Getaway Driver
Greed? No, there were lots of reasons I made him do it, but money wasn’t one of them. I didn’t care if we were eating hobo rice, or nothing at all, as long as we were happy.
And yes, it did make us happy. He’d rush in there with his gun and his note, and I’d wait at the wheel, shivering, chain-smoking, turning over in my mind the immeasurable value of his life. After awhile I’d hear the commotion inside, and then I’d begin to pray. I didn’t believe in God, but in those smoky minutes I swear my prayers were fervent as a nun’s.
Then he’d return, sweaty and wild-eyed, but laughing, laughing because he’d pulled it off again. It’s true, I loved him best in those moments, when he’d slipped out just ahead of disaster. We would kiss and sing in the car after those heists, each of us delighted with the fresh new gift of survival. Sometimes we even gave away the money — you probably read about that; the newspapers loved it.
Of course I knew it had to end. I think he knew it too, but even if he hadn’t, I would have kept us going. There’s only one way I know how to love a man: you push him right to the edge of his life, and then you push a little harder.