Lester v. the Statue of Limitations

(Warning: Contains profanity and tobacco use.)

      “I thought you were getting ready.” Melinda rolled up the cuffs on her Christmas sweater, a classy one, and lightweight, too, since it’d been almost sixty today. The only other option in North Carolina this time of year was ice. You never knew what you were getting.

           “I am ready,” said Lester without taking his eyes off Heat, the scene with the big shootout after the bank robbery. It was one of dozens of cop hero movies that he’d re-watched over the past twelve months, ever since he swore to accomplish a mysterious resolution.

           “You haven’t changed,” she exhaled.

           “We’re just going to your parents’. We’ll be up all night and I’d rather be comfortable.”

           “What I picked out is comfortable. And presentable.”

           “Shh.” Al Pacino made his move; the shooting was over. Melinda gave Lester that; Pacino was one of his favorites. Besides, he still had time to get out of the old, black zip-up sweatshirt with a hood, and into something presentable enough for her mother’s New Year’s Eve party, her biggest event of the year. Lester shut off the T.V. and stretched, arching his back. When he raised his hands over his head, the white T-shirt peeped through a hole in the hoodie’s armpit.

           “Lester, please put on something that doesn’t look like we’ve had a moth attack. There’s still time.” At least he wasn’t re-watching Keanu chase Patrick Swayze in a Ronald Reagan mask; he usually watched that scene three times in a row.

           “Go warm up the car. I’ll meet you outside.” He turned his back and walked out of the den and through the kitchen to the back of the house, one hand in the back pocket of black denim jeans. He hadn’t worn those since college. Lots of men couldn’t wear what they wore a decade ago, but Lester’s jeans still fit him, if not a little looser, even.

           She sighed and grabbed her coat and keys. In the driveway, she cranked the engine with a growl. Fumes of exhaust and gasoline hung in the damp air. The radio was already tuned to Greensboro’s classic rock station, which fortunately wasn’t on a long commercial break. She lit up a cigarette--it was her car, an old Torino with the original stuffing poking through the vinyl seats, and one of the biggest car ashtrays she’d ever seen. The rain settled into a light mist, so she rolled down the window and blew a stream of smoke into the night.

           By the time Lester slammed the door closed, she had finished her smoke and threw the butt out the window. He wore the same jeans and a black overcoat she’d never seen before.

           “It’s not raining that hard,” she said, exhaling some lingering wisps of Marlboro.

           “Nothing wrong with being prepared.” He rubbed a stubbled chin, a look he adopted after watching Gerard Butler take down a literal den of thieves. “Hey, I need to stop by the Wilco on the way.”

           “For what?”

           “Mints.” He looked away from her, out his window.

           “I’ve got some in my purse.” She picked it up off the floor by his feet, noticing the frayed laces of his worn-out running shoes.

           “I don’t like sugar-free. They leave a bad taste.”

           “You couldn’t change your shoes?”

           “I have others in here,” he tossed laundry bag into the back seat.

           “I don’t see why you brought a change of clothes. You could’ve just changed right now.”

           “Let’s get going. Your mom hates when we’re late.”

           “Hmph.” Melina dropped it in gear for the two-mile drive to the gas and convenience store where Lester once had a part-time job as a cashier, bragging that it was one of the most dangerous jobs in America. The brightly lit box, painted red, white, and blue had never been hit, nor had any others in that part of town, that she knew of.

           “Mom’s going to quiz everyone, at eleven sharp. You know that, right?” She had a special prize for the best demonstration of commitment. Then, after the ball dropped, everyone would offer their goal for the new year.

           “Did I fulfill my New Year’s resolution from last year, right?” Lester alternated a gaze between the road ahead and the side view mirror.

           “Who knows? You kept it a secret. All year. You gonna let me in on it?”

           “I’ve got til midnight, don’t I? The statutory deadline hasn’t passed yet.”

           Lester either waved away gas fumes or hid a smirk. Melinda couldn’t tell which; she was driving ten over the limit, and was more concerned about finding the yellow lines obscured by the glares of headlights and streetlamps.

           “I don’t always make resolutions,” he said, “but when I do, I keep them.”

           “Whatever.”

           The mist turned to rain and she had roll to up her window. She signaled for a left turn and paused to let the oncoming headlights go by. As soon as she entered the lot, she aimed the Ford at a spot right in front of the door.

           “No, park at the side, at the corner,” Lester said, pointing to the right, past the huge ice coolers that sat just to the side of the windows.

           “You’ll get wet.”

           “There’s people who can’t walk as good. Let them park there, okay?” he said, and Melinda couldn’t decide if this was another of his new hero-type moments. “And back into the spot, so we can get out of here in a hurry.”

           She cut a right to the end of the building, then turned the wheel to the right and jerked the car to a stop, threw the shifter into reverse and gunned it back into the space with a quick glance in the side-view mirror, and stopped before bumping into the curb. She killed the headlights.

            “Happy? Now hurry up.” Lester unbuckled the ancient seatbelt and creaked open the heavy door. “Or just take your sweet time, and then Mom will assign you a resolution.”

           “Leave it running. I won’t be long.”

           She turned up the radio and lit another smoke. It was just a mist again, so she rolled down the window. This time, the tobacco tasted bad and she flicked it outside. She wanted to spit, too, but was afraid she’d splatter the door. She reached down to the floorboard for her purse and sugarless mints, and when she was upright again, a policeman filled up the windshield.

           “You dropped something.” He motioned her out of the car.

           “Umm,” Melinda popped a mint and tossed the box on the cracked dashboard. Her stomach dropped, and she hoped he’d go easy on her.

           She stepped into a mound of wet butts and closed the door.

           “What are you doing here?” He asked, flashing a light on the pile of debris by her door.

