surroundings. It was too dark to see beyond five feet, but I reminded myself that I’ve walked these steps countless times and could do this with my eyes closed if I had to. I began making my way around my row of houses and would have to cross a clearing that could be potentially visible to whoever was in our cul-de-sac.
Walking on the damp grass to keep my movements stealthy, I felt the wetness infiltrate my shoes and envelop my feet. Loafers aren’t meant for walking around sockless on wet medium-length grass. Finally I stood next to some bushes at the end of my row of townhomes, ready to make a silent dash across the clearing to get behind the next row and continue up to Tom’s house. Hands were tight and squeezing the gun as hard as one might squeeze to get the last bit of juice out of a lemon. The cool wind again howled briskly through the dark night and suddenly it was obvious to me that I had never put on another shirt. My core temperature must have finally been returning to normal because a slight chill enveloped me. Be it the chill of cold air or chill of possible imminent death, it was icy cold in its touch and gave me a determination to hurry but be careful.
THUMP . . . and another sound that could barely be heard. Almost like a laugh in the air.
When I was a kid and used to play basketball, I would always try to pump myself up just before tipoff. An old expression came to mind. “It’s go time,” I mouthed without uttering a sound. First, my right foot then my left moved as fast as they could. Within seconds, I was almost full speed in a crouched position. Fifty feet, I was halfway home and moving steadily. No noise from the people or gunshots that I could hear. Forty feet, I was holding my breath as best I could and almost there. Twenty feet, the wind kicked up and blew hard but it drowned out any noise my loafers were making as they shuffled about on the damp turf. Finally I made it!
Immediately crouching behind a bush and squatting low to the ground, I listened, but only a rapidly beating heart could be heard. I’d safely made it across. I wondered if this is what assassins must feel like as they sneak about but quickly ditched that thought in order to focus on the here and now. Within moments, I was making my way quickly and probably too noisily to Tom’s back gate. Twigs cracked under my loafers as the pace quickened. If it was a large group of invaders and they were spreading out, I might be dead meat, making this much noise. My brain reasserted itself again over the fight of adrenaline as I slowed down and again breathed deeply. After a few breaths, I was again calm enough to continue and realized that my gun wasn’t ready in my shoulder as it should be in case a shootout was coming. I had been running with it down around my waist as one would carry a gun if on a long hike in the mountains. Damn you, Josh, I kept thinking. This is life or death. You can’t make mistakes.
I arrived at Tom’s back gate and entered quietly. He always kept his property in good repair because it reflected on his landscaping work in the community. That included keeping the gate well-oiled, and it was silent as it opened. As I stepped inside, an immediate crunching sound shook me. Tom had tossed some beer cans on the grass, and I’d stepped on one. There could be more, but I couldn’t see anything. Shuffling my feet forward instead of stepping, I hoped to push any further beer cans out of the way instead of smashing them beneath my weight. Tom may have been drunk earlier, but he had remembered to leave a large stick back here for me to tap his window. Hopefully he wasn’t passed out and would respond.
Gently laying the gun on the ground, I raised the long stick and began rapping on his glass window. Tap, tap, pap in a soft but rapid succession. It was
Walking on the damp grass to keep my movements stealthy, I felt the wetness infiltrate my shoes and envelop my feet. Loafers aren’t meant for walking around sockless on wet medium-length grass. Finally I stood next to some bushes at the end of my row of townhomes, ready to make a silent dash across the clearing to get behind the next row and continue up to Tom’s house. Hands were tight and squeezing the gun as hard as one might squeeze to get the last bit of juice out of a lemon. The cool wind again howled briskly through the dark night and suddenly it was obvious to me that I had never put on another shirt. My core temperature must have finally been returning to normal because a slight chill enveloped me. Be it the chill of cold air or chill of possible imminent death, it was icy cold in its touch and gave me a determination to hurry but be careful.
THUMP . . . and another sound that could barely be heard. Almost like a laugh in the air.
When I was a kid and used to play basketball, I would always try to pump myself up just before tipoff. An old expression came to mind. “It’s go time,” I mouthed without uttering a sound. First, my right foot then my left moved as fast as they could. Within seconds, I was almost full speed in a crouched position. Fifty feet, I was halfway home and moving steadily. No noise from the people or gunshots that I could hear. Forty feet, I was holding my breath as best I could and almost there. Twenty feet, the wind kicked up and blew hard but it drowned out any noise my loafers were making as they shuffled about on the damp turf. Finally I made it!
Immediately crouching behind a bush and squatting low to the ground, I listened, but only a rapidly beating heart could be heard. I’d safely made it across. I wondered if this is what assassins must feel like as they sneak about but quickly ditched that thought in order to focus on the here and now. Within moments, I was making my way quickly and probably too noisily to Tom’s back gate. Twigs cracked under my loafers as the pace quickened. If it was a large group of invaders and they were spreading out, I might be dead meat, making this much noise. My brain reasserted itself again over the fight of adrenaline as I slowed down and again breathed deeply. After a few breaths, I was again calm enough to continue and realized that my gun wasn’t ready in my shoulder as it should be in case a shootout was coming. I had been running with it down around my waist as one would carry a gun if on a long hike in the mountains. Damn you, Josh, I kept thinking. This is life or death. You can’t make mistakes.
I arrived at Tom’s back gate and entered quietly. He always kept his property in good repair because it reflected on his landscaping work in the community. That included keeping the gate well-oiled, and it was silent as it opened. As I stepped inside, an immediate crunching sound shook me. Tom had tossed some beer cans on the grass, and I’d stepped on one. There could be more, but I couldn’t see anything. Shuffling my feet forward instead of stepping, I hoped to push any further beer cans out of the way instead of smashing them beneath my weight. Tom may have been drunk earlier, but he had remembered to leave a large stick back here for me to tap his window. Hopefully he wasn’t passed out and would respond.
Gently laying the gun on the ground, I raised the long stick and began rapping on his glass window. Tap, tap, pap in a soft but rapid succession. It was
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