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Family Values by Amy Hunter
Recklessness. Capitalism. Greed.
Last winter, I traveled sixty-three miles to locate an open diner— one whose managers hadn’ t given its workers the holiday off or allowed their bleeding hearts to buy into religious propaganda. I expected empty booths and a bored wait staff, but the place was crowded with families shoveling scattered, smothered, covered, and who-the-hell-knows-what-kind of hash browns into their bulging faces.
I took a seat at the counter and ordered coffee. Disgusting coffee. The shit had actual sediment. But, I hadn’ t forgotten why I came. I finished the cup and smoothly removed the nine-millimeter pistol from my leather jacket.
“ Empty the safe and no one gets hurt.” I didn’ t stutter once, but the ginger-haired cashier froze like an SUV stalled in traffic. I aimed the piece at his face, forcing him to hurry.
“ Yes, sir.” He completed the job in twenty seconds. People accomplish great things with the right incentive, and I have a talent for exploiting a person’ s desire to live.
Voices from the kitchen filtered in just as I opened the door to run. Someone even threw a skillet that narrowly missed my head.
Thirty-six was too mature to roll businesses. I should have organized a replacement long before, but that job was too important, unlike any of my others.
Once mobile, lights from cop cars flashed in my rearview mirror. My heart pounded. I stepped on the gas. The chase was my game, not the money. The cash was for those who needed it the most. I wasn’ t wealthy by any measure, but I wasn’ t destitute.
Fear. Misery. Hunger.
The road curved, so I steered along the dotted lines. Within the forest was a private lane, so I veered right. The cops kept going, and I proceeded until I arrived at a single-wide trailer which housed a widow and her four children.
“ Ben! You’ re back!” My seven-year-old nephew ran to the car as I stepped out, hugging me around the waist.
His mom, Gina, wouldn’ t accept money from me, so I paid her bills. I hired her to tidy up my apartment and overpaid, asked her to dog sit and wrote an extra zero on the check, etcetera.
Gina was proud, but she was hungry. We’ ve all been there to some degree.
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At any rate, this is what we do for the people we love. One day I’ ll be arrested and sent to prison, but until then, I’ ll make damn sure my brother’ s family has what they need. Happy holidays.