Bank Robber's

we were young and dumb, but not reckless, two boys skimming the edge of fear, a twenty-year-old shadow and his seventeen-year-old brother, riding the spine of Interstate Ten, from Tallahassee to San Diego, then back to Florida— outlaws without blood on our hands. the first time was the hardest, hearts pounding like fists against the ribcage. a small-town branch, the teller's wide eyes, hands shaking as she filled the bag. we whispered, not shouted, like thieves apologizing for the theft. no gun would fire, no life would end. we were just as afraid as the people we robbed, maybe more— they would go home to their casseroles and sitcoms, we would drive into the long night, checking mirrors, counting shadows. the money bought gas, bought distance, bought time. southern states fell behind us like discarded postcards— until Texas. Houston, San Antonio, El Paso. three jobs in one state. the sweat, the stares, the peso dancing in flux, unstable as the lives we stole. back to Tampa, the roads wore us thin, two ghosts in a modern car, safe but haunted. I never held a gun again. he never held onto life. three years ago, he died a useless death. no glory, no gunfire, just the silent collapse of a heart that had run too hard. sixty-six now, and I think of him— the kid who laughed in the face of fear, who counted pesos in the passenger seat, who believed we could outrun everything. Hollywood spent billions on the dead legends— Butch and Sundance, Bonnie and Clyde, Billy the Kid. all shot, all gone. but we survived, not heroes, not villains, just two scared boys with a knack for escape and the luck of the modern age. today, I wouldn't suggest it. you'll be caught, you'll be killed. the world's too sharp now, too fast. but back then— well, back then we were afraid, and maybe that's why we lived. The statue of limitations concerning these crimes, Has long since expired.