           “My husband just ran in for something.”

           “And you parked here? In this weather? You must hate him.”

           “He’s okay.” She folded her arms and gave a little shrug.

           The cop wanted her I.D., and she had to go back in for the purse. He asked a bunch of questions, like how long had she been here, where did she come from, where was she going, what’s he getting in the store.

           “What the fuck do you care?” she said, folding her arms against a chill and his questions. “I’ll clean up the whole parking lot if you leave me alone.”

           “Step over in front of my car,” he said, pointing to the cruiser at the edge of the lot, away from the pumps. She huffed and marched up to the hood. The cop sat in the driver’s seat and held up her license as he typed on his computer. Melinda turned around, and grabbed a smoke and lighter from her bag and set it on the hood behind her. She leaned her fanny against the push bar, ankles crossed, holding both her right elbow and the cigarette in her left, chin resting on her right fist.

           She wasn’t surprised that Lester was taking forever. It was just like him to agonize over two different flavors. His decision-making, like his waistline, hadn’t changed since they met. If it was her, she’d take them both to the counter and be on her way.

           The policeman was back by her side and she slid an eye towards him while she held her pose. Then his radio erupted with static and a nasally bored female voice reading off a bunch of numbers. A ten-something was in progress, and the cops ears perked up.

           The dispatcher sounded out the numbers “four five twenty-one” as Melinda silently read them, printed in bold blue, over the storefront’s double glass doors. She converted her right hand from a chin rest into a mini gun, forefinger with thumb extended, elbow still in its cradle, pointing at the scene of the crime, just as a black-clad figure burst through the doorway.

           Lester paused with eyes bulging, first at Melinda, still leaning and pointing, then at the cop, who had a hand on his sidearm. Instead of walking towards them, or the Torino, her husband stepped off towards a bus stop bench by the street. The cop drew his pistol, and ordered Lester to get on the ground. Lester took off, and a silver pistol Melinda had never seen before fell from somewhere and skittered across the asphalt. She put her own finger gun away by making a quick fist. Her cigarette was all ash, and she let it drop to the ground.

           She stood straight up on tiptoes, as Lester crashed through the hedge bordering the lot next door that belonged to a beauty parlor. When he got through the brush, a police car screeched to a stop in front of him, just in time for him to slam into and bounce off the hood. As he tumbled to the ground, the cop pounced on him. Another of Greensboro’s finest, from who knows where, joined the dogpile.

           Melinda felt dizzy and took a few deep breaths. She wanted a Marlboro and reached for her handbag.

           “Don’t move. Hands on your head and face the car.” A lady cop was right there, pistol drawn.

           Melinda did what she was told, and continued inhaling and exhaling slowly as she was cuffed, searched, and read her rights. She was seated in the back of the cop car, but, so far, with legs out and feet on the ground.

           “How many times have you been your husband’s wheel man?” asked the woman, standing over her, resting an arm on the car door.

           Melinda’s shock gave way to a general annoyance.

           “I take him to the grocery store once in a while, but he can drive all by himself.”

           That led to questions about which stores did they rob together, were they all in town or did they branch out into other cities. Melinda realized the woman had no sense of humor, so she clammed up, and they locked her in and left her alone.

           Through the cage in front of her, between the headrest and the barrel of the shotgun, Melinda watched as two cops perp-walked Lester to another cruiser. The first cop was back by the Torino, shining his light again, showing off the pile of old cigarettes to another cop. It all had to be a mistake.

           The radio gave a burst of static followed by the same nasal lady saying letters and numbers that didn’t make any sense. Whatever it was, all the police in the lot stopped and looked at each other. After a huddle, an officer took Melinda out of the first car and across the lot.

           “Put Bonnie in back with Clyde, there,” someone said, and he seated her next to Lester. Then, everyone but the lady cop drove off in a hurry.

           “Listen, you two,” said the woman. “I’m taking you both to the jail, and if you make me have to stop this car, it’s gonna get a lot worse for y’all. Understand?” Neither said anything, and the lady got behind the wheel and started driving.

           Melinda asked Lester a question. He was bent forward, his head almost touching his kneecaps, one of which had a new hole in the denim. He didn’t answer right away, and she thought he fell asleep.

           “Don’t worry,” he finally said. “I’m going to get you out of this. I’ll make sure they know you weren’t part of it. It’s going to be okay.”

           “No, Lester. I said, ‘what were you thinking?’ Since when do you do hold ups?”

           “My resolution.” His voice was barely audible over the tires gliding across the wet pavement.

           “Your resolution. For New Year’s?”

           “I figured, in the span of a lifetime--seventy, eighty years, maybe longer? I should be able to do at least one heist.” He didn’t move, not even to look at her. Unlike his movie heroes, there was no defiance in his voice. “Everyone should be able to do at least one.”

           Lester sat and stared either at his bloody knee, the floor, or his ratty shoes, and Melinda thought the man was going to fold up and disappear. If that’s what he wanted, she couldn’t blame him. Her mom was going to love this. Melinda couldn’t see the clock from where she sat, but, where her mom was concerned, there was no statute of limitations.

           “You can’t say I don’t keep my resolutions,” he said. Lester’s movie ended, and there were no credits, no music, just the nasal voice over the radio. In this theater, the cop turned the volume down. With two prisoners in the car, she already had plenty to watch. The wipers vibrated on the dry windshield twice before the cop shut them off.

           “I can’t say that, but I can say other things,” Melinda got as comfortable as anyone could with arms cradled in canals molded in the seat back, specially made for manacled suspects. Lester still hadn’t moved, not an inch. Lithographs of tortured saints looked less pathetic.

           “Oh, go ahead,” she sighed. “Have your moment.”