We got to the corner store early on Saturday morning and parked the yellow AMC Gremlin in front. The store had the same tired look as the dozens of other corner stores scattered across New Versailles: frame structure, peeling paint, and an awning with the name hanging outside. I couldn’t tell if these places were built this way from the start, or if they were corner houses that someone turned into stores. They were always close to a bus stop, waiting to catch people coming home from work or kids returning from school.
Sam wanted to get here before 9 AM, when things were quiet; apparently “Red’s” did pretty good business and traffic picked up about 9:30. I sat in the passenger seat, next to a faded, oversized Coca-Cola sign, trying to collect my thoughts. As if reading my mind, Sam said, “I know that you’re worried, Calvin, but nobody’s going to get hurt. The whole thing will take three minutes, tops.”
I sighed, “Yeah, I know. But man…” I looked down at the snub nose revolver that Sam handed me when he picked me up that morning.
“Look, it’s just a prop.” Sam opened the cylinder of the revolver, “They ain’t even bullets—just blanks. You couldn’t hurt anybody even if you wanted to. He’s some old man from down south; show him the prop and he’ll fold.”
Sam didn’t realize that that was part of my problem. My family moved to New Versailles from Mississippi not even 20 years ago, back in 1960. I know what they’ve been through. I had to make peace with sticking a gun in someone’s face, “prop” or not. Meanwhile Sam sat there, scratching the side of his face, completely unbothered. He’s been scratching a lot lately—nerves from this new hustle, I suppose.
“I’ve done this three times, Calvin,” Sam lectured, “Parkland district, Butchertown, and Grafton Hill. Nobody got hurt, and I walked away with a few hundred dollars each time. Lafayette’s not going to be any different.” He continued to scratch himself—his left shoulder this time.
Sam had plenty of potential targets. Corner stores were scattered throughout the five districts. Before the corporate convenient stores came in the 1980s, these small stores were a good way for people to run in and get miscellaneous items like milk, cereal, detergent, and tons of penny candy. This was before bullet proof glass, silent alarms, and security cameras became the norm.
“Look Calvin, you don’t have a lot of choices. Do you want your mom and George to get kicked out of that rental?”
That was all I needed to hear. At 17, I felt responsible for both my mother and George. He was only five, and I didn’t want him to get put out on the street.
“Yeah, let’s do this,” I said. Then, to establish a boundary, “But if we go into that store and anyone else is in there, we stop.”
“Not a problem. We’ll be in and out,” Sam smiled as he put his own revolver in his jacket pocket, “Nobody gets hurt.”
The dynamic duo
The door rang a bell when it opened. I noticed a wiry old man behind the counter; he looked about sixty and had weathered skin like he’d worked in the sun most of his life. He was so focused on reading his newspaper that he didn’t even look up.
I clutched the revolver in my pocket with my finger in the trigger guard. I figured that if I bark orders loud enough and wave the “prop” in his face, that we could walk out in less than a minute.
Then I heard them.
“Hurry up! I knew that I shouldn’t have taken you with me.”
“Stop rushing me! Momma said that I get to pick the cereal this time.”
It was the unmistakable sound of siblings quarreling. I let go of the gun in my pocket and stopped in my tracks. I was about to turn around until I felt Sam’s hand against my back.
“Go to the shelves and look at stuff. Those kids will be out of here soon,” Sam whispered.
My boundary evaporated. I went to the furthest of the sets of long shelves stacked with random items like cereal, flour, bread, and soap. But before I made it out of sight, I saw the dynamic duo—a little girl about nine, carrying a jug of milk, and her little brother with a box of Cap’n Crunch. The boy looked like he was about six, just a year older than George.
As Sam and I ducked behind the shelves, Sam mouthed the words, “Everything is cool.”
The bickering never stopped
Back in 1979, it wasn’t unusual for kids to go to the corner store. Most places, even Lafayette, had a sense of community, so kids were safe. The only problem was that little kids always came with little-kid shenanigans.
