BOLO

Ken sat behind the wheel of his old Sportage tapping his fingers intermittently with wiping sweat off his forehead. He stared at his watch willing it to change. As the minutes dragged on, he finally ran a hand over his sparse hair and then lit a cheap generic cigarette. The smoke drifted from his mouth, nose, and the end of the lit tobacco. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound from his wrist watch grew louder in his ears until it was replaced by an intense ringing of the alarm bell as his friends ran from the bank. Each dove into the back seat floorboard, pulling the doors shut and removing their masks. 

“Get the hell out of here!” one shouted. “You waiting for an engraved invitation?”

Ken sped away and drove fast for two blocks. He turned a corner and slowed down to the posted speed limit.

“What are you doing knuckle head?” the man asked.

“Shut up, Clarence. If I speed past a traffic cam it will take our picture. We don’t that,” Ken added slowly.

“Yeah, Clarence,” Ralph, the other man said. “We need to be all nice and normal; just three guys out for a spin.” 

Ken closed the garage door behind the vehicle. He looked out a window on the door and scanned the neighborhood. The street was quiet.

“Ken, get in here!” Clarence yelled from inside the house.

“What?” Ken said irritated. He yanked the refrigerator open and pulled out a can of beer.

“They’ve got a BOLO on you man. How’d they get a look at you?”

“They have a drawing that sort of looks like me; no name,” Ken replied, pointing at the television as they re-ran the story on the bank robbery. “What was I supposed to do? Sit there with a mask on my head? Nothing says ‘call the cops’ like a man in a mask sitting outside a bank behind the wheel with the engine running.”

“Just lay low. We’ll dump the car,” Clarence said. “You remember where the money will be?”

“Yes. It’s going to be in locker forty at the bus station,” Ken replied.

“Your share,” Clarence corrected. “Me and Ralph will take ours and split up.”

“What?”

“It was your plan,” Ralph said. “You’re the one who is behind on your mortgage.”

“I’m also the one they have the drawing of,” Ken said. 

“Just lay low. I’ll remove the VIN tags so they won’t ID you as the owner if they find it. Wipe it down too; the whole works,” Clarence said. He tapped Ralph on the shoulder and motioned to the door with his head. 

Ken sat starring at the television as the other two left with his vehicle and the money, which had added up to only twenty grand; divided up three ways was not enough to save his home. They had used funs so it would land him fifteen years if he was caught. 

The next morning Ken carefully opened his door, barely stepping outside long enough to grab his newspaper from the porch. He closed the door and locked it. 

Unfolding the morning edition, he scanned the front page for the story on the robbery. In a paragraph subtitled Update he found that a source close to the police had told the reported a vehicle matching the description of the one involved in the robbery was found with a body murdered inside. No further information was available.

“Which one?” Ken screamed, and knocked over his coffee. He hung his head as the hot beverage ran off the table onto the floor. “The money is gone,” he wailed. He shook his head as a thought came to him: Two men went into the bank wearing masks. Someone saw him speeding away and one man was dead in the get-away car. Somebody is getting away with the money and murder.

He looked up when he heard the sirens. He nodded his head as he spoke to no one. “He left the VIN plates intact too. Had to be Clarence; he’s the only one mean enough to make sure he got pinned with the whole thing.”

Ken opened the door and sat on the porch with his hands behind his head. 

Officers, guns drawn, approached Ken, identified him and read him his rights.

“You are under arrest for felony bank robbery and the murder of Clarence Menlow,” one said.

Ken looked up wide eyed. “It was Clarence; not Ralph?’

“What do you mean? You sound surprised,” the arresting officer said.

 “I didn’t think he had it in him. Ralph didn’t even take a loaded gun into the bank,” Ken said.

“You understand you have just incriminated yourself in the bank robbery?” the officer asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve lost everything anyway,” Ken replied.

…In a bar in Mexico, Ralph laughed with a beautiful, black-haired young woman as he ordered two more bottles of beer. 

Hungry

“Mama, wake up!” three year-old Cindy cried as she shook her mother’s shoulder. She was asleep on the couch again. “I’m hungry.”

“What?” her mother mumbled. “There isn’t anything to eat. Go play in your room. Mama’s tired.”

Cindy wiped a tear away and went into the kitchen again and searched the empty refrigerator. She pulled a chair up to the counter and pulled open a cabinet door. The cereal box was empty. She pulled a box of what she thought might be mac and cheese going by the picture off the shelf but thought she shouldn't try to cook that. The last time she had almost started a fire and her mother yelled at her. There was nothing else; even the peanut butter jar was empty. She left it on the counter and opened another cabinet. She pulled out a plastic bowl and grabbed a spoon out of the dish rack and climbed down.

“Mama, are you getting up today?” Cindy asked her mother, trying to wake her once more. Her mother just rolled over and snored.

