Hopeless

In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have told my oncologist to go fuck himself. In my defense, it’s not every day you’re told you’re going to die. I already knew that of course. Several rounds of chemo, immunotherapy, and two hundred k in medical bills have a way of cluing you in. What I didn’t need was the banal platitudes and robotic tone after spending nearly a year together. I get it. You were trained to compartmentalize, but maybe don’t act like you come by it so naturally? I swear that asshole has the bedside manner of Pol Pot. At least I don’t have to see him ever again. Multiple Myeloma? 0 out of 5 stars. Do not recommend.

So where does that leave me? Six months to live, a mountain of debt, a kid in private school, and a social worker girlfriend with effectively zero earning potential. Translation? We’re all out of white horses today. What was it my dad said? “Grab your fucking bootstraps.” Indeed.

In this case, the proverbial bootstrap I’m looking at is a display case of “Saturday Night Specials” at the Lucky Pawn Shop on Aurora Avenue. Thanks Google for educating me on that particular idiom. If you haven't visited a pawn shop to browse firearms before you’re in for a real treat. The Lucky Pawn Shop comes with the stench of desperation and a double-helping of irony. This is easily the saddest group of patrons I’ve ever seen. A grandmother in a walker is poring over gaudy gold jewelry that, judging by her threadbare sweater and velcro shoes, there’s no way she can afford. The two young Russians in track suits that just brought in a flat screen TV look like their next score will be their last. They’re so twitchy it’s even odds that TV is shattered before they put it down. Even in my cutest wig I fit right in - that’s what a steady diet of poison will do to you. I look like a 70 year old Twiggy after a touch of dysentery.

The manager avoids making eye contact as if his life depends on it. He opens the display case for me with a set of keys that would be the envy of every high school janitor. I feel the weight of a couple of different firearms before deciding on the Raven MP-25. It’s the cutest option and I can’t help but say under my breath “that’s so Raven” as I aim it at the well-worn target on the wall. It has Jimmy Carter’s face on it - that’s how old this place is. They feel heavier than when my ex took me to the range. When I tell him I’ll take it he grumbles something about paperwork and stuffs a clipboard in my face. Right. A background check. I should have known.

I fill out the paperwork in a Klonopin-induced state of tranquility. It’s amazing how those little suckers take the edge off. I can be in a full tailspin, but 30 minutes later I'm that little dog in the “this is fine” meme with the house burning around him. When I get to the section where I allow the state to see if I’ve been in a mental institution I audibly chuckle just in time to look up and make my first (and last) eye contact with the manager. He gives me the slightest of shrugs and goes back to playing Candy Crush. If our thought bubbles were t-shirts he’d be wearing “Just another Tuesday” and I’d have “Lost cause.” I ask him how long it’s going to take and he tells me ten days without looking up.

Ten days. I have ten days to get my head straight and reconsider this dumbass plan. Except I have considered it. A lot. It’s not my best option. It's the option if I want to wipe out this debt and keep my kid out of “Hail of Gunfire High.” We’re gonna slide right past the irony that I’m currently shopping for a handgun. I hand in my paperwork and exit the pawn shop emerging smack into one of those spectacular blue bird days in Seattle. It’s gorgeous, but forty degrees. Did I mention it was February? In relationship terms, Seattle is that passive aggressive summer fling from your early 20s. You know the kind - at first it’s all hiking and Rolling Rocks and then it slowly bleeds the life out of you all winter long - only doling out a day like today just when it realizes you’re going to leave. Ike Turner, eat your heart out.

I fall into my ex-husband’s prized 1968 Charger. The smell of stale cigars and baseball leather seats envelope me as I bury my face in my hands. I’m out of tears. What was that Jessica Walter line? I can’t spare the moisture. Great fucking line. I turn on the ignition hoping the roar of the V-8 will pull me out of my spiral. It does. I love this car. If my ex wasn’t such an asshole I wouldn’t have angled for it in the divorce. It was his pride and joy. Now it’s my daily driver. At least I think that’s the phrase. He’s the car guy.

I drive the long way to Georgetown going along Lake Washington Boulevard. The trees are bare, but with the windows up and heat blasting you can almost fool yourself into thinking it’s a summer day. I try not to think about the fact that this summer will be my last. The wooden steering wheel still feels cold in my hand. I’m cold all the time now. It’s a byproduct of the regimen I’m on, but also my frame. At 5’3” and 120 pounds there’s just no meat left on the bone. I hit the accelerator and lean into a few corners feeling the back tires slide the slightest bit. It feels different. What was once an exhilarating thrill has given way to something else all together. I can’t put my finger on it at first, but then it hits me.

I’m in control. It feels good.

