Delivered! Peter Robley winced in pain as he squinted up at the Arizona sun, his legs burned. It was the middle of July and the heat was oppressive. Anyone who has ever lived in Arizona will tell you that ‘summer’ is a term not used lightly. By noon on any given June or July day the sun would consume everything in its attempt to bring the earth to the melting point. This included the blacktop on which Peter sat, separated from it only by his blistering shins. The pain was near unbearable, his kneecaps felt like cooked eggs. To his dismay his sweltering legs were not his only problem. Sweat dribbled down his forehead, it channeled through the lines of his face and spilled out like gutters directly into his eyes. He wanted to rub them and put himself at ease, every droplet was like a tiny bee delivering its sting in the white of his eyeball. It took every bit of strength he had left to restrain himself and keep his fingers locked firm behind his head. Mentally, he cursed the sun for bringing all of this sweat to the surface. Had he had more time to think about the situation (and a calmer mindset), he may have realized that the sun was only responsible for some of the sweat. The men that now surrounded him with raised automatic weapons were likely responsible for the rest. His shouts and cries of reason had become pleas of mercy and as the clock over his heart recessed to single digits only prayers to God almighty himself were left spewing from his blubbering lips. Peter had never thought that his death would be in any way like this. He had imagined a cold night wind coming through his bedroom window and sweeping his final breaths away into eternal darkness. This of course would happen at the ripe old age of eighty, not the cruel waste of his early thirties. He had imagined he would be living in some beach house in California, long since retired from the successful advertising firm he worked for. The racing clock, however, wasn’t the first problem to put a snag in the beach party existence that he had created in his own mind. He would have no beach house because there would be no retirement; he had been fired nearly a year ago. The higher ups had been using the firm to embezzle money and Peter had found out about it. They offered to bring him in on their scams and make him a rich man, but he remembered seeing something on the news about that and the prison sentence was nothing to scoff at. He had a beautiful wife at home to think about and hoped to start on a family soon, where would they be without a husband and a daddy. His answer had been a furtive no and within the week he had been boxing up his photos and knick-knacks. That was how they had ended up here, in Breaker, actually; the rent in a major city like Phoenix was impossible and their savings wouldn’t survive the summer. The big city was no longer an option for them, the embezzlers at the firm had been sure to wave their magic fountain pens against his resume and kill any chance of ever working in the ad business again. They decided that small town life might not be so bad. Breaker was the small town they had set their sights on. It was cheap, quiet, and only four hours from Phoenix. They had just enough in the savings to put a down payment on a house and pay off what was owed on the car. It was a good thing too, because the car was what had saved them in the end. A small place like Breaker was short on many things; well paying jobs were no exception. Several weeks passed and the best he could do was night clerk at the Stop and Shop, a convenient store on the edge of town. Most of his time there was spent pondering the unanswerable questions of life, like how an advertising major with a college degree in marketing could find himself scrubbing the toilet in a gas station. He needed something better and one night a kid strolled in and changed things for him. Well, the kid didn’t actually do squat, all he did was make change for the guy in front of him when Peter told him he couldn’t break a hundred. The kid pulled a wad of money out of his pocket and although it was mostly fives and ones, managed to change out the hundred. The rest went down on the counter and he said, “Fifteen on pump eleven.” “Doesn’t it make you nervous carrying that much money on you?” Peter asked him. “No, nothing bad ever happens in this crappy little town, besides I always have this much money on me” he assured. He pumped his gas and got back in the car, a tiny flag flapped from his back window, it read ‘Tino’s Pizza’ in bold black print. He was a pizza delivery guy. He found himself wondering how much money delivery guys made? His questions were answered the next day when he called Tino’s and was informed that with tips a good driver could bring in twelve to fifteen dollars an hour. His interview was on Thursday. Being