Sold Out New

Every Last One of Ya

$185.00

C.A. Hoffman & Son. Canvas and Leather carrier bag. No through tears in canvas. Clean. Very little cracking in leather. Stitching, Handles, and Fasteners attached. Functional and Useable.

Item comes with a signed, printed chapbook of the story.

Condition: Very Good

Year: 1930’s

Only 1 left in stock

EVERY LAST ONE OF YA

Work sucked. Traffic sucked. The bank sucked.

Mallory hated standing in line. Any line. It didn’t matter where, or when—the grocery store, the dmv, the pick up line at school. Lines brought out the worst of humanity. She used to pray for patience, but that seemed to result in her being stuck in an even longer line. Patience was a virtue, but it wasn’t a gift. And this line at the bank was a chore.

If John would’ve made the damn lunches this morning like he said he would, maybe she would’ve—but, there was no point in that. He never made the lunches, even when he said he would. But, still. She would’ve made it to the bank before work, and not have to be standing in this damn line at 4:48 on Friday afternoon when it seemed like everyone in Chicago was trying to cash a check. Didn’t these people have direct deposit? And why didn’t Chase have more tellers? Stupid two hundred dollar ATM limit. Stupid John’s mom. Mallory didn’t even want to go to Door County. Who uses cash anymore, anyway? This was ridiculous. Her feet hurt. And there were still three people ahead of her.

“Next.”

Nobody moved. Mallory fidgeted with the leather handle of her purse.

“Next.” Nobody moved. Mallory squirmed. Was he def? It didn’t help that the teller was a mouse. Get off your damn phone, and move!

“Sir,” said Mallory to the man who was next. “She’s calling you.”

The line inched up.

Mallory looked around—Chase blue everywhere. She read somewhere that blue was supposed to evoke trust. The only thing she trusted was that this was the longest line to ever be formed, and that traffic was getting worse every second she stood in it. Trust. What she needed was a trusty six shooter. That’s what would get this line moving—a ski mask and a revolver.

I don’t got time for this, she thought. “All you line zombies and mumble mouthed tellers, hit the floor! This is a robbery!” That would make the line disappear for sure. “And while you’re at it, fill the bag!” Like a modern day Bonnie, with John in the get away car outside. Or better yet, like that Hunny Bunny from Pulp Fiction. “If any of ya Pricks move! Especially you, Phone Face!”

Mallory stepped over the trembling bodies, heels silent on the cheap blue carpet. She tossed a canvas and leather money bags on the counter—the kind from the old westerns she watched with her dad.

“Twenties and tens. Fill it up, and make it fast.”

The teller was sweating. She went from mumble mouthed to mute. The security guard didn’t dare move. He was an overweight man in his sixties, close to retirement. And he didn’t get paid enough for this. Mallory kept scanning the room, as the teller kept piling bills in the canvas bag. One guy in the corner, cobalt suit and good hair looked like he was thinking about being a hero. He looked too calm. And his eyes were too aware.

“Hey you, Cobalt Cody. Don’t even think about it. I don’t care if you’re in blue. I don’t trust ya. So, don’t move an inch.” Mallory turned back to the teller.

“Hurry up. And I swear, if you press that panic button, I’m gonna give you something to panic about. You here me?”

The teller nodded, but stayed mute and kept filling the money bag. Mallory smirked. Forget Door County. Her and John were going to Vegas this weekend.—mother in law be damned. Hell, maybe even Mexico. The teller kept stuffing money and the bag looked heavy. It looked “flee the country” heavy. John better be ready to run. The tank better be full, and the kids better be ready. Cobalt Cody was inching closer to the security guard.  But it didn’t matter. The bag was almost full. Mallory tapped the gun on the counter, a hurry up tap, and the teller stuffed one last stack in the sack. Mallory grabbed the bag. This was it, a life on the run. No more stupid lines. No more stupid Deborah at the PTA judging everything about everyone. No more work or car payments or mortgages. Just sun, sand , and beaches. She’d never have to stand in other line for the rest of her life. And, that’s what she called…

“Next.”

Mallory looked around. Phone Face walked past her. The teller smiled. And the line inched up.

She was next.

Weight: 2 lbs
Dimensions: 51 x 36 in
Categories: 

Fashion