I pull into the driveway behind Jody’s Outback. When I brought up the inevitable cliche she reminded me of how many fucks she gave about other people's opinions. God damn I love her. The steps of our 80 year old craftsman creak under my meager weight. As I come through the glass door I’m welcomed by a sensory assault of thyme, beef, onions, red wine and Tori Amos. Jody is in the kitchen stirring one of her famous soups. She swears by long simmers, saying the flavors need time to “fester.” I’ve begged her to find another word, but she refuses. She looks at me expectantly, asking with raised eyebrows while she taste checks her beef and lentil concoction. I don’t have the heart to tell her the news and shrug in response before pouring myself a generous glass of Malbec. Tonight has the look of one of those perfectly mundane Tuesday evenings. The kind that don’t even register until you realize what you have…or had in my case.

My daughter, from the aforementioned asshole, is in the living room crashed out on our sagging sectional - studying of course. She’s the only good thing that came out of that marriage. Well, her and the Charger. I’m so glad we got her out of that crappy school, she was drowning there. Not the best place for a gifted kid. I’m not sure where she got her smarts from, but it sure wasn’t me. Or her father. The tuition is killing me. Literally. But I have a plan for that.

I settle in for an evening of soup and sitcoms; trying to look engaged while I do the odd research on my phone. Tonight’s lesson - money laundering. I’m using the Onion browser to cover my tracks. I learned about that one at a free internet terminal at the library. I may not be gifted, but I’m not an idiot.

Ten days somehow pass both slowly and quickly. Like any big event that carries a sense of anticipation, they drag on and then suddenly it’s here, all at once. I focus on honing my plan: covering escape routes, disabling police cameras, and stashing a stolen getaway car. My first hotwire only took five minutes - thanks YouTube! I execute these tasks with a layer of detachment that would make my oncologist blush. It’s as if I’m observing myself in an out of body experience, my perspective that of a surveillance camera - at a distance and just out of focus. Jody thinks I’m still working. I didn't tell her I quit two weeks ago. I got a nice cake.

I finally hear the word that my background check is complete. Apparently no one knows I’m nuts. I head back to the pawn shop to collect my piece. I have to audibly clear my throat to draw the manager’s attention away from his phone - Candy Crush for the win. I guess he’s immune to that door bell now. If he recognizes me he gives no indication. I fill out a few more pieces of paperwork. Without asking he drops a box of cartridges on top of the box holding my Raven. Normally, I’d find assumptive add-ons at the counter super irritating, but I’m over it.

I head to Ross to buy my stick-up outfit. Tactical-chic doesn’t have a dedicated aisle, but I manage to pull together something that’s functional and stylish. The goth chick with five piercings who rings me up gives me a little nod that says - “I see you.” We share a moment. I’m bummed that I have to burn the outfit later.

Today’s final errand involves a quick stop at the local firing range. I need to test fire my Raven. Not that I plan on using it. I’m not going to kill anyone. Maybe a shot in the ceiling to let everyone know I’m serious (but again, not really). I just don’t want it jamming on me. I’ve seen movies.

I chose the fancy gun range in Bellevue. It’s right off the freeway so the location isn’t glamorous, but the parking lot tells you this is a crowd that’s looking to protect what they already have vs. those who are looking to get theirs. It’s all Lexuses (Lexi?) and Teslas in the lot; half of the latter are bumper-stickered with some form of Elon bashing in a fit of Seattle virtue signaling, our core competency. I’m sandwiched between a couple of middle-aged moms who are struggling to gab with their noise canceling headphones and the Patagonia fleece bros who are shooting guns that look very expensive, but only underscore just how unfuckable they are. I squeeze off a few rounds only hitting the body in the target once. So, I’m not a crack shot. Good thing I don’t plan on shooting anyone.

On the way home I play out tomorrow over and over again in my head. Not reconsidering, just contingency planning. Looking around every corner, thinking through every detail. The biggest risk, aside from getting caught in the act, is getting the money clean. Wayne, the asshole ex-husband, can handle that. Body shops are great for laundering cash. He won’t love it, but he’ll do it anyway. He did a nickel for armed robbery in his youth. And he loves his kid.

Sunrise, if you can call it that, comes quickly. The grey sky seems like it’s hanging extra low today. It’s close, too close, like it wants me to know it’s watching. I tell Jody I’m going in for one more transfusion. There’s been so many the past year she doesn’t blink. She offers to come with me of course, but I decline. I give her a kiss on the way out the door and linger for just a moment too long. She asks if I’m ok “considering” - we say “considering” a lot in this house.

I hop in the charger - my outfit, ski mask, gloves, and Raven tucked in a duffel from the night before. The drive to Sodo isn’t too busy, traffic still hasn’t really bounced back since Covid. I get to my first boosted car and park; leaving the Charger to collect later. The bank is just one mile away. No need for anyone to pick up my plates from the parking lot cameras. I sit low in the car, a silver Camry, pulling on my tactical gear shuddering at the still fresh Vanilla-Roma tree dangling from the rear view. As I lace up my boots I can’t help but hear dad - “grab your fucking bootstraps.”

You bet your ass.