The $20 Dollar Pistol
This city stinks.
Or maybe it is me that stinks, I’m not sure which.
I came here with such high hopes but that has all been smashed, gone when they sold the company I worked for out from under me.
The condo got repo’ed last week. Becky and the baby moved back to Seattle with her folks. We fought a lot before she did that.
There’s no hope, no future. I’ve only got $20 to my name.
I can see my reflection in the pawn shop showcase mirror. I am beyond shabby. I am beyond redemption.
I finally decide and that decision fills me with sadness.
“I’ll take the .22 pistol,” I say, “and a box of shells.”
It costs me $19 total. I drop my last dollar into a sidewalk panhandler’s hat.
Turning into an alley, I walk some distance, stop and sit down behind a dumpster.
I load the .22 with 5 bullets and pull back the hammer.
A voice says, “Are you sure you really want to do that?”
I look toward its source.
Well, what do you know?
Angels really do have wings.