the station Reports were typed and filed By the cop with the slight drawl and cowboy boots “You’re lucky,” he said. “In this neighborhood, they would have just shot you and taken the money.”

I had to ask. “Was it loaded?” “Oh yeah. And a bullet in the chamber.” Cowboy could see our satisfaction Glaring at the gunman in the cell Head down Ashamed and foiled

“It feels good when you get them doesn’t it?” He said. “You know what? It’s even more fun when they’ve shot at you.”

10:30 am, back at the store The holiday rush was on and there was much to do I decided to take a break anyway I sat in the basement on a cardboard box of lima beans in oil I flipped through the pages of a book, trying to escape into it but I could not stop the cinema of scenes in my head

No matter It was going to be the best Christmas ever