card. You know where the state garage is—just two blocks south?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “But—”
“Oh, yes. I knew there was something I’d forgotten. Excuse me a moment.”
She got up, locked the drawer of the desk, and bustled into the main offices. In a minute or two she was back with a thick stack of mimeographed sheets covered with writing and figures.
“These are the survey forms, Pat. You use one for each day. You can turn them in, as many as you complete, every three or four days.”
“I see,” I nodded. “But what am I supposed to do with them, Miss Kennedy?”
“Keep your mouth shut and don’t leave your car parked too long in front of beer joints. The newspapers have given us some awful ridings about stuff of that kind.”
“But…oh,” I said.
“You should kick.” She smiled faintly, easing me toward the door. “Don’t forget what I said about the beer joints.”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
I left the capitol and started south, thinking; wondering why I should feel ashamed of myself.
A little more than fifteen years before on a day like this, I’d walked into the First State Bank of Selby and pointed my sixteen gauge shotgun at the cashier. I can’t tell you why I did it. I only know it wasn’t planned. I’d started for the river to go hunting when I discovered I only had two shells. And all I’d intended when I entered the bank was to draw a dollar out of my savings account.
It was around noon and old Briggs, the cashier, was by himself. I was carrying my gun because I didn’t want to leave it in my stripped-down Model-T.
Briggs gave me a funny, teasing look and half raised his hands. And then his hands were going higher, and his look was frightened; and I was stuttering something that sounded like, “N-now I’m not—I—I don’t mean—I—I—I won’t h-hurt you, Mr. Briggs.”
He toppled down to the floor inside the cage, and I started to run out on the street and call for help. Instead of that, I scooped up half a dozen packets of bills and shoved them down inside my sweater, and most of them fell out as I ran out the door.
My car was parked around the corner and Sheriff Nick Nickerson was sitting on the running board. “Been wantin’ to see you, boy. Think I got ’er fixed so’s you can go to the U next fall.” “Gosh,” I said, “thanks, Mr. Nickerson.” “Writ my nephew up there an’ he says you want to make yourself handy around his garage he can swing your board and room an’ a little spendin’ money.” “That’s swell,” I said. “I can get enough for the tuition and books.” “Glad to do it. There ain’t nothing around here for a bright young fellow. Seems like the brighter they are the quicker they go to rot.” I thanked him again, and got in the car. And then the alarm in the bank began to clatter and he started running and I drove off. Slowly, dazed. Then faster. As fast as I could go.
About a mile out of town, the car begun to sputter and pop and I knew I was almost out of gas. I turned in at the airport and drove across the field.
Frank Miller was spinning the prop of his little old patched-up three seater. It caught and he ran around and crawled inside; and I was out of my car and crawling right in behind him. Judge Lipscomb Lacy was in the passengers’ seats; he weighed more than three hundred pounds and he was spread all over both of them. Frank said, “What the hell you think you’re doin’, Red? Judge Lacy’s got ’portant business in the city an’—” “Get goin’,” I said. “I’ll blast you, Frank. I’ll—I’ll blast you, I swear to God I will.”
I squeezed in, the gun jammed right into Judge Lacy’s guts, and I said I’d blast them both, I’d blast him if Frank didn’t do what I said and then I’d blast Frank. Judge Lacy’s eyes went shut and his face turned green and his head lolled. And Frank said, “All right, you crazy bastard!” And we were in the air. And down again. Bouncing.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “But—”
“Oh, yes. I knew there was something I’d forgotten. Excuse me a moment.”
She got up, locked the drawer of the desk, and bustled into the main offices. In a minute or two she was back with a thick stack of mimeographed sheets covered with writing and figures.
“These are the survey forms, Pat. You use one for each day. You can turn them in, as many as you complete, every three or four days.”
“I see,” I nodded. “But what am I supposed to do with them, Miss Kennedy?”
“Keep your mouth shut and don’t leave your car parked too long in front of beer joints. The newspapers have given us some awful ridings about stuff of that kind.”
“But…oh,” I said.
“You should kick.” She smiled faintly, easing me toward the door. “Don’t forget what I said about the beer joints.”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
I left the capitol and started south, thinking; wondering why I should feel ashamed of myself.
A little more than fifteen years before on a day like this, I’d walked into the First State Bank of Selby and pointed my sixteen gauge shotgun at the cashier. I can’t tell you why I did it. I only know it wasn’t planned. I’d started for the river to go hunting when I discovered I only had two shells. And all I’d intended when I entered the bank was to draw a dollar out of my savings account.
It was around noon and old Briggs, the cashier, was by himself. I was carrying my gun because I didn’t want to leave it in my stripped-down Model-T.
Briggs gave me a funny, teasing look and half raised his hands. And then his hands were going higher, and his look was frightened; and I was stuttering something that sounded like, “N-now I’m not—I—I don’t mean—I—I—I won’t h-hurt you, Mr. Briggs.”
He toppled down to the floor inside the cage, and I started to run out on the street and call for help. Instead of that, I scooped up half a dozen packets of bills and shoved them down inside my sweater, and most of them fell out as I ran out the door.
My car was parked around the corner and Sheriff Nick Nickerson was sitting on the running board. “Been wantin’ to see you, boy. Think I got ’er fixed so’s you can go to the U next fall.” “Gosh,” I said, “thanks, Mr. Nickerson.” “Writ my nephew up there an’ he says you want to make yourself handy around his garage he can swing your board and room an’ a little spendin’ money.” “That’s swell,” I said. “I can get enough for the tuition and books.” “Glad to do it. There ain’t nothing around here for a bright young fellow. Seems like the brighter they are the quicker they go to rot.” I thanked him again, and got in the car. And then the alarm in the bank began to clatter and he started running and I drove off. Slowly, dazed. Then faster. As fast as I could go.
About a mile out of town, the car begun to sputter and pop and I knew I was almost out of gas. I turned in at the airport and drove across the field.
Frank Miller was spinning the prop of his little old patched-up three seater. It caught and he ran around and crawled inside; and I was out of my car and crawling right in behind him. Judge Lipscomb Lacy was in the passengers’ seats; he weighed more than three hundred pounds and he was spread all over both of them. Frank said, “What the hell you think you’re doin’, Red? Judge Lacy’s got ’portant business in the city an’—” “Get goin’,” I said. “I’ll blast you, Frank. I’ll—I’ll blast you, I swear to God I will.”
I squeezed in, the gun jammed right into Judge Lacy’s guts, and I said I’d blast them both, I’d blast him if Frank didn’t do what I said and then I’d blast Frank. Judge Lacy’s eyes went shut and his face turned green and his head lolled. And Frank said, “All right, you crazy bastard!” And we were in the air. And down again. Bouncing.
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