For ten seconds, I heard the clicks and stuttering of the mechanical cash register.
“That will be $5.23,” a creaky Mississippi accent announced. This guy sounded like one of my uncles.
“You forgot bread. We need some bread,” the boy said.
“Momma didn’t say anything about bread,” the girl protested.
“How are we going to have lunch today if we don’t get some bread?”
“We got bread back there if y’all need some. It’s 69 cent per loaf.” The old man interjected.
“We’re fine on bread.” The girl’s voice was getting agitated.
“Do you have grape jelly?” the boy asked the old man.
“We don’t need any jelly!” said the girl.
“Jelly is in the first aisle for $1.25,” said the old man.
“If we get some butter, we can have toast with the cereal!” The boy sounded excited.
“We don’t need any butter!” The little girl was getting fed up.
“Butter is back in the cooler; it’s $1.69 a pound,” the old man said.
“We don’t need butter, jelly, or toast!” said the little girl.
The boy laughed, “We’re not going to buy toast; we’re going to make toast with the bread.”
Me and old man snickered at the same time, but Sam was standing beside me, scratching like a flea-bitten dog, getting as aggravated as the girl.
He leaned towards me and hissed, “She needs to smack that boy.”
I frowned at Sam.
“Momma didn’t give us enough money for that. Just milk and cereal.” There was a clear smugness as the girl played her trump card.
I saw the girl put some money on the counter.
“Ten dollars?! She gave you ten dollars?” the boy was exasperated. “The milk, cereal, jelly, butter, and bread only add up to $8.86; we still have $1.14 left!”
I was floored. Unless that boy had a calculator, he had just added all those items up in his head and counted the change. I looked over at Sam and saw that for once he wasn’t scratching himself; he looked just as blown away as me.
“Let me see somethin’,” the old man said as he pulled out his desktop calculator. We heard a tape running as he mumbled the prices under his breath, “Well, damn, $8.86 exactly.”
The brother and sister continued to bicker, unfazed, as if his little math stunt was commonplace.
“She wants all of her change, so no bread, jelly, or butter.”
The boy just stood there glaring at his sister. The old man chuckled as he bagged the milk and cereal.
When we heard, “You kids have a nice day,” we knew that was our cue. We came out from behind the shelves with our hands in our jacket pockets, gripping our guns.
Penny candy
The girl walked toward the door. When she noticed that the boy wasn’t following, she turned and said, “What are you waiting for?”
“Just a minute,” the boy said calmly, “I’m getting something for myself.” The boy was eyeing the selection of sweets that were strategically placed at eye level for a little boy.
“Momma said that she wants her change.”
This time it was the boy’s turn to be smug as he pulled a bulging canvas drawstring bag out of his jacket pocket like some kind of English Lord from an old movie and dropped it onto the counter with an audible ‘clink’.
“I’ve got my own money.” He smirked at his sister with obnoxious satisfaction.
I was getting irritated with this kid myself. We just walked out in the open where the old man got a clear look at our faces. I looked over at Sam, who was scratching his chest like he was trying to peel something off. I was wondering if we should look for some calamine lotion while we were there.
“Let’s see…what do I want today?” the boy contemplated
The girl glowered at her brother as he looked over the merchandise.
“How much is a Snickers bar?”
“Twenty-five cents”
“Hmmm. How much is a Payday?”
The little girl was annoyed and played the only card that she had left.
“If you’re going to sit here playing, then I’m leaving without you,” she said as she grabbed the door handle, “I’m telling Daddy that you’re trying to be funny.”
He was clearly torn between standing his ground and whatever his father would do.
“Go ahead, you’re going to get in trouble for leaving me here. Momma said that we were supposed to stay together.”
Check mate. He called her bluff. The girl scanned everyone’s faces with frustration, hesitated, and walked out, leaving the little boy behind as the bell over the door jangled.
