We Were Just Having Fun, Officer

“You wanna do something fun? That’s how you started this whole stupid business? Fun? It was supposed to be fun? I find it hard to believe!”

We sat in silence trying not to look at him. Not that he’s ugly or anything. Good looking in fact. About mid-thirties, tall, broad shoulders and a mop of brown hair on top. If he asked me out I would accept without thinking. The black police uniform suited him too, especially with those paratroopers’ wings and double row of ribbons across his left breast. War hero too, I bet. Wonder if he’s married. Probably. Men like that aren’t in the market-place at his age; all taken already. 

“Sergeant,” I began.

“Captain,” he corrected.

“Captain,” I said. How could I miss all that brass on his shoulders? “Sir, Pete and I were at that coffee place, you know, opposite the bank on Main Street. I had a cappuccino and a croissant and Pete ordered an Americano with a doughnut. We were just talking. Friends stuff, you know. We don’t have any kind of relationship. Yet. So we were chatting about nothing really. It was about 10am on a bright sunny day. I had no plans, and Pete, well you know what boys of his age, um, he’s about 24, are always thinking about and planning, but I didn’t feel like it.

So when he said what should we do today, Molly? I said, ‘You wanna do something fun?’” That’s when I looked up and saw the bank across the street.

“He said, ‘yes’ and I said ‘let’s go across the street and rob that bank.’”

“He said, ‘you’re crazy, Moll. You can’t do things like that! We’ll land up in jail!’”

I said, “So? That’ll be fun too. Maybe. C’mon, Pete, don’t be so serious!”

“Molly, Molly, I think you’re great. Don’t spoil it for me.”

“I’m not. You asked for fun and I’m trying my best to provide it!”

“So let’s go up to your place…”

“Nah, it’s too early Pete. The cleaner is still there anyway.”

“Okay, later then. So tell me about your bank job.”

“It’s easy. We walk in there, hands in pockets, index finger pointing forward so it looks like a gun, walk up to a teller and say ‘this is a hold-up. We’ve come for your cash, lady. Do not scream!”

“And then?”

“She hands over all the paper money she has. No coins. We take it and leave.”

“And then?”

“That’s when we go up to my place! We count the money, have a drink to celebrate and maybe…”

“Okay, let’s go!’

“Gee, that changed your mind quickly. What did it? The money or the celebration?”

“Ha, ha!”

“Enough!” roared the captain. ‘Your story would convince many people. It doesn’t convince me one little bit. You sound like two 10-year olds. I’m going to lock you up for two days in a place where you cannot celebrate, just to show you what could happen when you don’t think like adults. Now go across to the bank and apologize to the teller and to the manager for your sheer misbehavior. And for interrupting their day’s business. And I warn you, if I ever meet you again in connection with anything, no matter how trivial, you will both go to jail for a year. Now get going! And when you’ve done that you come back here and I will take you to the prison.”

My writing group would now insert the word ‘humbled’. We were humbled and ashamed. We shuffled along the sidewalk to the bank and stood outside the entrance working on our shame and trying to find courage. Not easy. Shame was ascending and courage had disappeared. In the end common sense prevailed. The manager made a short speech on the stupidity of the young and the teller refused to look at us or say anything.

We walked back the 2 blocks to where the cop was waiting and climbed into the back of his car. He sat in front with his driver. The prison is on the edge of the town, remote and unfriendly and forbidding. An old building, streaked with years of rain and sun and thick black iron bars over the dark windows.

On arrival we were told that we were now in custody. We were fingerprinted and photographed. We were informed that we would be held for 2 days and 2 nights and would not be required to appear in a court hearing. “And don’t even think about calling for a lawyer…”

Two warders arrived to escort us to our, er, rooms. We were separated and would remain separated until we met again outside the exit on our release. We weren’t even in the same block. It was awful. A smallish cell, with a concrete slab bed with thin, thin mattress and an even thinner blanket. A stainless steel washbasin and a stainless steel toilet. In the corner was a bucket with the handle of a mop or broom sticking out. The cleaner doesn’t have her own cleaning equipment? Then it hit. She does! I am the cleaner! Oh boy!

I thought about my response when Pete said ‘We’ll land up in jail’ and I said ‘That’ll be fun too. Maybe. C’mon, Pete, don’t be so serious!’ Why the hell hadn’t I listened to him?

The gate clanged closed behind me and I flung myself across the floor and onto the bed. Lesson No. 23: never bounce onto a concrete bed. I am learning lots of new things, all the hard way. How far away is Pete? I need to cry to someone.

At about 6pm I heard footsteps stop outside my cell. Food! They said it was food and I was hungry enough to eat it. Lying on my bed after dinner, I decided that the cook was probably in jail too. I wonder what he was in for?

Two days and two nights passed very, very slowly. Nothing to read. Nothing to write with. I mopped the place four times and it still looked dirty. I tried to write a thriller thinking I could keep it in my head and dump it on paper when I got home.

It didn’t work but I have the outline and if I can do something with it, that would be some compensation and maybe even fun…