Their life revolved around the store, the store, all glory to the store, and lots of times, at the end of the day, they would both fall into bed, speak only a few words to each other, and then fall asleep. The only difference in the days of the week was that on Sunday, the newspapers for sale in the store were fatter.
That’s when he started to become frightened that everything was beginning to fall away with his life and marriage. Sacrifices, he thought, when do the damn sacrifices stop?
But then hope came, from a most unlikely source: the federal government.
SCENARIO ONE:
The SWAT team was breaking into a house with two known drug dealers, one of whom was believed to be armed. Craig’s role was to be the first drug dealer spotted, and he was sitting in a plastic chair, hands in his lap. The training officer said he was to cooperate and not put up any fuss, which was fine. There would be plenty of time for fuss later. Young and eager Sarah was somewhere deeper into the rooms, and he had wished her good luck and good aim.
Sounds. Booted feet tromping on the floor, low whispers, and then, like some nightmare vision from an Orwell book, the armed and well-equipped police came through the door. Even though he was expecting it and had done this several times before, his heart raced at the sight of these bulky armed men coming right at him. They had on goggles and helmets and protective vests and black fatigues and gloves and military boots, and some were holding out 9mm. pistols while others were carrying 9mm. submachine guns, and the moment Craig was spotted the screaming started, words tumbling over one another, echoing in the confines of the bunker.
“Police!”
“Search warrant!”
“Down on the ground!”
“Down on the ground, now!”
“Show us your hands!”
“Now!”
“Now!”
“Now!”
Craig’s heart was really thumping and he held out his hands and dropped to his knees on the concrete floor, and then stretched out. Hands expertly searched him, looking for any weapons — and a horrid thought suddenly came to him: Suppose the real round of 9mm. ammunition was found? — and when somebody yelled, “Hands to your back!” he moved his hands to his back and crossed his wrists. There was a squeeze at the wrists and another voice said, “Secure!” and he turned his head, seeing the booted feet fly by. Another part of the training. No handcuffs, no plastic restraints. He was now a prisoner, and he played along and waited.
Some other noises, of voices, as the police moved into the other rooms.
“Clear!”
“Okay.”
“Checking...”
“Hold on...”
“Gun!”
“Gun!”
And the gunfire erupted into the short and ferocious pop-pop-pop of practice rounds being expended, and more yells, more shouts, and then a whistle was blown by the training officer. Scenario completed.
Craig rolled over and sat up, removed his helmet. The SWAT members came back in as he stood up, some laughing, a couple of them looking embarrassed, with splotches of red paint smeared across their black fatigues. One guy said, “Hah, look at that, you got nailed by a girl,” and the other cop responded, with some bravado, “Man, the number of times I’ve nailed girls, I just decided it was time to let one of ’em have some payback.”
Then Sarah came in, smiling, her helmet off and her hair matted down. Her protective vest was smeared with a half-dozen paintball rounds, and she was shaking one of her hands, as if she had just burnt it on a stovetop. The other hand held the large revolver. “Man, that stung! Man, did that hurt! But I got some of you back, I surely did.” And she laughed.
“All right,” the training officer said. “Time for a debriefing. Sarah and Craig, if you can excuse us, please.”
“Sure,” he said, walking out of the bunker and blinking in the sunshine, helmet under his arm. Sarah was with him, still smiling. “That was some fun, but you know what?” she said.
“What?”
“I knew they were coming, I knew what they were going to do, but I was still scared. I was breathing hard and when they came into the room, I almost peed myself. Funny, huh?”
“No, same thing happens to me, all the time,” he said.
She wiped at her face. “How come they did that?”
“Did what?”
“Asked us to leave.”
Craig said, “So they can have a debriefing without a couple of civilians hanging around, that’s why. In some ways, we’re just guests here. That’s all. Nothing to get offended about.”
“Oh, I’m not offended,” she said. “Just curious.”
“Good.”
She then smoothed her hair and said, “I fired off all six rounds. Time to load up.”
“Go right ahead,” he said. “It’ll be awhile.”
So he sat on the grass while she went over to the table with the simulated ammunition. She undid the cylinder of the revolver, emptied out the spent brass cartridges, and then reloaded with the paintball rounds. Young Sarah worked quickly, efficiently, and Craig smiled at her hurry, since the cops were all still in the bunker taking part in the debriefing session.
He turned his head up to the sun and waited.
The news had come first from a story in the Porter Herald. In some mysterious way, grants from the Department of Housing and Urban Development were trickling into the city of Porter. Some of that money was going to be used in the neighborhood where the store was located, as part of “Renovation” and “Revitalization” and “Revamping” and other words that began with the letter R.
Interesting enough, he had thought, leafing through the newspaper as he waited for a young boy to count out seventy-five pennies so he could buy a candy bar, but the news got even more interesting when a couple of real-estate developers wandered by. And that had been the deaclass="underline" They were going to grab a chunk of that development money, and if Craig and his suffering wife were interested — were they ever! — then the store and the building would be purchased at a very reasonable price, and would then be turned into low-price apartments for welfare recipients or higher-priced apartments for senior citizens, depending on which interest group was making the most noise that year.
And his eyes had watered with tears, real tears of sheer joy, at seeing the proposals the real-estate agents had provided, for it meant a lot of money, enough for some time off and a fresh start for him and the woman he had married.
Maybe the time for sacrifice was over. And for the first time in months, things had been looking up.
At least for a while.
SCENARIO TWO:
A raid on another drug den. The cops coming in weren’t told how many people were in there or how they were armed. Sarah seemed eager to be the shooter again, and Craig said that was fine. His role was to be half-hidden in the corner of one of the rooms, and the training officer had told him to freelance, to do whatever he wanted.
Such an invitation.
So this time, Craig stood flat against a wall with his hand down at his side. It was a bit of a gamble, but he had taken one of his black gloves off and had rolled it up to make a cylinder. That was at his side, and he waited, breathing hard, the plastic on his helmet fogging up. Somewhere in there, Sarah was waiting with eager anticipation, and in a way, so was he.
Voices again, the sounds of the boots on the concrete.
He waited, heart now thumping merrily along.
They were closer now, in the other room. Voices, low and indistinct.
He could see the play of flashlight beams on the far wall.