Cops and Robbers

Tom

That was one of the days when our schedules didn’t match. Joe was in the city working, and I had the day off. Naturally it was raining, so I moped around the house and read a paperback and watched some of the game shows on television. Mary took off in the car for the Grand Union in the middle of the day, so when the show I was watching came to an end I wandered back into the bedroom to take a look at my old uniform. If we ever really did do this robbery, that’s what I’d be wearing for my disguise.

I hadn’t worn the uniform in three or four years, but it was still there, hanging in the bedroom closet, pushed way down to one end, behind the raincoat liner for the raincoat I left in a restaurant two years ago. I laid it out on the bed and looked it over for a minute; no holes, no buttons missing, everything fine. I changed into it, and studied myself in the mirror on the back of the closet door.

Yeah, that was me, I remembered that guy. The years I’d worn this blue suit, hot weather and cold, rain and sun. For some damn reason I suddenly found myself feeling gloomy, really sad about something. As though I’d lost something somewhere along the line, and even though I didn’t know what it was I felt its absence. I don’t know how to explain it any better than that; it was a sense of loss I felt.

Well, crap, I didn’t come in here to get the rainy-day blues. I came in here to check out my disguise for the big robbery. And it looked fine, it was in perfect shape, no problem.

I was still standing there, trying to forget that I was feeling sad about something I couldn’t remember, when all of a sudden Mary came walking in, and looked at me with her mouth hanging open.

I’d thought she’d be at the store at least another hour. I turned and gave her a sheepish grin, and tried to figure out what the hell I was going to say to her. But I couldn’t think of a thing, not a single word came into my mind to explain what I was doing here in the bedroom in my old uniform.

After her first surprise, she helped me out of my paralysis by making a joke out of it, coming farther into the bedroom and saying, “What’s this? You’ve been demoted?”

“Uh,” I said, and then finally my brain and my tongue started working again. “I just wanted to see how I looked in it,” I said, and turned to study myself in the mirror again. “See if it still fit.”

“It doesn’t,” she said.

“Sure it does.” I turned sideways and gave myself a good view of my profile. “Well, it’s maybe a little tight,” I admitted. “Not much.”

Past me in the mirror I could see her smiling at me and shaking her head. She’d kept her own figure almost exactly the same, in spite of having kids and being a housewife for years, so she was in a good position to be thinner-than-thou if she wanted. And even though it was ridiculous, I felt defensive on the subject. I turned and said, “Listen, I could still wear it. If I had to, I could. It wouldn’t look that bad.”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “It isn’t terrible.” I couldn’t tell if she meant it or if she was humoring me.

Being agreed with was just as bad as having an argument. I patted my stomach, looking at it in the mirror, and said, “I’ve been drinking too much beer, that’s the trouble.”

She made an I-wouldn’t-argue-with-you face, and walked over to the dresser. I watched her in the mirror. She picked up her watch from the dresser top and headed for the door, winding it. In the doorway, she looked back at me and said, “Lunch in fifteen minutes.”

I said, “I’ll have iced tea today.”

She laughed. “All right,” she said.

After she went out, I gave myself another critical look. It wasn’t that bad. A little tight, that’s all. Not bad.