Mike's Last Ironic Thought

Mike was sweating. Beads trickled down his forehead to make small pools in his lap as he drove. His hands were sticky and shaking as he gripped the steering wheel. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw that his eyes were wide and panicky.

I can’t do this, I can’t do this.

Suddenly he swerved in his lane, cutting off the cars next to him and causing horns to blare in anger. Mike screeched, turning, and stopped the car in a local parking lot. It was a hot afternoon day, the sun was beating down waves of heat on those in its vision. Kids played in the fields regardless as their parents sat in the shade the sparse trees provided. Mike took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves and stop his racing heart. He held his hands out in experiment, and still they shook like he was in freezing weather. In frustration Mike slammed his fists into the steering wheel, and the horn blasted. He jumped, cursed some more, then got out of the car in a flurry of movements, frustrated and jerky. He slammed the door, ignored the looks of those walking by, shoved his hands into his pockets, and started to take a walk on the winding sidewalk into the park.

His footsteps beat an even tempo into the hard sidewalk while his thoughts were in chaotic whirls.

I can’t do this.

But I have to. I got to. What else can I do?

If Ma knew…

But she don’t. How could she? I’ve been real careful.

This could go so wrong.

I have nothing to lose.

And this was true, for Mike was a man on his last dime. Ever since striking out on his own at the age of eighteen, he had met disaster after disaster. His life was an event of ups and downs; those ups carried him so high only so they could make him fall longer and harder. Debts, taxes, mortgage—all of them dug their greedy black claws into his flesh and are determinedly dragging him down, down, down into that black abyss of financial depression. No matter how hard Mike had worked, no matter how many debts he paid off, they kept piling, they kept increasing. As that familiar despair clutched his heart again, indignation seized his mind.

It’s not my fault. They did this to me. They’re making me do this. They drove me to this decision. It’s all their fault. They caused it, now I’m finishing it.

His resolve once again renewed, he climbed into his car, turned the engine on, and smoothly drove towards the bank.

Mike wasn’t sweating. His hands didn’t shake. His eyes weren’t wide and panicky. He was calm, numbed even. He parked the car in the back of the parking lot. He was in the corner, effectively concealed from any who would happen to glance his way. Mike slowly got out of the car. He looked around. Conveniently, nobody was here.

Rounding the car, Mike opened the trunk. He slipped black gloves onto his hands, shoved his black mask into his pocket, and jammed his full charged gun into his waistband. He gently shut the trunk, stood for a moment in thought, maybe even prayer, and walked briskly towards the alley. He knew of a back door that would lead him into the bank; there, he would slip on the mask.

And get his money back.

The alley was curiously dark even though it was midday. Mike’s footsteps echoed across the walls, bouncing back to his ears. He halted when he reached the back door. His hand in his pocket, he fingered his black mask. Mike noticed that the gun felt heavy.

The numbness faded and Mike was taken over in waves of icy trepidation once more.

Suddenly footsteps sounded behind him. Mike didn’t turn, afraid of anyone catching even a glimpse of his face at the moment. The footsteps came nearer…

And then something hard and steely was pressed against his back. A low and guttural voice asked behind him, “Turn around. Slowly.”
         
Mike slowly turned, facing the man. The man was maybe his age, with long shaggy hair and yellowed teeth. But those eyes…they were wide and panicky. “Give me money,” the man uttered urgently. The gun, pressed against Mike’s belly, felt cold even through Mike’s shirt.

“I…I only have twenty dollars,” Mike rasped through a dry throat.

“Give it to me!”

His hands clumsy, Mike patted his pants. He knew there was a twenty dollar bill wadded in his right pocket. Mike would have to jerk his shirt up to reach the bill. When he lifted his shirt slightly, the man exclaimed, “Oh shit!”

And fired the gun. For a second or two, Mike didn’t know what happened. Then he felt something…running down his pants. He looked down. To see his own life’s blood seeping through his jeans, running in steady streams to pool at his feet. His legs gave out; he collapsed on his knees. He knees gave out; he fell on his side. He could hear his breathing, ragged and dying, in his ears, magnified one hundred times. Mike felt the man dig into his pocket, take the twenty out, and before the man walked away, he said, “You shithead, trying to pull a gun on me.”

The gun in his waistband.

Mike didn’t know how long he was in the alley, a gaping wound in his stomach steadily extinguishing his life flame. Black edged his vision, stealing in like a thief. His last coherent thought was, before the blackness consumed him:

I was robbed on my way to rob a bank…