I figured the little boy was going to rethink things and run out behind her. But between his need to prove her wrong and the fact that he was literally a kid in a candy store with a sack of money, he wasn’t going anywhere. He just started inspecting the candy again.
“I’m going to take care of this kid,” I heard Sam whisper as he continued scratching the back of his neck hard enough to draw blood.
The meltdown
“Hey lil’ man! Hey!” Sam shouted, “You should probably listen to your sister and go home.”
The boy was focused on the Jolly Ranchers and ignored Sam.
“You hear me buddy?” Sam’s volume increased, “I’m talking to you. It’s time to go; other people need to buy some stuff.”
The little boy reminded me of George when a Bugs Bunny rerun was on. George could tune out a tornado siren when he was watching cartoons. Sam started walking toward the boy, when the old man shot a look directly at him.
“He’s a payin’ customer; let him be.” The old man drawled, “You boys can wait.”
There were welts on Sam’s neck and face where he’d been scratching. I also noticed that sweat was rolling down his temple.
The old man must have noticed that something was off about Sam, “You okay, boy? There’s some calamine lotion and cod liver oil over on the first shelf. You’re lookin’ kind of peaked.”
This caused Sam to regain his composure, and he wiped the sweat from his face.
“Naw, I’m cool. Take your time, lil’ man.” Sam turned to me and whispered, “We’re going to have to do it with the kid here.”
An image of George in a store with two armed robbers flashed in my mind.
“No, we said that nobody else would be in here,” I grabbed Sam by the shoulder.
“Plans change. I need to get this done.”
The bell over the door rang and the little girl walked back in. The frown on her face showed that she was tired of her brother’s mini rebellion.
“Toussaint L’Ouverture Osborne! You leave this store this minute!”
I could only guess that she was doing what she saw work in the past—calling the boy by his full name like their mother must do. The funny thing is, it almost worked as the boy snapped to attention, but Sam had to open his mouth.
“I know that’s right!” Sam shouted, “Go ahead girl, get that knot-headed boy out of here!”
I knew that Sam screwed up—no matter how much siblings fight, nobody else better ever say anything disrespectful about the other.
The little girl turned her ire toward Sam: “Go to hell! Don’t you ever call my brother a knot head…”
To put this into perspective, in 1979, censorship prevented you from hearing anything stronger than ‘damn’ on television. Outside of an R-rated movie, the best you could get was a series of bleeps. This little girl sounded like one of the Richard Pryor albums that me and Sam would listen to when our parents were out. Sam, the old man, and I all stood there stunned and slack-jawed at the profanity-laced tirade. The only person who was unmoved was the little boy. He just stood there, cool as a cucumber, inspecting Moon Pies and Chick-O-Sticks.
“…and he can shop as long as he wants! Take your time, Toussaint!” Then she stormed out of the store again.
As soon as the door slammed and the bell rang, the spell was broken and me and the old man started to chuckle.
“I tell ya’, that Miriam is a pistol.” The old man continued to laugh.
Judging by Sam’s flaring nostrils, he didn’t see the humor. Then the boy added more fuel to the fire with his next antic:
“Hmmm…how much is a can of pop and a bag of Cheetos?”
I could hear Sam’s breathing.
Final sale
After another five minutes of the boy dickering over ginger ale or chocolate milk, and Funyuns, Doritos, or Lays, he made a decision that sent Sam over the edge.
“You know what? I’ll just save my money. I don’t need anything right now; I’m going home to have some cereal.”
And just like that, the boy put his bag of coins in his back into his pocket and walked out of the store. Something that we thought we could do in three minutes took fifteen minutes and still wasn’t started. I could feel the anger radiating off Sam. I was glad that we both had blanks in our guns.
Instead of being frustrated, the old man just laughed and said, “Okay buddy! You can’t go wrong saving money. I’ll see ya’ next time.” The bell rang as the boy walked outside.
