There are some things you don't talk about. Some things you don't talk about because you either don't have the strength to face it, or you want to forget about it, erase it, be done with it.
Jack and I don't talk about it. We don't talk about Cody and the incident that occurred eight years ago. The three of us… it was supposed to be simple, simple and clean, fast and easy. But things never turn out the way you had hoped. It wasn't simple. It wasn't clean. Not fast and easy. No shots, we told him. We told Cody no shots; the guns were merely props, extensions of our costumes. We go in, get the money, take the Buick to leave the scene and ditch it once we're outside city limits. But Cody was fucked up, high, coked up – something – just fucked up. We enter the bank, Cody enters the bank, he practically rips the door off the hinges and hits the counter like some goddamned rabid dog. The plan was already shit. Jack and I, we couldn't believe what we were seeing, but we – Jack and I, that is – stuck to the plan. We got the tellers to empty their drawers and Cody… fuckin' Cody kept waving his gun like it was a goddamn flag on the Fourth of July. But then he stopped for a moment. Everything stopped for, it was only two, maybe three seconds – it was as if something broke inside him. His demeanor changed. He was tranquil, in a perverse sort of way, when he steadied his gun on the teller, the blonde one, and calmly said, "No. No. It's over." And the trigger. He pulled the trigger. I remember the deafening sound of the shot; Christ, it was loud. But my deafness had the life of that very gunshot – short, brief – because everything stopped, it was as if all the gravity in the world was centered on that pretty teller lady when she fell… she just dropped… like slow motion… falling through all that silence. Jack and I came to, realized we had to get the fuck outta Dodge, so we turned, we ran out of the bank – I remember the sunshine and fresh air, it all tasted like freedom, and freedom never tasted so sweet – and we got into the Buick. As Jack sped off, I looked back to see if Cody was giving chase. He wasn't. But he was standing right outside the bank's doors. As Jack drove faster, Cody got smaller, but I saw him put that 9mm to his head. Didn't hear anything but I saw him fall. He fell and the Wal-Mart plastic bag that held his loot caught a gust of wind and the money went flyin'. I told Jack – real calm-like – Cody just shot himself. Jack didn't flinch, just kept driving. But what he and I didn't realize at the time was, Cody wouldn't have the opportunity to rat us out. And with a loose cannon like that, you didn't know what he might say. One man's suicide is another man's blessing, I suppose. Jack and I ditched the Buick and went our separate ways, and until yesterday, we hadn't spoken to each other since then. That day… it was like something out of a movie – the whole thing.
It was odd… yesterday, our reunion… the way it happened. I was in Indianapolis for the Indy 500, and night before the race I'm at some piss-stained rat-hole of a bar downtown. I'm finishing off my fourth whiskey and coke when I happen to glance over my shoulder – trust me, when you've done the things I've done, looking over your shoulder is an involuntary action – and see Jack. Even after eight years his face was unmistakable: the square chin, thin lips, heavy forehead.
I invited him to have a seat and bought a couple rounds of whiskey shots. Jack was always a whiskey man. We bullshitted about the weather. Talked about the upcoming race and the Cubs futile pursuit of the pennant. We didn't speak of the lost battles, the defeats, the bank job.
"It's crazy, Tommy. Crazy how much can change in eight years. I got married four years ago. Me and Michelle got a couple of kids. Tina, she's three, and Melissa, she's nine months. Best goddamn thing that happened to me was meetin' Michelle. What about you, Tommy?"
"I've been with a gal named Erin for a few years now. We got a girl together, little Lena. She's a cutie."
By that point the cute bartender had poured another shot for me and Jack. I swallowed it. I'd had enough whiskey that evening that the liquor just rolled down my throat. It didn't burn, didn't bite. Over our heads nonsense flickered on TV screens.
Some twenty minutes later, Jack glanced at his watch and said, "Shit, Tommy. Gotta go. Thanks for the shots." And he looked at me. I remember that – the way he looked at me. He looked at me as if I were a crooked car salesman, as if he knew I was hiding a beaten transmission, the engine sounded good, but under the hood was a blown piston.
He was right. Jack always had a way of reading people, which is why I stayed seated at the bar. Because if he had seen me walk he woulda noticed the limp. And Jack being Jack, he'd ask me about the limp, "Hey, you ain't walkin' right. What happened, Tommy?" he'd ask me. And I would have to tell him about the vacation three years ago, the accident on I-75, and admit that Erin and Lena? They ain't here no more. And I'd have to describe the torment of hauling luggage back home from a vacation that never happened. Seeing the things the mother of your daughter packed away: a disposable camera to capture memories that would never surface, the long strands of dead brown hair wrapped around the bristles of a useless hair brush, and your daughter's teddy bear – a companion she couldn't sleep without.
There are some things you don't talk about. Some things you don't discuss because you either don't have the strength to face it, or you want to forget about it. Erase it. And be done with it. After Jack thanked me for the whiskey, he gave me that look and walked away. We didn't shake hands, didn't even say goodbye. Just wished each other good luck. My unsteady eyes followed him through the crowded bar until he passed through those old, heavy oak doors. I then got up from my seat, limped to a nearby window and watched him drive away. We'd shared so much, yet so little. I followed those red tail lights until I couldn't see 'em no more.
"Hey, Tommy, you want another whiskey?" I heard the cute bartender ask.
I stood there at the window, hoping to see Jack's car reemerge from the night. It didn't. "Yeah, doll. Pour me another."
xx
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