He wandered the shadowy bridge and waddled forward in the ice of the water. He held a fork in his hand, but with a light grip.
He had waited an entire night for crime, not sleeping, listening to the empty whine of the radio. The newscasts, the worldwide web, and the soft noises of the city. But, there was only the endless rush of traffic, until he was swept away into a world of silence and nature.
God, he remembered when he was a boy. When the Strontium Process was newly discovered, when the world was whimsical and new. There were parades, it was fun, and there was no need to worry about college. No need to worry about jobs. No need to worry about time.
The stream trickled into a quiet pond. The ducks bobbed silently in the gray waters. Mud bubbled and squelched. The moon’s reflection warped in the water.
Bob skipped pebbles across the water. They bounced only thrice, before hitting a rock and flying into the air.
He wondered about nothing, thought nothing. His forehead dripped with sweat. He tried very hard to keep himself awake. In the silence, there was chaos internally.
As the sun came up, he slept.
“Are you sure?”George asked Randy.
“The stash is full today, and it’s good practice for the full heist. The heck’s wrong with you. Want the police to get you? Chickening out? Because we can get a couple of dollars, bust out of there, and run.”
”C’mon, I’m not-” George stopped midway. He saw the floating garbage can.
Randy had practiced. Before they’d come to the gas station. They’d spent a day seeing what made the power tick and tock and activate and whatnot. Running around, saying certain words, until it had worked.
Near him, Randy was concentrating, closing his eyes, muttering “I’m thinking… I’m thinking… I’m thinking...”., using the Strontium Process again.
“Been practicing, George. A marvel, a beauty, and imagine that to somebody else. Quick, easy. I won’t kill m’, just steal the money while he ain’t lookin”
“F-ouch-k”, the garbage can fell to the ground. George heard the blare of the car alarm. He mumbled out his reply, “Why can’t we rob from an ATM?”
“Cause’, an ATM isn’t a bank. And, c’mon! Look at us, look at the police. Those pigs! Did you see them, George? Hunting down our people, killing our own. Who cares?! The police don’t, and we’ll give retribution by breaking their stupid system!”
Then, Randy walked forward, into the light of the gas station, while George stayed behind, and watched from his hiding place, the garbage can.
He heard the muffled sound, as the man behind the register, wearing his usual bandanna and smoking a soft cigarillo. He had American eyes, mixed in with an Asiatic sense. Poking his head through the smoke, Randy stared at the man. There was talking, a more muffled sound, with Randy shuffling into the shelves, buying something, and then returning outside. There seemed nothing wrong.
After a while, Randy moved forward and unfolded thousands of dollars from his pockets.
The radio near him buzzed. He rose and awoke.
“Please contact our local police department for the whereabouts of a robber who has stolen over $400 from the gas station. Eyewitnesses recall that the man had brown hair, over 5 feet, about nearly fifty years old, and wore glasses… ”
He grabbed the radio closer to his ear.
“We report him near Obrik’s Lane as where he was last. The local police call him a polite, but an extremely dangerous person.”
Bob held the radio in one hand, and a fork in the other. Running around the marshes and the mud, and to the trail again. Up the rocky hill, and then running on a bridge over the highway. Underneath him, cars sped past in random blurs. Trucks rumbled and spewed hot steam into the air. An advertisement from Treeflower(C) inc hovered over them all.
When he finally stopped, he had arrived at Obrik’s Lane, a suburban place full of ignorant people, and foreign liquor stores. People biked, jogged around, and a police cruiser was neatly parked on the side of the road.
The stained concrete walls and tinted glass windows built up the silent neighborhood. A vendor selling hot dogs called out to him. He ignored it and walked around the nearly empty place. He saw the familiar faces of the working, white-haired janitor, and the neon signs of ENTER and OPEN. ATMs dripped rust onto the ground. Scratched pennies lay on the ground. Leaves stirred up a musky scent that made him gag.
He searched around for the gas station robber. The rusty and poor-looking man who’d he heard of on the radio. He imagined him in his full form, a fearsome man with large hands to snatch the money out of anyone’s hands. Or, perhaps, a man who acted strangely polite, but could steal virtually anything.
But he saw them only in his head, for there were children, father, mothers, suspicious old men, men in suits, and a few more policemen who stared at him for a while, before driving off.
“Get your Hot Dogs! Wrapped in Treeflower(C) inc Napkin Paper! Fresh, fresh! Every time you buy a hot dog, you might receive a ticket to that special, special football game sponsored by Treeflower(C) inc. Get it now! Get it now! Every time you buy, I earn money, and you earn money! It’s a free deal, so get a hot dog now!”
The vendor stared specifically at him and approached him as he was walking around the block again, looking for the Gas Station Robber.
“Hey! You, would you like a hot dog? You could get a ticket from Treeflower(C)! Perhaps, a second hotdog to go down nicely with the second one! Why don’t you buy a hotdog now? Covered in onions, mustard, and ketchup. Goes down nicely with a nice coke and sprite!"
“No thanks”, Bob waved his hand and continued onward. But the vendor stopped him again.
The man rolled his cart toward him, huffing and puffing, wheezing as he did.
“I’ve noticed that you walk around the block a lot. You must be interested in my hot dogs! Why don’t you try some?" The man just kept smiling as he talked.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have time. I'm really busy right now. “
“It won’t take much time then.”, the man paused. His ears perked up, “ To buy a hot dog!”
“But- I”, Bob sighed, “Fine, I’ll have only one.”
He pulled out his wallet and saw that it was nearly empty. Only four dollars. The exact price of the hot dog. After that, he would be broke.
But, he would figure it out away. Perhaps, maybe. After he found that robber, after that, then there was a chance.
“Here you go”, he put his hands in his pockets, shivered in the wind, as the vendor made the hot dog.
He ate with little relish, although he’d been starving for hours.
They spent the money on food and water. A feast to enjoy. Chips, salsa, beer, coke, hot dogs, chili, soup. They put it on a grand picnic table and ate with real forks and real spoons. After they stuffed themselves, they collapsed on the benches.
Randy napped in a sleeping bag. George biked around the neighborhood. It continued like this for the day. They enjoyed the sun, the sky, the neighborhood, and the soft clatter of the train on the rails.
Nobody stared at his ragged clothes, his unshaven and dirty appearance. They stared at his new bike instead. But he was still a bit ashamed, ever since he’d lost his job. Perhaps he would never recover. But he’d tried job hunting around the U.S., driving around in the trusty jeep that his parents had given him on his 15th birthday. When he was out of willpower and hope, he'd sold it for a thousand dollars.
For a whole year, he had never even thought of being homeless, and yet, he’d run around the world without a home, without anyone. But it’d been fine, drinking those hot cans of soup, living a normal life. He had gotten used to it, even as it’d grown worse and worse, and he was forced to wander forever.
It wasn’t the police. It was their own fault. Their stupidity, their own weaknesses that had made them homeless. Randy had refused to believe that and blamed it on the police, feeling no guilt.
He continued in his rambling thoughts in the silent world. The plastic bulbs tangled in trees lighting blue and red, and the traffic rumbling through as usual. The clouds faded away as the moon lit up into view.
It had been years since his life had been like this.
