A Series Of Minor Incidents

Accidents happen.

He accidentally crashed out of bed to the sound of his blaring alarm that morning, and he definitely accidentally screamed at his neighbors’ kids through the window when he saw them snipping flower buds off the peony bush in his yard.

He was having an off day, what could he say?

That fantastic start to his morning surely implied further great things to come during this fateful Sunday.

He had been told he got his sarcasm from his father.

The monotony (though out of the ordinary for most, he could confirm that this was, indeed, quite common for him) of his morning continued as he pulled on his backpack and trusty white sneakers, securing the Velcro straps. It was the simple things; not having to deal with shoelaces being one of them.

People say you can consistently identify a man by his shoes, since the last thing you think to change when hastily redoing your outfit so that the cops can’t identify you is “oh, they’re sure to notice my Walmart brand sneakers!”

Or, at least, that’s what all the true crime documentaries from 2 A.M. insomnia sessions would report.

Speaking of true crime, he was reminded how much of a crime it was that society dictates the level of anonymity that was allowed in a small, oceanside town like his own. Everyone who lived there knew him, and everyone who knew him had a habit of imposing.

Was it so much to ask to be able to walk down the street without friendly waves from passersby?

Perhaps he wasn’t in the position to be putting in requests.

Lifting his face to squint at the barely-risen sun, he considered how, for all he knew, this might be the last time he would burn his retinas from the location of his little hometown. But change brings opportunity, as his mother would always say.

Maybe it was about time for a little change.

Ah, but, no need for the dramatics. It’s not like he was planning on hastily leaving anytime soon. Of course not.

As he walked, he felt a ritual thud against his side from the little black book tucked safely into his jacket pocket, the reminder of it pulling him out of his head and back into the reality of his afternoon plans. He had purchased it from the local bookstore what must have been years ago in an act of spontaneity—never having written in it, despite the way he favored it. He never seemed to have important enough words to actually bring pen to paper—though maybe that was more out of a want to preserve its pristine condition rather than an act of self-deprecation.

Either way, today was the day. He had made up his mind the night before that he would use the book during today’s… excursion, so to speak.

He paid no mind to the other, less familiar object in his back pocket. Its job came later; dwelling on its presence would surely only make his hands shake and drag his thoughts back to that contemplative place he vowed not to visit. No need to overthink, not when everything he had planned was completely ordinary, and everyone who knew him was none the wiser.

There were small pebbles occupying the sides of the paved street he was using to travel down, probably left over from cars relocating them in their rush, or maybe they were just abandoned parts of the cracked road. There was really no ignoring them since he had a tendency to trip over them incessantly. He supposed this was the universe’s payback for him cleverly avoiding shoelace mishaps up until his middle age.

His gaze landed on one of decent size, picking it up and sliding his hand back into his pocket, the rock clutched in his fist.

He surveyed the living beings around him, taking in the current lack of people. Perhaps he should be relieved for the rare and oh-so-welcome occurrence.

A seagull squawked on a low-standing wall just down the street from him. It made eye contact with him, honking out another screech as if to say “Nice shoes, loser! Why don’t you spend the money you saved on laces on some walking classes?”

Well, he wasn’t going to just stand there and take that slander. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and chucked the small rock with as much force as he could at the aforementioned offender. It grazed one of the bird’s wings, causing it to abruptly fly off, making noises that surely belonged to a creature of Hell.

It was probably for the best there were no witnesses around to hear his would-be ingenious excuse of “I only threw it accidentally, the rock must’ve been thrown out of my hand by the wind!” To which the accuser would surely believe him, what reason would they have not to?

It’s not as if he had a habit of yelling at kids or anything.

It was only when he arrived at a run-down but intricately detailed building that he detoured off his warpath to go through the heavy front door of the entrance, although not before pulling up the hood of his coat and maneuvering his scarf to cover the bottom half of his face.

The bank looked the same as it did every week he came to visit—with the curved wooden desk sectioning off where the bank tellers sat and the waiting area for the—albeit, rare—customers. His shoes made the same slapping noise on the floor when he walked that they always did, and the bank teller was the same old lady that always worked there. He didn’t think she’d been given a day off since maybe the ’90s.

She looked up at him as he approached, asking what she could do for him.

He reached into his coat pocket and slid out the small black journal and a pen. Its time had finally come; he’d finally have words of adequate significance to grace its pages.

He uncapped the pen, writing in the neatest handwriting he could produce:

“I HAVE A GUN!”

(cue the aforementioned unmentionable foreign object in his back pocket.)

“GIVE ME THE MONEY OR DIE!”

(eloquent as usual.)

Of course, he never meant to look sweet old Agnes in her ivory eyes and threaten in written words to take her life would she not unlock the cash register. It was more of a suggestion; some advice from an old friend, so to speak.

The gun aimed between the windows to her soul was merely a precaution.

When she gingerly (was she being careful, or rather, stalling?) pulled what looked to be about $20,000 from the slots in the machine, he placed his hand on the counter. Merely to rest it; after all, he had traveled rather far to get here, and his… arms… were tired. That’s right, his arms. He did have a tendency to swing them as he walked, and he had thrown that rock pretty hard earlier.

Who could blame him, really, when he came into possession of the money? He didn’t tell Agnes to place the piles into his open palm, she did that of her own free will. His hand just happened to be there, and she just happened to be fearing for her life. A coincidence, at most.

Besides, it was common knowledge that infinitely more cash was stored in the vault, hidden behind secured doors. It wouldn’t hurt to spare just a little of that, now would it?

Placing the banknotes he had so kindly been given in the small backpack slung around his shoulders, he offered a quick nod to Anges in repayment and sprinted out the door, not stopping until he was a few blocks down in an old unused alleyway.

There was a car parked far enough into the alley to not be spotted from the entrance. He walked up to the back of it, his heart in his ears, and tugged on the handle meant to access the trunk. It creaked open after some encouragement with a metallic squeak of the hinges from years of use (he’d had them fixed when the car was first given to him by his dad; little good that did, seeing as how they’d only reverted to their previous condition).

He flung his backpack into the trunk in a haste and moved to shut the trunk. The driver’s side was already unlocked, and he slid into the seat, putting the keys in the ignition.

It was all too easy, kicking it into gear and speeding down the main road leading out of town. He was finally leaving his old life behind—leaving a richer man, at that.

Maybe if he had slowed down and been more meticulous he would have noticed he forgot to zip up his backpack after the cash had been added. Maybe, if he had paid more mind to his surroundings, he would have heard the straining of the trunk door when he went to close it, never fully clicking shut.

Maybe if he spared a final glance at that old town of his, he would have seen the bank notes flying out of the trunk and into the open air, raining down on those old streets he was hastily leaving behind.

But, really, who could blame him?

After all, accidents happen.