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Loan. My name is Michelle. How can I help you today?
Ummm, stick em up, I mumbled. Give me all your money.
No, Daddy! You have to yell it, and you have to point your fingers like
this. He stuck his index finger straight out and cocked his thumb.
How can I help you, sir? Michelle asked again, giggling.
Stick em up, I said halfheartedly. My breath wheezed in my chest and my
head began to hurt again.
Louder, Daddy! And do the gun!
Come on, Tommy, Michelle hissed. What s wrong with you? Why are you being a
spoilsport? Make him happy and play the game the right way.
My heartbeat was racing, throbbing in my temples.
STICK THEM UP! I shoved my finger pistol under Michelle s nose. Put the
money in the bag and nobody gets hurt!
That s more like it, she whispered. Then she raised her voice, and yelled,
Oh no! We re being robbed! Help! Help! Police!
This was T. J. s cue and he didn t miss it. He ran toward us across the grass,
shouting WHOO WHOO WHOO in an imitation of a police car siren. He stopped
behind us and pointed his own finger pistol at me.
All right, you bank robber! Reach for the sky!
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Don t shoot, I hollered, warming to the part. I m dropping my gun. Don t
shoot.
But he did anyway. He made the little KA-POW noises, then stopped, staring
at me in frustration.
What? I asked, perplexed.
You re supposed to fall down, Daddy. That s what you do when I shoot you.
Oh. I clutched my stomach and groaned. Looks like you got me, copper. I m a
dead man.
You re going to jail, T. J. informed me. Get up, you robber!
Don t I get to go to the hospital first?
No. He started to giggle.
My hero, Michelle cried and gave him a hug. Thank you, Officer. Would you
like to stay for some cookies and punch?
No thank you, ma am, T. J. drawled. I ve got to take this bad guy to jail.
He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed myself to my feet, letting him lead me
to the monkey bars prison. I ducked down and slipped between the bars,
crouching in the sand.
When can I get out, Mr. Policeman?
Never. Bank robbers have to stay in jail forever.
But I have a family, sir. A wife and three kids and a dog.
T. J. paused, and his face grew serious.
Daddy?
What, buddy?
Do bank robbers really have families like that?
Suddenly, I couldn t breathe again. I struggled for the words, any words,
anything.
Sometimes they do, I guess. Not all bank robbers probably start out as bad
guys.
What do you mean?
Well, maybe they are just poor and don t have any other way to get money. Or
maybe they ve got a sick little boy at home who needs medicine or a mommy that
needs to see a special doctor who s really expensive.
So is robbing banks wrong?
Yeah, little man, I fumbled, it s wrong. It s definitely a bad thing.
His brow creased in confusion. Then how can all bank robbers not be bad
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guys?
I m sure that most of them are, T. J. But some are just regular guys guys
like Uncle John or Uncle Sherm. Guys like me. They just get caught up in
something that they can t get out of, no matter how badly they d like to.
He thought about this, then asked the question I d been dreading.
Daddy would you ever rob a bank?
No, T. J., of course not. I d never do that.
Never ever?
Never.
I d been lying to Michelle and now I d just lied to my son. At that moment, I
welcomed death from cancer because it was no less than what I deserved.
Not even if we were sick? Not even if we really needed the money?
Nope. Not even then. And you know why?
Why?
Because then I d have to go to jail and I wouldn t be able to see you and
Mommy.
That would suck.
The abruptness of his statement made me laugh and I was grateful, because the
laughter kept me from screaming. It kept me sane.
Yeah, you re right, little man. That would suck. Hey, I ve got an idea. How
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