over qualified for even the best jobs in town he was not surprised at the swiftness of his new employment, he started on Friday. The rumors were true; he had been pulling in about thirteen bucks an hour reliably for eight months. Winter came and went without much of an uproar and he found that working nights was still more beneficial as people tended to tip better during football games and movie nights. The tedium had still gotten to him, but it was not nearly as bad as the Stop and Shop. His life had taken a turn towards happy again and his wife was patiently awaiting the right time for that child they had discussed... This day had begun no different than any other, wake up around noon and practice the do-it-yourself home renovations until it was time for work at four. He kissed his wife good-bye between her spoonfuls of Applejacks cereal, her favorite thing to eat at any time of the day. Sometimes she would have three bowls before he had gotten home from delivering. That always made him smile; every silly thing about her brought him joy. The way she laughed and her never ending patience with their new lifestyle, even the ridiculous way she insisted on eating her cereal with a fork. She was two pins short of a strike and he loved her for it, he sometimes felt like he existed just to be with her. As soon as he arrived at work he could tell it was going to be one of “those days.” His first delivery was a freebie because it had been made wrong and it was an undeniable fact that freebies were guaranteed stiffs. The night continued on that way well past sunset. It was an odd thing with delivering pizzas, but if you got a few crappy deliveries right away, you would inevitably be on every crappy run for the rest of the night. He had to use his cell phone a couple of times, despite the fact that he was nearly out of minutes, just to find the houses because they faced the wrong streets. “Hey Peter, you get the ‘Carny delivery’ tonight” it was the squeaky voice of the kid with all the money in his pockets. “I am not one bit surprised!” He barked back. The Carny’s were what they called the people who ran the town fair once a year, they would come for a week and then vanish away to another town before you knew they were gone. That night had been the last night the Fair was in town still, they were probably working up an appetite breaking down all of those carnival rides getting ready for the next days departure. He was not surprised because he was told that they were notoriously bad tippers. Assuming you could find the person that ordered it amongst the large area of the fairgrounds. They had told him a driver had been there over an hour last year wandering lost in the confusion. He started with the people on the Zipper who sent him to the Tilt-a-Whirl, who sent him to the Graviton and so on and so forth until he finally just went home pissed off. He called in his resignation the next day. Peter told them that they would know what to assume then if he didn’t return. He wished now that he had kept that remark to himself. They were right the Fairgrounds were enormous and there were people all over the place clanking tools and driving miniature forklifts around. He decided not to begin with the Zipper and just started asking random people as they walked past. After the first six people seemed to rush past without any acknowledgement he began to become very frustrated. Finally he turned and began heading back for his car when someone called out to him “Hey, Pizza guy!” The voice was low and seemed to vibrate in his ears. It belonged to a very large man leaning against a pole a few yards away. He seemed to grow larger with every step Peter took; by the time he reached him he would have guessed the man to be nearly seven feet tall and pushing three hundred pounds. Something in this had struck him as funny; he had to laugh at himself- guessing the height and weight of someone who worked at a carnival- ha ha. “The guy with the money is over here” the burly man spoke again. His beard was so long and thick it cascaded over his coveralls like a copper waterfall, burbling words as it fell. He led Peter back into a train of dark semi trailers missing their rigs; and slowed as they approached the last and biggest one. It had a picture of an elephant on the side with big gold letters above it reading simply ‘GERDY’. “He’s in there” the giant coughed. Peter glanced inside, but could see only vacant blackness. He eased his foot onto the steps in front, slowly, but surefooted, he did not want to show any fear in the midst of these strange folks. As he made his way to the back of the trailer he began to cough. The stench of the enclosed place was nearly unbearable, it smelled like an outhouse that had been buried for twenty years and was now being uncovered for the first time. “Hey