Loon - Jack McLean [28]
A .45, for chrissakes.
“Where in the fuck did you get that, man?” I asked in total disbelief.
“’Sokay, man. It’s mine. You know, mine from base.”
“I can’t believe you took that off base, Steve! Steve—they could court-martial you for that!”
“Yeah, shit, I know,” he said. “Hey, sorry if I put you in a tough position. Really, Jack, I’m really sorry.”
“What did you just do? Wait, what did you do in there? Oh, shit. I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Here. Hold this.” Without waiting for my response, he took his hands off the wheel as I grabbed it. The Chrysler lurched hard right before I brought it back into line.
With one eye on the road ahead, I stole a glance downward in the direction of his pockets, where his hands were disgorging wads of bills. He’d pull out a few, go back for more, pull out a few more, go back for a few more, until there were bills all over the front seat of the car. His foot was still heavy on the gas, and my hand was still gripping the wheel as we flew across the table-top flatness of the lower San Joaquin Valley at better than one hundred miles per hour.
“Looks like I’m about even. Should be at least seventy bucks there, don’t you think?”
Seventy? There were tens and twenties and fives and ones everywhere.
“Shit, Steve. I’d say you’re ahead.”
“Yeah, could be. Here. Take some. I only wanted seventy. You can have the rest. I just wanted to get even.”
By the time we had pulled into his driveway back in Bakers-field, Steve had counted out $237. I politely thanked him for the offer to share but took none of the money. Instead, I became totally focused on getting back to the base as soon as possible. I was, however, acutely aware that I was sitting next to someone who was cradling a fully loaded, recoil operated, magazine fed, self-loading hand weapon on his lap. Fully loaded for this weapon is seven rounds.
I prayed that he still had a full magazine.
The following afternoon, Steve and I silently made the long drive back to Barstow. It seemed as though the whole weekend had been spent in the car. We each knew that our relationship had changed. He continued to express remorse. I spoke up once, telling him only that he was lucky to be alive.
“What if he’d had a gun under the counter, Steve? What if he’d had a gun?”
Steve laughed a short laugh. “Hey, he didn’t have a gun, Jack. It’s okay. I’m right here, man.”
I didn’t see Steve much after that. We usually worked different shifts at the warehouse, and he went home to hang out every weekend. He later told me that he’d come up with a new venture—stealing surfboards. He and a friend would take a truck, drive down the coast highway, and steal the surfboards that people would leave outside the back doors of their homes.
“Jack, you wouldn’t believe this shit. People just leave ’em out—it’s not like it’s even stealing. And it’s like Malibu, you know. They’re all so rich, they probably don’t even notice that they’re gone. Come on. I got some other ideas too. I’ll cut you in.”
“No, thanks, Steve. I mean, you know, thanks, but no thanks, man.”
I spoke with Steve one more time a month later. He looked hardened and tough and tired, a far cry from the sweet guy who had been my friend back at supply school.
“Jack. Stereos, man. Stereos. You know, after a few weeks, there weren’t any surfboards left. We took ’em all, or people were wising up to us. Anyway, there weren’t any left. So, well, you know, I tried the handle on the back door of one of these richie houses, and it was unlocked, so I stepped in a little, and there’s nobody there. So I walk in some more, and there’s this stereo sitting there, so I took it.
“Jack, it’s a gold mine. It’s not even like stealing. I mean, they leave their back doors open. It’s like an engraved invitation. People are so stupid. Do you believe it?”
Months later, shortly before