Going to Chicago by Rob Levandoski Page A

Wild Teuton and my dad would have escaped had they been shot down and captured. Goddamn. Sonofabitch. We could have gotten away easily, too. Gus and Gladys were in the tent snoring like broken accordions. We could have been in the Gilbert SXIII and flying before they could untie the tent flap. Of course I say this now knowing that Gus never shot anybody in his life. We didn’t know that then. Then we knew he’d shoot us down like dogs if we tried anything. We’d seen him kill that farmer’s melons. So we didn’t try to escape during the night and I was feeling lousy about it. I ate some dry Wheaties, too.
    Clyde woke up humming, anxious for his drops. He had a pack of Juicy Fruit gum for breakfast.
    Gus crawled out of the tent happy. Confident this was the day he’d die in a hail of bullets. He pissed in the ashes. Made the bean cans roll.
    Gladys came out of the tent brushing her teeth. I watched the foam pour out of her mouth and wondered if Gus had poked her during the night. I hadn’t heard anything. But who knows? Not everybody were squealers and moaners like my parents. They might have poked for hours in there. They had dry Wheaties and melon for breakfast.
    Will and I started to police the campsite. But Gus made us stop. He wanted to leave as much evidence as possible. He even left an affidavit, flying like a flag on his wiener stick: I Gus “The Gun” Gillis camped here with the talented Gladys Bartholomew and my three unwilling kidnappees .
    Gus made Will take several pictures of Gladys and him standing by the Gilbert SXIII. He made Clyde and me get in two of them. Had Gladys take one of him and Will, just so he wouldn’t feel left out.
    We drove back through the cow flops and corn to the road. Drove until we stumbled onto a main highway. It wasn’t much past dawn. The landscape became surprisingly hilly. Below us we could see a muddy river—the grand Weebawauwau itself—and beyond that the silvery roofs of a fair-sized town. Gus was delighted. Told us he had a reign of terror in mind. “I plan to rob as many people possible in as short a time as possible,” he said. “To bring the law blazing.”
    He had me park under the bridge. We were next to a long field of cabbage. The heads looked about ready to harvest. “Well let’s go fishing,” he said.
    â€œFishing?” Clyde said. “We ain’t got any poles or tackle.”
    Gus reached back and squeezed Gladys’s knee. “But we got bait, Clyde.”
    Gladys crawled out with her suitcase and started up the embankment for the road. We stayed with Gus under the bridge. I can tell you what happened next because later that afternoon Gladys lavishly recounted every minute of it, using voices and gestures and sound effects. She was after all an aspiring radio actress.
    She walked a quarter mile or so up the road and then waited, one leg up on her suitcase. Soon a little white milk truck came along, heading toward town to make deliveries.
    Naturally the milkman stopped. He drank in her legs and yellow hair. “Trouble, miss?”
    As soon as Gladys saw the truck coming she’d lathered her cheeks with spit to make it look like she was crying. She made her voice tremble. “I didn’t think anyone would ever come along—ever ever.”
    â€œYou’ve always got a friend at Willow Farm Dairy,” the milkman said, smiling heroically, tugging the black plastic visor on his white cap. He was wearing a white shirt, white pants and white shoes. Gladys said he looked like a big bottle of milk himself.
    She staggered forward and grabbed the door like it was a life raft. “I was afraid he’d find me alone out here. Shoot me dead. Just like he did the others.”
    The milkman’s heroic smile froze. Adam’s apple went up and down. “How can I help you, miss?”
    â€œJust get me away from here. That crazy man could be anywhere. With that big