there, pizza man!” came another voice, this one more clear and a little more countrified than the giant had been. “Hi, it’s twenty-three fifty-two” he managed, choking with every drawing breath. “Wow, that’s pretty steep fella’. I suppose you’ll be wanting a tip on top of that too? Well, I don’t have much. Say how about a cure for that cough of yours?” he prattled back, speaking to him as though Peter were a simpleton. Just as he said this the giant lunged at him from behind, forcing his hand to Peter’s mouth. “Just breathe in nice and deep like, we’ll have ya’ fixed up in no time” the country voice droned. The giant’s rag formed a tight seal around his nose and mouth and chloroform suffocated the air. His eyes blurred and lungs gave out as he was forced to inhale a huge gasping breath. It was like trying to breathe through a paper straw in an ocean of rubbing alcohol, hoping that consciousness would vacate before it soaked all the way through and he drowned. The world spun into a new, steady blackness... A chill rushed over his body as he sprung back into the reality of his predicament. The countryman and the giant stood before him once again, they loomed over him. Joints creaking, he was lifted to his feet by the crooks of his elbows. His shirt had been stripped off while he was out and he looked like one of those plucked chickens hanging by the wings in the window of a Chinese grocery store. The men came well into focus and he realized they had doused him with cold water to rouse him. He was shaking. “Wakey, wakey” the country slur came once again. “You’ve been out for awhile, so we borrowed some of Gerdy’s water to help get you up.” “What is going on?” Peter bleated. He was groggy and confused. Only, the putrid smell was back in his nostrils again and he remembered where he was. His mind cleared and he thought that he might prefer the chloroform. “Well, we have decided to let you help us out with a little problem that we have been having.” He said in return. “Why should I help you with anything?” he snapped back. “Oh, my sweet Jesus!” he bellowed in country condecention, “We take you in, let you sleep in Gerdy’s trailer, and even drink her water! She’s getting old you know, we may have to sell her to the zoo, and no one wants to pay good money to see an old dying elephant. We sacrifice all of these things and you sit here in rude contempt?” He reached behind his back and produced a small pistol, he held it loosely in his hand as he continued speaking, and it swung gently from side to side. “Now as I said before you have been elected to help us with our problem. We are running a little low on cash and despite the contribution that you have made from your pockets and wallet we still need more. So, here is the problem. We need to make a considerable withdrawal from a few banks around town before we leave town. Unfortunately, my partner and me don’t so much like prison life, we have tried it and found it...” he seemed to search for the right word, “unsuitable. Now, that’s where you come in.” he motioned the gun towards Peter. A sly smile had slipped onto his face, he had the look of a life insurance salesman, that same smile as they handed you a pen and allowed you to pay a monthly sum to them. He sort of talked that way too Peter noticed, a smooth slur of words with a real calm and friendly tone, the way you might talk to your grandmother while you led her up the steps to her nice new retirement home. Don’t worry now, you are going to love it here actually meaning Don’t worry now, you can die peacefully here. “I’m not going to do anything for you, my boss knows where I went and they’ll come to find me.” Peter said as assertive as he could muster, given the situation. “Oh yeah, I meant to tell you about that when you woke up, a man named Tino called while you were sleeping and we told him that you decided not to come back to work. I told him that you decided to stay and party with us and you had already passed out drunk.” The smile widened, “he wanted to ask a few more questions, but you ran out of minutes on your phone. You should keep an eye on that, who knows when you might need them.” “Go to hell, you bastard!” Peter shouted in response. “Now Peter, that is no way to talk to new found friends.” His voice rang with false sincerity. “You aren’t my friend! Let me go!” Peter began to struggle with his regaining strength. The giant tightened his grip and his shoulders threatened to snap if he didn’t calm down. “Peter, I am shocked. I have offered to let you in on our business deal, with nearly no investment. I have arranged for you to get time off of work, and I even gave you poor dying Gerdy’s bed. If those things don’t make us friends then I can see that you need further incentive.” His tone had reached its peak. He stepped forward and snubbed