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My Boy’ll Wake Up

P. Keith Boran

I

    The light was red. Engines purred in anticipation. Soon, it would turn green, letting them go, letting them race at last. In neutral, the cars screamed, aggressively marking territory. And a feeble-at-best dominance was asserted in their call, and in their response. But when the light turned green, both cars pounced, lurching forward with a speed most misbehaving, most childish, most alluring. But just one lost control in the rain, skidding on wet pavement and oil. And when paramedics arrived, a pulse was discovered amongst the rumble; it was faint; it was weak; it was hardly worth the trouble.

II

    He awoke in the backseat of a car. A man sat on the hood, fidgeting with a firearm. A second man stood with hands on his crotch, directing the flow of urine amongst the overgrown grass and weeds. The man on the hood turned towards the backseat and smiled. “Hey J.R.,” he yelled, “old Red’s finally up!” The second man laughed as he zipped. “About time, ain’t it,” he replied, “we gotta get to it.”
    J.R. opened the backseat door. “Geez, Mickey,” J.R. yelled, “Red’s got his piece in his hand!” Red looked down. In his hand, he held a small caliber pistol; its primer and trigger were wrapped. Instinctively, he cocked it. “Ain’t no need for that yet,” Mickey said as walked to the driver’s side window. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he added, “until then, you’d better save it.” Red’s eyes widened. “Save it,” he asked. J.R. and Mickey laughed. “You’re joking, right,” J.R. replied. Their smiles faded.
    Mickey’s voice grew cold as he poked Red in the chest. “We’re sticking to the plan, boy-yo,” he said, “ain’t no one backing out, got it?” Red sat up. “Backing out of what,” he asked. J.R. shook his head as Mickey grabbed Red’s shirt. “We’re robbing that bank, Red,” he whispered, “and you’re gonna help us.” His free hand disappeared into his jacket. “Or so help me,” he whispered as a gun appeared in his hand, “I’ll bury you out here.”

III

    Surrounded by family and friends, he slept amongst the machines monitoring his mangled body, helping it breathe. A sadness lingered about the tiny hospital room, for many thought it just a matter of time. The boy’s mother kept crying, kept smiling, kept pacing. And when consoled, she’d say, “my boy’ll wake up soon.” And everyone would hang their head, afraid to be the one to disagree, afraid to be the one to say it.

IV

    “Alright,” Mickey yelled when J.R. kicked in the door, “this here is a robbery.” Red clamored in behind them, his gun pointed to the floor. An older dapper gentleman stood up behind the counter dressed in a suit and tie. “Now wait just a second, son,” he said. But Mickey’s shot dropped him before he finished his thought. “Anyone else,” he asked nonchalantly. He kindly asked everyone to spread out amongst the floor while his “associate,” J.R., emptied the registers. “Red,” he yelled, “to the vault if you please.”
    Red waited. “Problem,” Mickey asked. “The combination,” Red whispered. “You don’t know it,” Mickey replied. Laughing in exasperation, Mickey took a swing. And having never experienced the butt of a revolver before, Red fell to his knees. He spat. And as he studied the dark red discharge on the floor, he knew he’d been hit hard. Mickey stood over him. “Well, boy-yo,” he said, “I guess you’d better think of something fast.” Red looked into his eyes. “Because if that safe ain’t open soon,” he whispered, “you’re a dead man.”

V

    He’d moaned and moved a little that afternoon. And when he had, everyone thought he was about to wake, that he was going to be okay. But it was a false hope, one that drove his mother to tears. “Fight, my boy,” she had whispered in his ear, “fight your way back home to me.” And though no one else saw it, she swore her boy smiled.

VI

    When the pretty teller revealed the news, Red knew he’d never crack the safe. For only the manager had been trusted with the combination, and since he was the dapper gentleman Mickey had shot, he wasn’t in any condition to spill secrets. And just as most girls won’t spread their legs without a free dinner, Red knew the safe wouldn’t budge without the right combination. “It’s simple,” he told himself, “I’ll think of something.” But until then, Red knelt beside the safe, spinning its lock, listening for that distinctive “pop.”
    When J.R. had finished with the registers, he and Mickey became most impatient. And when the siren blasts of a passing police cruiser ignited their paranoia, they became agitated too. Convinced someone had tripped the silent alarm, Mickey yelled, “Who did it?” And when no one answered, he assumed it had been the pretty teller. “Bad move,” he squealed as he grabbed her by the hair. “Hold her, J.R.,” he said, reaching for her skirt, “so we can take turns.”
    And with that, Red made a decision in haste. He turned and fired. It took three rounds to bring Mickey down. But J.R., using the pretty teller as a shield, shot Red in the shoulder, forcing him against a wall. And as Red slid down to the floor, J.R. placed his gun to his forehead. “You should have just opened the safe, pal,” he said. Red laughed. “The plan was always to kill me, right?” J.R. smiled. Red closed his eyes and waited. Recalling where J.R. was standing, he jabbed a knife in his leg and twisted it. J.R. fell to the floor. The pretty teller ran away. Red reached for his gun, looked at J.R., and said, “the safe would of never opened.” And then he fired all three remaining shots.

VII

    The persistant beeps grew closer together before he awoke. And when Red opened his eyes, he saw his friends, he saw his family, he saw his mom.

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