Flamingo
Bernie prided himself with always doing a clean job. In and out with no fuss. No muss.
Unfortunately, Bernie's record downtown at Precinct 27 wasn't that neat. Two burglaries, three bad check raps, and one easy purse snatch that turned out to be set up by undercover cops. Bernie saw it as just a streak of bad luck. Sometimes Bernie blamed his bad luck on being born short, and growing up short, now at 32 just 5 foot 4. Light in weight too, at 130 pounds soaking wet, he avoided physical confrontation like the plague. Thus his proclivity for quiet burgling. The cops at the precinct treated him like their personal mascot, betting on when he'd be brought in for his next stay.
He'd rather not come in, however the meals and quarters at the precinct were vastly superior to his present digs. Mayflower movers cardboard box, single-wide, and unfurnished. Crowded around the meager fire burning brightly in the battered oil barrel, Bernie pontificated, to his scruffy crony's, “You guys ain't never going to amount to nuthin 'cause you ain't got ambition.” “If that's what you've got, I don't want any,” said Lenny, sprawled out on his sleeping perch under the bridge. “Aw, you guys could get somewhere if you had the gumption to,” said Bernie. Nobody in the small group cared for a life of crime as much as Bernie did. They scrounged for food and clothing, had shelter from the weather, and nobody bothered them here by the river, under the old derelict bridge.
Unfortunately, Bernie's record downtown at Precinct 27 wasn't that neat. Two burglaries, three bad check raps, and one easy purse snatch that turned out to be set up by undercover cops. Bernie saw it as just a streak of bad luck. Sometimes Bernie blamed his bad luck on being born short, and growing up short, now at 32 just 5 foot 4. Light in weight too, at 130 pounds soaking wet, he avoided physical confrontation like the plague. Thus his proclivity for quiet burgling. The cops at the precinct treated him like their personal mascot, betting on when he'd be brought in for his next stay.
He'd rather not come in, however the meals and quarters at the precinct were vastly superior to his present digs. Mayflower movers cardboard box, single-wide, and unfurnished. Crowded around the meager fire burning brightly in the battered oil barrel, Bernie pontificated, to his scruffy crony's, “You guys ain't never going to amount to nuthin 'cause you ain't got ambition.” “If that's what you've got, I don't want any,” said Lenny, sprawled out on his sleeping perch under the bridge. “Aw, you guys could get somewhere if you had the gumption to,” said Bernie. Nobody in the small group cared for a life of crime as much as Bernie did. They scrounged for food and clothing, had shelter from the weather, and nobody bothered them here by the river, under the old derelict bridge.
Bernie liked the finer things in life, although like didn't translate into had. He'd been wandering – he liked to call it scouting – around Bayshore Sands, the nearby upscale housing development for a mark. He only scouted BS, as he called it, during the wee hours of the morning when all was quiet, no one up yet to disturb his concentration. He'd started watching a big two story colonial that sat about two lots back from the street, up a long curving driveway. No fence. No gate. Worth investigating.
Painfully low on cash, Bernie decided he'd make his move on the house the following week and see what he could get away with quickly. The day before his foray, while scouting the BS neighborhood, he noticed three newspapers in the driveway of his intended target. People gone away. A very good sign. Good luck had finally smiled on him! That night, Bernie waited until midnight when he was sure that the neighbors would be in bed asleep, before making his move. He jimmied the door at the back deck and entered the house without as much as a peep out of any alarm. No alarm, or not set, more good luck. He found himself in the kitchen, and soon was rummaging through the refrigerator. The slice of apple pie was heaven! And the swig from the milk carton afterward was just as good.
He quickly went from room to room gathering small items he could carry easily, and fence for some quick cash. A cuckoo clock somewhere in the house went off at 12:15, and Bernie yelped, and almost soiled his pants. No other noises followed. Out the kitchen door, pillowcase comfortably full of loot. Running across the lawn he was tripped up by someone, came crashing to the ground, hit his head on the driveway, and blacked out.
When Bernie came to, Sergeant Maloney from the 27th Precinct was sitting on the ground next to him watching him closely, while inhaling deeply on his Lucky Strike. “Where'd you come from, Maloney? Who knocked me down?” cried Bernie. “We were called by Mrs. Franklin, right next door there. She was up late and saw, or shall I say, heard you holler when you went down.” “So, who done it, who knocked me down?”
“Him,” said Maloney, as he pointed at a mangled pink flamingo staring up into the night sky, one leg twisted into a crazily shaped W, barely in the ground, the other wrapped tightly around Bernie's left ankle.
Check back weekly for more voices of the North Carolina Storytelling Guild. If you enjoy these stories, you're bound to enjoy the Tarheel Tellers Storytelling Festival on November 3 & 4, 2017, at the Andy Griffith Playhouse in Mount Airy, NC.