the cold barrel of the pistol into the hair of Peter’s temple, “If you refuse to be our business partner, you may just lose something...” he searched again for the right word, “dear to you.” Peter was near tears by now, he had never even fired a gun before and the trauma of the situation began to drive home. He began to pray inside his head, he wasn’t what you might call a “religious man”, but you don’t have to actually be shot to bring you closer to God, the thought was enough. “What do you say, Pete? Do you want to be partners,” he cocked back the hammer, “or not?” “Yes! Just please don’t kill me!” he blubbered back. “Great,” he pulled the gun away, “Let’s get started.” He pulled something small and black from his back pocket, opened it and began to thumb through its contents. It was Peter’s wallet; he pulled out a small white card and tossed it at Peter’s feet. “We went through your wallet last night and that is the only thing I think that you may need. We’ll hang onto the rest for you...” he pulled a plastic card out and read, “Mr. Robley” then turning the driver’s license towards Peter, he added “Good picture, you look like an honest guy.” The giant released his grip and Peter fell to the floor, he picked up the little white card and turned it over- Keep with patient in case of emergency, it announced in bold red lettering. In smaller print below it added, Rare blood type: RH-, it was his emergency services card in case he was in an accident. As he read, the sweet and sour southern drawl interrupted, “If you follow the plan, you won’t be needing that, but you seem like a smart guy, and smart guys sometimes think they have better ideas.” He helped Peter to his feet; he did so in a casual way like a base coach on third after you make a big slider. He brushed him off and began to speak again, only his tone had changed a bit, he spoke to Peter as if he had really just made him a partner in his strike it rich business plan. “Now your going to have to be quick with your withdrawals, in and out, don’t make a scene.” Peter had almost begun to listen attentively, shaking his head in affirmation. He snapped quickly back into reality though when he saw the man still holding the gun. “No I’m not going to do this!” he resigned. “Peter it’s too late for that now, you have already been figured into the plan.” He resounded casually again, “You drive a hard bargain,” he raised his thin eyebrows in a gesture of realization, “You need more incentive.” He walked to the end of the trailer and picked something up. He held it out like a door prize. It was a dingey white vest, it had the look of a garment that had been worn for too many years and salvaged into something else rather than thrown away. It reminded him of the cut off jeans his wife wore to do the gardening in the summer time. There were tattered strings dangling from the shoulders. The back of the hideous hand-me-down was adorned from top to bottom with buckles and clasps. Noticing all of these things recognition dawned upon him. It looked familiar because it was just like one of those straight jackets they always wore in the movies- only with the sleeves cut off. The giant moved forward again and re-seized him. They slipped it over his naked upper torso, struggling at first, but with ease as the muzzle was placed back at his temple again. He looked down at it as they went to work snapping him tightly in, dead center over his heart he noticed a small plastic disk sewn into the material of the vest. They finished buckling him up and moved away once again. “There now, that’s better.” He said with relief. “What is this thing?” Peter asked, trying hard not to sound horrified. “This is the smart guy incentive,” he explained “Since I won’t be there holding your hand, at least I’ll still be in your heart.” He clicked several buttons on the plastic disk and it beeped into life, displaying on a tiny screen 20:00 in bright red digits. “You’re going to have twenty minutes to get to each bank, make a withdrawal, and get back here in order to save that ‘near and dear’ we talked about a few minutes ago.” He smirked and turned away again. “I will reset the clock upon each return and the explosives will remain whole and undetonated. That is unless you decide to be a smart guy, and that takes a lot more time than you might think.” He smiled, “Ever made any stops on a delivery? Sure burns time doesn’t it?” He looked down at his watch, “Well, it looks to be about that time, stand up partner.” He handed Peter a brown briefcase and to his surprise, he held out the pistol too. “Sometimes bankers need a little incentive too” he smiled and bent down, pressing a button. Peter tried to see which one it was, but it looked like it may have been more than one and there were at least ten to choose from. The clock began to change- 19:59, 