The old man looked at me and Sam and said, “I’ll tell ya’, those kids are a couple of characters. It’s like having Fred Sanford and Aunt Esther come in every week. And he almost never buys anything! Nine times out of ten, he just looks, ask about pricing, and leaves.” The old man found this peculiar ritual funny, but now even my blood pressure was rising.
Sam got back into character, put his hand into his gun pocket, and walked toward the counter. The plan was back on track, just me, Sam, and the old man. I felt my pulse race, realizing that this was our big moment. I grabbed the gun in my pocket. In a few minutes, we would have some cash, and I could stop worrying about the rent. Momma and George would have housing for another month.
Then that stupid bell rang from the door. Three people walked in—two ladies in their 60s and a guy of about 30. And just like that, the plan was dead; we missed our window of opportunity.
“Havin’ a good day Red?” asked one of the women.
“Any day on this side of the dirt is a good day!” said the old man.
I heard Sam curse under his breath, he was holding on by a thread. The old man turned his attention to me and Sam.
“What can I do you for, you boys?” asked the old man.
I decided to improvise.
“Do you have any blinker fluid?” It was the most ridiculous thing that I could think of.
The old man looked at me like I had lost my mind.
“Son, I think someone is playing a joke on you,” the old man laughed. “There’s no such thing.”
“Oh dang, sorry for wasting your time.” I grabbed Sam’s twitching arm and left, making the bell clang one last time.
Sam’s secret
“Those kids screwed everything up! We could have been in and out, but they had to do that damn comedy skit!” Sam was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. “And that boy! That weird…boy! What was his problem?”
“He was just being a kid, Sam. He was about George’s age.”
“A kid! What kind of kid looks over every candy, every potato chip, every soda, and decides that he doesn’t want anything? Isn’t that weird to you? Does George act like that?”
“Kids don’t make sense, Sam. They do bizarre stuff.”
Sam scowled at me like I planned the whole thing.
“And that old man! He knows those kids are a pain in the ass! Why didn’t he shoo them out of the store? Who wastes time letting kids act like that?”
Sam stopped pacing and was just scratching himself all over like he’d fallen into a patch of poison ivy. The collar of his T-shirt was visibly wet with sweat. That’s when he said what I was suspecting:
“I needed that, man. I need the cash. I’m going to go crazy if I don’t get a hit.”
Then I realized that Sam was a junkie. Or as the old folks would say, he was on “that stuff.” I was in denial about it, calling it nerves or stress. He was robbing these corner stores to fund his habit. Sam paused like he had an epiphany of his own.
“That kid. That little nut-job, he had money, remember? He had a sack of coins that he just hoards like…like Scrooge McDuck! He doesn’t even need the money; he just holds it.” Sam licked his lips, “How much do you think he keeps in that bag? There might be $15, maybe $20 dollars in quarters in that bag. I need that bag!”
Sam darted to the intersection and looked left and right, trying to spot the kid. He bolted to the left on 45th street. In his state, I wasn’t sure if Sam wouldn’t hurt a kid, so I ran after him.
The confrontation
Sam’s always been quick, but he was even faster as an addict. He only had a 20- or 30-foot head start but he was pulling further ahead by the second. I could see a speck of the little boy just over a block away. Sam was reaching into the pocket with his gun. Blanks or not, how desperate do you have to be to rob a 6-year-old at gun point?
“Lil’ man!” Sam yelled, “Hey lil’ man, hol’ up! I got somethin’ for you.”
As I got closer, I could see the little boy stop. Keep going kid! Run!
“Hey buddy, you forgot something in the store!” Sam yelled.
By the time Sam reached the kid, his revolver was in plain sight. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Sam had completely lost his mind. Ironically, not twenty minutes ago, I was also willing to rob someone, and I didn’t care if he was someone’s brother, father, or grandfather. I felt sick to my stomach.
Sam and the boy were both trembling. Sam from withdrawal, and the boy from staring down the barrel of a gun.
“All I want is the bag of money, lil’ man.” Sam’s hand was trembling.
The boy was frozen in place. Frustrated, Sam moved to intimidation.
