Hometown Heist

Homecomings are weird. There’s always that sandwich shop that’s a salon now; if you’ve been gone long enough, it was also a bicycle shop in between, but nobody bikes anymore, so, salon.

Some things don’t change, and that’s weirder.

Gordy Thomas, a high school buddy, got me out of trouble once and, according to Gordy, I owed him. Immediately upon my return to town he called in the favor. I couldn’t say no.

Gordy had been turned down for a loan and was in desperate need of funds. He planned the robbery—like an elaborate heist—with decoys, aliases: the whole sch-bang.

***

Long story short, it worked out easily. A little too easily, I’d thought then. Later, though, it started to click.

Mr Bellamy hadn’t wanted to turn down Gordy’s loan request. The bank, which would only carry $195,000 at a time, was federally insured; we’d effectively robbed nobody. The thieves were reported to have hightailed. Liz, Piezo and I each got cuts and the victimless crime got Gordy what American Capitalism wouldn’t: a respectable downpayment on a family vehicle, debt consolidation, life-saving surgery for his daughter. And then nobody ever talked about it.

I’m telling you, homecomings are weird.