Crossing

Why is Church Street filled with police cars and flashing lights?

My name is Kathleen Kelly. My age is eighty-seven. I was born in Belfast, but I’m presently in Dublin, Ireland. I am standing on the corner of Church and North King, holding a reusable bag of groceries from Morton's. The bag is mostly empty. Octogenarians like me only have a smidgen of disposable income to spend on sustenance. I’m next to the old Jameson distillery. Jameson. One of the things God gave to mankind to help deal with this endless suffering called life. Sex is a close second, although, at my age, it's pretty much down to Jameson unless I get raped.

“What’s with all the police activity?” I ask the man next to me.

“Allied Irish got hit,” the man replies.

I steady myself with my cane, “The bank? In broad daylight?”

“Yep. Ballsy bunch if you ask me.”

The corner is crowded with curious onlookers. Suddenly, I get jostled from behind and almost lose my balance. Is somebody trying to steal my bag of groceries?

“Watch it, asshole! Can’t you see I’m an old lady with a cane?”

I turn to have a look at the bastard, but he's gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

I start to cross Church Street toward my low-income apartment house when a police car zips by, missing me by mere inches. A young policeman holds up his hand for me to stop.

“Easy, ma’am. Let me give you a hand.”

The nice policeman is six inches taller than me and a good hundred pounds heavier. His nametag reads “Sergeant McGillicuddy”.

“Let me help you with that Morton’s bag.”

He takes the bag and wraps a muscular arm around me. He escorts me across the street. It’s the first time a man has put his arm around me in a long, long time.

“I see your name is Sergeant McGillicuddy.”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“I’m Kathleen Kelly. Nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. Which building is yours?”

“This one right here. One-sixty-nine Church.”

“Been living here long?”

“Only a few days. Just moved here from Belfast. Rent and utilities are cheaper here in Dublin,”

“Do you need any help getting up the stairs?”

Did this young, handsome policeman just invite himself into my flat? While I’m dying to see him naked between the sheets, reality sets in. I’m in my eighties and rate zero on the “hot” scale. Better to come back down to Earth.

“Thanks, but that’s what this cane is for, Sergeant McGillicuddy. Have a good evening.”

“You too.” He has such a nice smile.

Sergeant McGillicuddy hands me the Morton’s bag and heads back to the kaleidoscope of flashing police lights on Church Street and the bank robbery investigation.

I make it up the stairs, through the front door, and into the apartment building. My Morton’s bag seems heavier now. I attribute that to my old age and frailty.

“Hey, Babe.”

Porch monkeys. Or, in this case, lobby rats. The bane of my existence. Retired old coots with nothing better to do than crack wise to females passing by. They spend all day in the lobby reading newspapers and watching the little black-and-white TV, venturing outside only to smoke cigarettes and insult women. I wouldn't care if they'd mind their own business, but, unfortunately, as one of the few females residing at one-sixty-nine Church, I receive more than my share of unwanted attention.

One of them squeezes my bottom as I struggle up the stairs. I swat at the offending paw with my cane and catch him with a good whack.

“Perv!”

“Oh, c’mon, you know you love it and want more.”

“I happen to be friends with Sergeant McGillicuddy. I have a good mind to go get him and press assault charges against you, you poop!”

I hear muffled laughter coming from the other lobby denizens.

I finally make it to the door to my flat. I unlock it, step inside, and slam it shut with my back against it. I set the deadbolt and let out a long sigh of relief.

I place the Morton’s bag on the little bed and stagger to the mirror over the sink.

“How did I get so old?” I say to myself as I study the wrinkled mess my face has become. My hair, once blonde and beautiful, has become ancient. It reminds me of Norman Bates's mother in Psycho.

“It’s just not fair!” I shout at the mirror.

I grab at the mass of wrinkled skin I once called a neck. To think that long ago, men like Sergeant McGillicuddy would ask me out to an expensive dinner, stroke my neck, and even kiss it with passion!

“What the hell happened?”

In a rage, I hurl my cane. It hits Morton's bag, spilling its contents onto the bedspread.

I tighten my grip on the wattle hanging from my neck.

"By God, I'll turn the clock back or die trying!"

I pull with all my strength. To my shock, it comes off. Not just the neck wattle, but the wrinkled face and the gray straw-like hair come off also. I stare at the mirror, stunned. A handsome thirty-something-year-old man with a blonde crew-cut stares back at me.

I slowly turn toward the bed and study the contents of the overturned Morton's bag. Several bundles of cash are secured with "Allied Irish Bank" wrappers.

I slump down on the bed. Slowly, I feel Kathleen Kelly is leaving. Once things settle down outside, the gang will be here. We’ll quietly slip out of this rathole after we divvy up the loot and head for the next job in Tipperary. Our scout has been surveilling the Tipperary bank for several days. He says it’s an easy mark.

I get off the bed and walk to the mirror, still holding the rubber old lady’s mask and wig in my hand. I study my face in the mirror and ask the question that’s been burning on my mind for the last few bank heists.

“Will this method acting ultimately drive you insane, Michael Murphy?”