And The Cubs Go Down
“Shit, shit, shit,” I shrieked. Four of Chicago’s finest were on my tail. I hurdled over a few baby carriages and dogs that were extended too far from their retractable leashes. The police were not going to get me or my sentimental loot.
Before anyone can judge, I want to clear up a few things. Firstly, I had a good reason for running from the police. I just haven’t rehearsed it enough to recite it confidently in a court of law. Secondly, I did not mean to take her purse. I went in the bank for money. I had this great plan to hold up the customers for all of their valuables. I’ll admit it wasn't an original plan, but even movie remakes make money, am I right?
Things went south immediately. I ordered everyone to empty their wallets and hand me their jewelry. One lady just handed me her purse. I knew it had looked familiar, but I couldn't place it right away. My mind swirled with the licorice tinted, snake skin outer shell. The sharp golden teeth that made up the zipper and the—shit—red lipstick and pen—shit shit—red tinted sunglasses—shit shit shit—and the car keys that likely went to a car that she could no longer drive. It was unmistakable. That wasn't just any purse. It was Grandma’s purse. I looked up. I was staring eye to eye with the only living person who could delineate me perfectly to the police.
“Jimmy?” she asked sweetly.
Gazing into her eyes, I was reminded of the Mickey Mouse waffles and strawberry milkshakes she used to make me for breakfast. This was the lady who raised me when my parents couldn't be bothered. She was the only person I truly ever loved. THWACK. This was the lady who just smacked me over the head with her cane while the police were on their way. THWACK. My vision had gone blurry. Grandma was kicking my ass.
“What are you doing, Jimmy? Give me back my purse,” she exclaimed.
I dodged her third attempt to whack me over the head. Scrambling out of the bank, holding my sweet, cane-swinging grandmother’s purse, I yelled, “I love you!” I refused to be arrested. The police were close behind. One fired a warning gunshot. I leapt into a duck and roll and dropped the purse. Shit.
As the purse fell out of my hands, a guy who looked like I just handed him a Christmas present snatched it and ran. If the police were chasing me, it must be worth something, right? I gaped, dumbfounded, as he sprinted away.
Jail time impending, a new urge flipped a switch in my heart. That man had Grandma’s purse. He wasn't going to get away. I spotted a baseball behind a trashcan on the city sidewalk. Throwing was never my strong suit in little league, but Grandma never missed a game. I couldn't let her down.
I reeled back. The gentleman was still in my range. I threw the pitch. The batter swings and—BAM. The Cubs go down!
The officers cuffed me. The one who fired the warning shot asked me why I did it. I didn't care what he was referring to as I gingerly replied, “I love Grandma.”
Thomas William Shaw is an author and stage actor from Birmingham, AL. He lives with his wife, Lauren, their children, and their cats in a quiet place. Occasionally he will post about it.