I was returning to the church from a quick trip to the wholesale confection warehouse. That’s where you go to buy candy in bulk to sell at the concession stands for Little League baseball games, church leagues and such. The trunk of my white Pontiac LeMons with the red leather top was filled with Atom Bombs, Tootsie Pops, bulk popcorn and gallons of coconut oil. This mother lode would yield huge profits that would translate into new uniforms and equipment. (I think about the few cents it costs to produce a small bag of my favorite treat—movie popcorn—each time I put out five bucks for the delicacy at the theater. But we all pay the price because the smell of fresh buttery popcorn leads us into a temptation from which we cannot be delivered.)
In the passenger compartment of my car, I refereed the never-ending game of “That’s Mine, Don’t Touch It—I Saw It First.” This is a driving game played by my three kids each time we were in the car. This game is played by engaging in increasingly loud conversation, escalating to hitting the person closest to you and throwing anything that is not permanently attached to the body of the vehicle. That potential projectile can be a book, a backpack, lunch box or baby sister’s bottle. The object of the game is not to hurt the other players, but to see who can move Mother most quickly from, “Let’s play the quiet game. Let’s see who can go the longest without making a sound,” to a screaming maniac in rush hour traffic. The real pros can accomplish this in under three minutes. My kids were world-class champs.
We were on a side street beside 7-11 getting ready to turn onto Jefferson Avenue. I heard sirens and lots of them. Five police cars with sirens blaring and lights blazing were suddenly in my path. The cops jumped out of their cars and ordered me into the parking lot. My kids quickly realized the seriousness of their crime. Before I could figure out who called the cops on my kids, I realized the attention of the police was not focused on my red and white Pontiac, but on a taxi that was surrounded and blocking the street.
The officers were positioned behind the squad cars with weapons drawn and pointed at the cab. Time stood still for seconds. Minutes? Then the shouting began. “Get out with your hands on your head!” Again, time was of no consequence as they continued yelling, but nothing happened. Then, slowly the driver’s door opened and the cabbie emerged in slow motion with his fingers intertwined on top of his head. As he moved ever so slowly, he was ordered to drop to the ground and crawl on his hands and knees to safety and cover behind the dumpster. He did so ever so quickly.
More time passed. The SWAT team arrived in full SWAT team apparel. It looked like a movie set as the men in black approached the yellow taxicab. I heard a pop. Just a pop. Not a bang. Not a boom. Just a pop. The team crouched low and swarmed the target. Lots of indistinguishable yelling. Then someone gave the “all clear.”
It was about that time that somebody noticed the red and white LeMons with four open-mouthed faces pressed against the driver-side windows. I was ordered, not asked politely, not thanked for my cooperation, but ordered to leave.
The Six O’clock News and the Daily Press told the rest of the story. A single mom, obviously desperate with no place to turn for help, had called for a taxi to take her to the drug store. She told the driver to wait. She would just be a minute. She just needed to pick up something for her baby.
Once inside the store, she drew a pistol and demanded money from the cashier. Running back to the cab, she ordered the driver to take her home as she held the gun to his head. You know the rest.
I have to think how desperate she must have been. She had passed three churches on her way to the crime. Any of the three would have helped her with food and even with money. I know this to be true. I worked at one of them and we had helped hundreds of people.
Did she not plan her day at all? Did she expect to get away with this? Why go back home? How much money did she get and how long could it possibly last? Did she have a plan for when the money ran out? Who stayed with her baby while she ran this errand? Did she have a baby at all or was her desperation drug-induced?
This lady chose a very permanent solution to a very temporary and fixable problem.
Oh, that “pop” I heard? It wasn’t a bang. It wasn’t a boom. It was just a pop. She shot herself in the head.
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