Cindy sighed and walked to the door. She set her bowl and spoon down on the floor so she could use both hands to open the door, retrieved the items and went outside and next door to her neighbors’ house.

Cindy knocked on the back door. When Mrs. Donnelly opened it she smiled sadly down at Cindy. “Mom asleep again, honey?” Cindy just nodded and held up her bowl. “Come on in,” she said, taking Cindy’s small hand and leading her inside.

“Thank you,” Cindy said in a voice slightly louder than a whisper.

Mrs. Donnelly set a plate of eggs and toast and glass of milk in front of Cindy. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I had a peanut butter sandwich yesterday sometime,” Cindy said matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Donnelly patted the child on the head. “Alice!” she called to her eldest daughter as she peeled a banana and placed it on the place next to the eggs. “Eat this too if you can hold it.”

“Wow! So much at once,” Cindy said in amazement, although she was used to Mrs. Donnelly feeding her at least three times a week.

“What is it Mom?” her daughter asked walking in to the kitchen.

“I need you stay with Cindy while I go over and talk to her mom,” she said. As her daughter nodded and sat down with Cindy, she walked out the door.

Mrs. Donnelly didn’t even bother to knock, she just went on in. She looked around and was surprised at how clean the small house actually was. She thought there would be trash and alcohol empties strewn all over, but she had to admit that Cindy was always clean when she came over. She found Cindy’s mother on the couch asleep and shook her hard to wake her up.

“What?” Tara, Cindy’s mother said drowsily. She sat up. “Cindy, stop waking me up,” she said before she realized it wasn’t Cindy standing in front of her. “Sandra? What’s up?”

“You!” She said angrily. “I don’t mind feeding a starving child; in fact, I’d rather Cindy come over to my house to eat than stay hungry, but you have got to get some food for that child or Social Services will be notified.”

Tara threw the blanket off she had pulled over herself when she crashed on the couch. She was rail thin herself and her eyes were gaunt. She stood up. “I will go get her. I didn’t know she was going over to your house to eat.”

“There’s no need. I told you, I don’t mind feeding her, but a few mornings a week is barely enough to keep her alive. It looks like you haven’t been eating much either,” she added, more calmly, now more concerned than angry. She sat down on the couch and pulled Tara with her.

“Tell me what’s going on Tara. Why is there is nothing to eat?” she asked.

Her face reddened and it spread down her neck and to her pale, rough hands. “I barely make enough to pay rent on this place and believe me, I’ve tried to find something less expensive. Short of drug-filled housing project, there isn’t anything. I clean office buildings at night and they cut my hours, so there isn't enough for a lot of food, okay! I’m lucky we have lights on still and water. That’s why they are usually off.”

“Tara, have you gone to the food pantries?” Sandra Donnelly asked her.

“Yes, I did, but they can’t give out a whole lot either. They don’t have enough to go around and it’s just the two of us. Her father hasn’t paid a cent in child support.” She pointed in a corner where an old television sat. “That thing isn’t plugged in so it doesn’t run up the electric bill and that’s the only entertainment we have. This place is so clean because the pantry has plenty of cleaning supplies, laundry soap and even bath soap. I wash her clothes in the bathtub. Maybe you’ve noticed the clothes draped over the clothesline out back.

“Yes, but I just figured you like air-dried laundry. A lot of people do.” Sandra stared out the window. “Tara, where’s your car?”

“I sold it,” she said. “I couldn’t afford gas or upkeep, much less insurance. I take the bus or walk to work.”

“Tara, get dressed. I’m taking you to Social Services. You need to sign up for some assistance. Don’t let pride stop you either. You need help before they take notice from someone other myself calling them and then they take Cindy. They’ll help you pay for childcare too, although you could have just asked if we would watch her.”

Tara looked up her a moment then slowly nodded agreement.

***

Many people think that hungry children only belong to the addicted or mentally ill who are unable to care for themselves, but the truth is that employed Americans are also unable to feed their families. Many children only receive nutritious food at school and when school is out, they either do not get adequately nutritious food or little to no food for long stretches of time.

According to the website www.nokidhungry.org 48.8 million Americans, including 16.2 million children are in what is termed ‘food insecure’ households; the largest number being in the inner city, but by no means only there. Rural areas and suburban areas – outlying areas- also suffer from hunger.

 

You can help by donating to food pantries, buying products labeled as donating proceeds of the purchase to food banks (and actually following the instructions on the package), participating in food drives such as by the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, United States Postal Service, Salvation Army, churches, Future Farmers of America and holiday food drives at participating grocery stores. There are also many organizations that supply food banks around the country.

In a country as great as ours its citizens, and especially its children should not have to go hungry.

Some organizations:

www.feedthechildren.org

www.bread.org

www.feedingamerica.org

www.nokidhungry.org

www.fmpfoodbank.org (West Central Wisconsin, where I live)