“Do you think I’m playin’? Gimme the money or I’ll blast you!”
Tears were rolling down the boy’s cheeks as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag.
“Okay, we’re done here, Sam. Let the kid go,” I said, hoping Sam would return to his senses.
“Man, would you shut up, Calvin?!” Sam barked.
The boy’s hand was trembling as he handed over the bag. I’d had enough.
“We’re done here, Sam.” I grabbed Sam by the wrist. Sam jerked his hand back, and we started a tug-of-war over the gun—and suddenly, there was a deafening “BANG!”. I heard my own voice scream “George!” as the coin-filled bag hit the ground. Sam lied about the blanks, he had actual bullets.
Regrets
Relief washed over me when I looked up and saw the kid running at top speed across 45th street. This morning, when I left the house, my biggest concern was making the rent. Now, I’m an accomplice in a botched robbery.
“Let go of me and hand me the bag.” I couldn’t believe that Sam was laughing. Suddenly I felt a white-hot rage and I drove my elbow into the side of Sam’s face. His eyes rolled up in his head as he fell to the ground unconscious.
I grabbed the bag of coins and ran after the kid. That was the last time I saw Sam.
It never occurred to me to take his gun.
Finding the kid
Finding a freaked out kid was like finding a needle in a haystack. I had no clue where he would have gone in that state of mind. I must have wandered around the neighborhood for two blocks when I saw the kid in the distance. He was heading toward a diner called The Green Penny.
I could tell that the adrenaline was draining out of his system because he was moving a lot slower than his initial sprint. I figured that I could catch up to him easily, give him back his money, apologize, and maybe walk him home.
Before I could reach him, I saw the biggest mailman that I’d ever seen in my life come out of the diner. This guy was built like George Foreman in his prime. I saw him lean over the little boy as the boy started telling him what happened—at least, that’s what I assumed. He was jumping up and down and waving his arms around. I saw him point in my general direction, and I instinctively ducked behind a car. The kid was beside himself; I could tell that he was still crying.
The mailman took the kid by the hand, and they walked into The Green Penny together.
New Versailles and the five districts
I went home later that day, unsure of what to do. I never told my mother what I was up to that morning. Later that night, I saw a news report that a would-be robber was shot outside a corner store in the Grafton Hills district. It turned out that Sam had decided to try his luck again.
Me, momma, and George got evicted and had to move in with my aunt a few streets over in the Butchertown district. It was cramped, but it gave us some breathing room to put some money together. A few months later, I joined the army so that I could send some money back home.
After I got out of the army, I decided to become a police officer. During those ten years, the five districts went through dramatic changes. The sense of community dwindled from “New Versailles” to “my district” and finally to “me and mine.” There were more people like Sam committing quick robberies to get a fix; there were also more people competing to supply people like Sam, and sometimes those competitions became violent.
One night, I got a call about an attempted robbery at Red’s, the corner store that Sam and I almost robbed. The last time I was there, I had a revolver in my pocket. From the outside, it was the same building with peeling paint and a faded Coca-Cola sign. It had a new name though, “Shop-N-Go.” The inside was different—it was somehow more sterile and filthier at the same time. Instead of a bell ringing when I opened the door, there was an electronic ding. Instead of an open counter, the clerk was sitting behind thick bulletproof glass. There were also cameras strategically positioned in the store. And there were shelves of hard liquor behind the glass and all varieties of beer in the fridge. I doubt that anyone would send two bickering kids there for their morning cereal.
When I asked the clerk if the suspects looked familiar—possibly someone from the neighborhood—he said, “I never look at anyone’s faces here.” This made me think of the old man that knew those kids’ routine enough to participate in it.
I’d seen this several times as a cop, but this time I saw it in the store that I once tried to rob. If that old man from Mississippi had that kind of setup, me, Sam, and those kids would have been captured on camera. And if it weren’t for those kids, I would have just been getting out of prison—if I were lucky.