19:58, he was still staring down at it trying to figure out which buttons the man had pushed when he was interrupted, “you’ll never figure it out, times awastin’ smart guy” his voice suggested victory now. 19:37, Peter rushed for the door of the semi trailer. Stopping abruptly before running down the stairs, he remembered suddenly that he had the gun now. He turned and pointed it at the two men, “Who’s the smart guy now? Take this thing off of me or I’ll shoot you both.” “Better save your bullets, smart guy. You keep this up and you’re going to need them.” He chuckled. The indignation in his laugh seemed to bring more fire into Peter’s rage. Without second thought, like a weak kid who has finally gotten the upper hand on his bully, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger- click. Opening his eyes again slowly, he looked at the bully, who shook his head from side to side and said “better hit the closest one first, smart guy” and pointed down at his wrist, tapping the face of his watch. Peter dropped the gun to his side and turned back towards the stairs- 17:26, he began to run. He found his car right where he had left it. Except now he noticed it looked different, he didn’t have time to register why, but as he turned the key and flipped down his visor to shade his eyes he got it. It was day time, he had been out cold the whole night, if he had time to think at all it would have made sense to him, he didn’t exactly work bankers hours. He screeched into the parking lot of the Bank of Arizona.While still actively engaged in his praying, he was sure to thank God for being a delivery guy, otherwise he might not know where the banks even were. Gun in hand he ran full speed into the bank and told the first person he saw to empty the drawer into the briefcase. The southern bully was right; it was just enough incentive to get what you wanted. The timer ticked 9:17 as he hopped back into the car, turned the key and sped back towards the fairgrounds. He threw the case full of money at the giant as he popped back into the trailer. The timer said- 3:33 and continued its steady descent. “Fix this thing, now!” he screamed. “All right, all right, jeeze. Maybe we should have made you a silent partner.” He laughed his condescending laugh as he fiddled with the buttons. The clock paused and relapsed back to its original position- 20:00. Sirens blazed by outside, they passed quickly and headed towards the bank. “Sounds like you had better get a move on, smart guy, just remember the next bank is further away.” He keyed in the sequence again and the timer ticked back into life. Peter turned immediately and plowed down the stairs. To any one looking on he must have looked like a mental patient, escaped and delusional, complete with explosives. He pushed back into the driver seat again and floored it. The bully was right again, he always was, the next bank was at least five minutes further down town. By the time he careened into the parking lot of the Breaker International Bank, his life meter was running already to 11:00. He burst through the glass doors and let the gun do the talking again. It wasn’t like the movies. The customers and employees saw the gun and hit the floor. He must have seemed like one of those bandits in the old westerns, but he didn’t have a second to spare for the niceties of bank robbing. With a full brief case he shot back out the double doors to the car, left running this time, he was learning quickly, maybe being a smart guy wasn’t so bad. He bypassed the steps of the trailer entirely this time with one Olympic jump. Making the hand off to the giant, he shouted at the bully again. “Hurry goddammit!” As the clock widdled to 1:07 the bully replied, “With all the praying I bet you have been doing maybe you shouldn’t be taking the lords name in vein.” As he preformed his magic time trick once more. 20:00 stared back at him again fixedly. “Relax, next one isn’t any further, it’s just on the opposite side of town. Then one more and you’re done,near and dear still intact.” He reassured Peter. “Just push the button and get this over with, goddammit!” Obliging, he tapped out the code and said, “I’m telling you, God doesn’t like a blasphemer.” He was gone before the lecture had even begun. His natural tendency to obey the speed limit was only a memory now, or it would have been, if he had time for memories. His little Toyota tore up the asphalt like a cheetah in full stride; the Arizona Credit Union was one gazelle that didn’t have a prayer in the world. His own prayer, however, was in full effect as he halted in front. His Belleview attire intact, he pushed through the heavy wood door and began his withdrawal. As the girl behind the counter filled his briefcase, he found himself in that split second making time for a thought again. To his