A Trip To The Store At Midnight. On a cold icy night. (standard:adventure, 1609 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 30 2020	Views/Reads: 1386/1012	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An off-duty cop is forced by a pregnant wife to brave the worst night of the year in Northern Michigan to buy ice cream and pickles for her.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Yeah.” She eyes me carefully, for some reason. Who knows about people
in these late night stores? I mean, which are stranger, the oddball 
customers or the deadheaded clerks that are willing to face almost 
weekly robberies for a pittance? It takes a strange person to work at a 
job like that. 

“I mean, what ya' think it's all about?" I ask. “I'm an off-duty cop
myself and it might concern me later.” 

“Somethin' bout' a robbery at the Don Knotts Sports Arena.” Relaxing
slightly at my admission, she points to a police scanner sitting on a 
nearby shelf. I don't know how I missed the flashing lights and static 
when I came in. “A kid gang done robbed ‘um, I guess.” 

She pauses for what is probably a rare smile at a customer, “I had three
po-lice in here at the time, and they all had'da go back out in the 
cold. You should'a heard ‘um bitchin'.” 

I immediately think of that backpack in my rear seat. Finishing my
coffee I say goodbye to the clerk and leave. 

I can't help but recall the pot in my glove compartment as I drive
carefully home. I certainly don't want to take a chance of being 
stopped by fellow -- but unhappily on duty -- police. My department 
does NOT give favored status to fellow officers. 

From experience, I know that right now they will be like a hive of
disturbed bees. Needless to say, I don't want to get involved by 
volunteering on a night like this. On duty and dressed for the occasion 
is one thing, off duty and in a thin coat and street shoes? No way. 

I manage to get into my garage and, because of the ice cream, hurry into
the house. I'll take care of the backpack later, in the morning. The 
storm should be over by then. 

*** 

I never did get back to the garage last night. My pregnant wife kept me
busy late into the evening. 

At least the storm is over. I start the car and, while it warms up, turn
on its radio to listen to the local news. I also reach back and jerk 
the backpack up front with me. After putting on plastic gloves from my 
back pocket, I open it. 

I hear that most of the robbers from last night are still loose, which
causes me to grin. Almost as much as the smile I have as I extricate a 
large bag of leaves and buds from the backpack. I put it aside for 
later and look through the rest of the bag. No money, except for a few 
singles in a worn pink wallet. 

First the shrubbery. I check, and it is marijuana. This looks to be a
pretty good day for me. I check the wallet and find a driver's license 
inside. It belongs to a certain Stacy Majorski, 17, and gives an 
address. 

May as well check it out on my way to work. First I store the marijuana
in a secret stash of my own, a hidden cubbyhole in the garage ceiling. 
No reason to saddle the kid with a drug charge along with the robbery, 
is my thinking. With backpack and wallet on the seat next to me, I 
drive through now-cleared streets to the address on the license. 

*** 

I am incredibly lucky. I get there in time to find a teenage girl
stepping into a blue Chevy. 

“Hey! You Stacy Majorski?” I accost her, coming up from behind while
she's still scraping frozen condensation from the inside of her 
windshield. 

Even sitting down, she seems to jump a foot into the air at my greeting.
Turning around with eyes the size of saucers, she is obviously 
frightened. Tough shit, I figure. 

I identify myself and grab her by the shoulder before she can get away.
She looks past me and jerks upward an inch or so as I see her legs 
tense and weight shift as though ready to bolt. 

Before she can, I press down roughly with both hands, pinning her to the
seat. I feel the starch go out of her as she folds over the wheel, 
briefly shattering the morning silence with a horn blast. It stops as I 
jerk her out and to her feet. Holding her against the car with one 
hand, I search the girl quickly for weapons. Too bad I don't have any 
cuffs with me. 

“You better come with me, miss.” I escort her to my car and use a belt
from her jeans to tie her ankles together. It will keep her from 
jumping out on the way to the station. The capture will be a feather in 
my cap. If asked, I can simply say the backpack didn't have any pot in 
it when an anonymous citizen gave it to me. I'll give the girl a break. 
Why add that rap to the robbery she's facing now? Besides, although I 
don't smoke it, my wife can use the stuff. She says it works wonder on 
those pre-birthing pains. 

The End.


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