Worst Getaway
flash fiction | bad plan
The linoleum floor of “Willy’s Wine & Spirits” was cold. In contrast to the burning pellets residing in my left shoulder.
I pulled myself partially up and leaned my good shoulder against the bottom of the magazine rack. It was a relief to trade my worm’s eye view for a marginally better one.
Ahead and closer to the counter, Gary was sprawled out like a discarded marionette. And just as quiet and unmoving. Honestly, knowing his level of accountability, he’d probably rather be dead than ‘fess up to the bad plan.
“Great thinking, Gary,” I wheezed, tasting copper and floor wax. “‘Let’s park right in front of the big window, blocking the glass door, with our masks already on.’”
The owner was waiting with a shotgun that looked like it belonged in a museum, or a pirate ship. One boom for Gary, one boom for me, and then the guy just… left. Through the back door. Like he’d done this too many times before. Leaving us to entertain the approaching sirens.
I considered my pistol, clenched for dear life. Incredulous that I landed in this predicament with one bullet. Only one. On our way over, I finally checked and was too embarrassed to reveal such to Gary, who had just admitted he didn’t even have a real gun. No one was going to accuse us of being strategic over-thinkers.
As the police started singing, “Come out with your hands up!” I recognized that my criminal career never looked so unpromising. And that’s not saying much since I already served ninety days for driving while intoxicated and crashing into a liquor store. A different one. I think. Regardless, I promised myself I was never going back.
The refrain, “Come out with your hands up!” echoed through the store again. It was especially jarring since I really needed some quiet time – and inspiration. Everything hurt. Even if some of it was masked by shock.
In search of inspiration, I dragged myself toward the whiskey section, leaving a trail like a wounded snail. I grabbed the closest bourbon and knocked back a few shots, ever so glad for one working arm.
The “inspiration” suffused through what little sensibility I had left leaving me more hopeful.
The megaphone goaded again, but at least it was less annoying.
It occurred to me that my lack of conversation might be deemed disrespectful, since I had disrupted their day. “WE NEED AN AMBULANCE!” It hurt even more to yell. I took another shot of bourbon. “ALSO… CAN I TURN THE CAR OFF?”
A pause. “WHAT?”
“THE ENGINE!
IT’S IDLING!
I DON’T WANT TO BE WASTEFUL!”
There was a muffled consultation outside. “FINE. COME OUT SLOWLY AND TURN IT OFF.”
The car was right there, purring expectantly. I crawled out the store’s front door, gaining first hand appreciation that I preferred linoleum over parking lot pebbles. With a few grunts and curses, I pulled myself into the passenger side, then over to the driver’s side, keeping my head below the window. I slammed it into drive, and floored it.
POP-POP-POP-POP! The immediacy of the firepower suggested I was the only one surprised.
The tires collapsed and the car slumped onto its rims with the grace of a large baby sitting on a balloon. I barely made it past the handicap parking.
How will I ever live this down? “Well,” I whispered to the steering wheel, “this is it. The big finish.”
I raised my pistol, closed my eyes, thought of something poetic – the lyrics to a fast-food jingle – and pulled the trigger.
BANG. (Except, very loud).
“OWWWW! SON OF A…” The bullet hadn’t found my brain; instead it deleted my right earlobe. I just can’t get anything right today.
Before they could pummel me with the annoying megaphone and monotonous lyrics, I decided to call it a day. “I’M COMING OUT!” Then I rolled out the door, holding my now-shredded ear, and showing my bleeding shoulder, intending to signal that I wasn’t a threat.
But I don’t think they were in the mood for theater. The police closed in barking unfriendly noises while both my good and bad ears continued to ring as the bourbon-colored haze dimmed the disharmony.
I croaked as I was rolled over for a second taste of parking lot pebbles, this time with a boot pressed into my back. “HEY!” I took a breath. “Please be kind, I’m feeling emotional.” And then I got to the heart of the matter. “Am I gonna get charged for DWI?” I offered further explanation. “I can’t afford to lose my license. I need it for work.”
Although I didn’t get an answer, not too much later, they brought Gary out on a gurney who was mumbling to the paramedics not to tell his mom, or he’d get into trouble.
I can’t believe I left the bourbon in the store.
by George Alger
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