dismay it was not a thought of escape, he was thinking to himself, how easy this was. He had robbed three banks already in less than an hour and he didn’t even have bullets in his gun. As he chortled a frightened laugh under his breath, completing the look of his new outfit, he didn’t realize the man who now blocked his exit. “Drop it and get down on the floor!” it was the rent-a-cop, they were only supposed to have nightsticks, but this was an ex-real cop and always packed his personal piece. Peter turned and put his hands in the air, still holding his own gun he pleaded, “Look man, I can’t do this right now!” “Drop your gun, now! The man shouted in a very believable tone. “You see this,” he pointed to his chest “this is a bomb and if you don’t get the hell out of the way, it will blow you, me and all of these people to hell, whether you shoot me or not!” The security guard was washed with a look of panicked realization. He watched the numbers tick easily down- 9:46, 9:45.... “I can’t shut it off! I need to get to the guys who can right now!” his voice became more demanding as the guard looked unsure of himself. When he didn’t lower his gun Peter went on, “This gun doesn’t even have any bullets!” he spun the empty cylinder out for them to see. “Would I intentionally try to rob a bank with an unloaded gun? No, these people are trying to kill me. I have no way out!” he began to trail off as tears swelled in his eyes. “Please, help me!” at this point it was unclear whether he was talking to the rent-a-cop or to God himself, but the guard lowered his gun and stepped aside. As Peter brushed past him he stopped and turned quickly towards the man. “Thank You” he whispered, still in tears and without a pause brought his empty gun up in a swipe and connected with the man’s nose. Peter didn’t see the blood or hear the crunch, he just dropped his empty gun and picked up the loaded one as it clacked to the floor. 6:36- He threw open the door and ran for his car. Just as his foot left the side walk he saw the men in black suits, not entirely unlike his own except they still had their sleeves, blocking his path to salvation. He could barely comprehend their shouting as he fell to his knees on the burning cinders of asphalt beneath him. They quickly formed a circle around him yelling incoherently about putting his hands on his head. “Please, you don’t understand! This is a bomb and I don’t know how to...” he was interrupted by more shouts and a riotous crowd of clicking chambers. His fingers were locked tightly now behind his head and he dropped the loaded gun onto the pavement. The men still surrounded him, but didn’t make any movements to take him down physically. They seemed to listen now in half disbelief as he muttered his pleas. The last remaining minutes ticked away as the sweat bees punctured his soft eyes. His shins blistered on the blacktop and his pleas became prayers once again. “God, please don’t let me die like this. I don’t deserve this. Surely there is someone else who deserves to die more than me! This was all the Carny’s plan; take your vengeance on them! Take anyone, just not me, not now! The men with the automatic rifles all began to back away very quickly; they ducked behind cars and the trees in front of the bank. Peter looked down at his chest through blurry tears and blubbered his last prayers to God as his ‘near and dear’ slipped to zero— The explosion was momentous, it blew out all of the windows and the door came crashing off of its hinges. Pamela Robley had been sitting at home, finishing her second bowl of Applejacks for the day when it happened. She had no idea that while she sat munching her cereal and doing the daily crossword, her husband was crouched only two miles away making his peace with God. She was pushed from her chair as the forkful of Applejacks was ripped from behind her teeth and stuck vibrating in the remnants of the kitchen wall behind her, she had no warning; she would never see her husband again. She would never again here his beautiful voice. The bomb had been placed under the front porch, directly in front of the kitchen. At the same moment only two miles away, Peter Robley knelt still in the parking lot of the Arizona Credit Union and rejoiced outspokenly beneath what now seemed to be a false timer, no longer ticking over his heart. He clasped his hands together in front of him once again and had his final conversation with God, “I’m Alive!!! Praise Jesus, I’m Alive! My near and dear I’m alive!”, but had he heard something. Something faint somewhere in the distance, just as the time had run down? As the gun barrels moved in on him again and he could feel his face pushed down to the burning pavement he said it slowly once more only this time a whisper, “My near and dear.”
Copyright © 2006 Chris Michael Taylor |