In late 69, my crime partner to be fell in lust with my wife. He had just published one of my short stories and my first article in two of his magazines, and now wished to pubicize my wife. I and my depression were thinking of letting him. So was she and hers. I had recently been fired, was deeply in debt, indifferent, artistically frustrated, immature, and unwillingly married. I had been ignoring her because I did not want her.

One night during our cheap wine patrols, my partner to be started flirting with my future ex-wife in front of me, and she responded. I being a hippie bohemian believed in freedom of choice, but got jealous anyway and tried to compete. She bloomed beneath our dueling affections and rose in wine and smoke and slowly shed her clothes down to bra and panties. We three went to bed when the wine ran out, and they touched too much while I faked sleep.

The next night at Burger King, he talked to me of robbery while I thought of breaking his fingers so he couldn’t touch her again. His ad agency was failing, and he was about to lose his type setting machines which were going to print my future genius. I gave him theoretical advice. Simple problem solving. You can’t do this, you might try that. Burger Kings are bad, big box office movies aren’t.

Within the week he showed up with two hand guns. Big ones. For the robbery.

I had not thought our conversation serious, but went along anyway. It was something to do, and I was depressed and bored and in deep debt, reduced to writing whining Rod McKuen prosery. Since we were going to rob with guns, he figured we should fire them first. We did. Nasty gut wrenching noise. I took it back after he took out the clip, and the gun discharged, the bullet just missing my foot. Good omen.

After he left, she said he’d been here yesterday. He’d talked awhile. Took her hand and led her into the bedroom. Unbuttoned her robe and caressed her breasts. He wants more, but she doesn’t. The interest of another and their furtive touching has satisfied her as far as I know. I know she wants and loves me, that is why she tells me. I would rather be an artist.

Hippie me, I’m free of this possession package the suburbans wrap around their female property. I don’t own her. What she needs to fuel her future is her business, weighed on her karmic balance, not mine. I don’t want her, yet hate his want and her response. I know I ignore her, but she should run to more than him.

I write in my journal:
“29 January, 1970 – Thursday 12:19 PM about 55 degrees heavily overcast occasional short showers. Me, I’m tired. Mainly from lack of sleep, but partially from beginning fear – fear that says we’re going to go through with it tonight. I want to, and I don’t want to.”

Since I’m a freak, I slick my long hair back, wear a white shirt with a narrow black tie and Glidden Durkee safety glasses as a disguise. As we were leaving, his wife calls. She’s crying, asking
if I know where her husband is. She had been drinking and seeing the snake of truth, knowing something’s wrong, but not the gun or breasts. She talked for ninety minutes and cramped our scheduled crime spree. As I calmed her, I saw her husband’s hand on my wife’s flesh.

I chose the 7-Eleven in my boss’s neighborhood because they were all rich and bastards. We walked into the store and hesitated, not really believing we’d do it. We wandered around waiting for the customer to leave. My partner and potential wife-fucker bought a 20 cent pack of cigars, and as he paid, I tried to pull the gun out of my pocket. It got stuck on the gun sight. I finally got it out and pointed at the clerk and coolly said “Leave it open” just as he closed the cash drawer. He reopened it and handed me all the money. 64 fucking dollars.

It wasn’t enough. I didn’t know then they hid all the big bills under the drawer, but I knew there had to be more money, so I demanded his wallet. As he handed it to me I said “No, that’s yours. I can’t take this” and handed it back. Told him to lie down on the floor, and we ran out just as more customers rolled in. Scared, we cut through the alley and up the hill. It was raining and he was in front of me as I slipped and fell face down in the mud, my gun in front of me. It went off and I missed him. So far, that made two of us I’d missed.

We bought some more cheap wine and went back and flirted with my wife.

We did it one more time. We got caught.

To read Part II, see Armed Robbery – Part II