PUSH-BUTTON EASY
By
Anthony Neil Smith

Ken had heard about the two bank robberies on the Mississippi Gulf Coast that week and thought it must be easier down here. He dropped by Wiley & Oaks to make a deposit, but also to do a dry run, see if he could still do it if he wanted. The last time was ten years ago, when Ken was fifty, in Ohio before he and Jill retired to Ocean Springs. He had an unloaded .32 revolver in his windbreaker's pocket and would plead innocent if they caught him: "On my way to sell it, honest."

This branch of Wiley & Oaks was in the parking lot out front of Wal-Mart, Domino's Pizza, and the crafts store. He walked in right after they opened at nine, bummed out in shorts and fishing cap, and walked straight ahead to the island in front of the three tellers. A couple of desks were off to the left, where people begged for loans they would use to pay off other loans. Ken leaned on his elbows and scribbled out the deposit slip with the pen-on-a-chain. He thought about writing a "Give me all your money" note on back but smiled it away.

Ken picked the young blond teller with big triangle earrings. She did a plastic grin, and Ken laid four quarter rolls on top of his deposit slip. She took them and flashed her fingers over the computer keys, made out his receipt. Her nameplate: Bethany. Ken thanked her and walked out.

He drove to the mall in Biloxi to buy golf shirts and khaki pants, and sandals and sunglasses for Jill. He thought about how the new generation of bank robbers used computers to wire themselves millions. Ken didn't want a million if he couldn't hold it. Bundles of twenties and hundreds, he could touch those, flip them, smell the ink.

Back in Ocean Springs, he parked outside the front fence of his house. It was a small old wooden number a few blocks from the beach, with a thick gnarled tree on the side, small front and back yards. By the wall under a window, there was a small bricked-in garden with an open bag of fertilizer and hand spade beside it but no flowers yet. Jill turned the dirt earlier and said she'd wait until Ken got back from the bank so they could go buy some together. That was two hours ago.

Ken looked back at the car, a Buick LeSabre they'd had a few years, two-door, burgundy, boring as hell. He carried his bags into the kitchen where Jill sat on a stool in her one-piece bathing suit and orange shorts, talking on the phone and smoking a Kool.

"Here's my son of a bitch husband now," she said.

Ken shrugged. "Side trip."

"We can go now. Call you later, Mom." Jill called her mom ten times a day, at least.

She hung up, and Ken handed one of the bags to her. "Got you something."

"You did?" She opened it and looked in, put the shades on. The tag hung over one lens. "How do I look?"

"Fabulous," Ken said. There was a little gray in Jill's blonde hair. Her breasts and arms and thighs sagged. She was fifty-nine and getting old too.

"And sandals, too. Is this an apology?" Jill smashed her cigarette in the fish ashtray on the bar and tossed the sandals on the floor. She kicked off dirty Keds and slid into the new shoes, lifted each foot to admire them. Her toenails were milky pink.

"We'll call it a peace offering."

"Thank you, Kenny." She pecked his cheek. "Are you ready to go now?"

"Listen," Ken said. He gave Jill's pack of Kools a spin. "I think we ought to go look at cars."

"We need a car?"

"This one's boring. We've had it a few years, and I don't notice it like I used to. It's vanilla."

"It's comfortable. I like it." Jill knew the car was only what Ken was saying, that the real problem was he was bored with the whole town, with retirement. They had plenty of money, lots of freedom, but things were quiet. Which was fine with Jill; she had been scared before they quit robbing banks. She had ulcers then. But on the Coast she seemed better. The garden, the house, a long clean beach and nice weather most of the year. She liked eating at the casinos and shopping at America's Thrift Store. She said, "I like it here."

Ken went to the sink and washed his hands. He cupped the stream, lifted and took a sip. "We never go anywhere. The last trip was New Orleans? Last year."

"Nobody's holding you down. You got to go, take off for a while. I'll be here when you get back." Jill yanked the tag off her sunglasses.

Ken laughed. "You old bitch. As long as we're going that way, we can just look. A Black Cadillac. Shiny."

Jill went in the bedroom and put on a white shirt. She pulled the papers for the car from the shoebox under the bed. The rest needed shredding. She was worried; ten years, and they'd stopped living out of suitcases, weren't ready to grab and go in five minutes. They bought things on credit now, like the furniture and microwave and big TV. She had a charge card at J.C. Penny's.

Ken was at the front door twirling the key ring on his finger when Jill returned. They got in the car and drove east on Highway 90 towards Pascagoula, where there was a nursery Jill liked. It was hot outside, and Jill wanted the air max-cold. She made Ken close his window. He did and then turned the radio to a country station-halfway through a Tim McGraw song.

"He's that pitcher's son," Jill said.

"He sucks. The young guys are twanging now for effect. It doesn't come natural like Waylon."

"Merle Haggard."

The drawbridge into Pascagoula was up, and they were ten cars back in the line. Ken said they might as well do it there, so Jill pulled handkerchiefs out of the glove box, handed one to Ken, and they wiped down everything-the dash, steering wheel, seats, radio knobs and seatbelt buckles. They lowered the windows and wiped the door handles. Jill dropped the hankies out on the road. With the windows down, the smell of Pascagoula wafted through: shrimp and fish, salt water, the paper mill, sharp and dead.

Jill said, "I want a truck. No, a utility vehicle."

"You're not a soccer mom. You pregnant?"

"I want the space, more room to carry plants and fertilizer bags. And they're up high."

"I don't like them."

"You'll learn."

Ken shifted sideways and propped his arm on the door. There was a line of shrimp boats passing out of the channel into the Gulf. Five of them went by before the bridge lowered slowly, almost seemed to stick, but then settled into place before the striped bar rose and traffic zipped over, afraid more boats might be on the way.

A few stoplights down on 90, past empty lots where fast food joints stood until they were bought out to make way for the a new bridge, and opposite Hardee's and a gas station, Ken pulled into Houston Davis's GMC/Cadillac/Pontiac/Olds lot. Davis owned half the new car lots in town, the other half selling imports. Ken parked in front of a line of Cadillacs, and they got out, Jill following Ken straight to a Black Seville. He looked over the sticker, tried the door but found it locked, then cupped his fingers over his eyes and smudged on the glass.

"This is what I want. Jesus, it's beautiful," he said.

Jill crossed her arms. She leaned slightly to look over Ken's shoulder. It was a dark interior, plush. The dash was sleek. She didn't see gauges or a speedometer or knobs. Everything was push-button easy. Jill stood up and looked around the lot: the approaching salesman, a line of Pontiacs in front of the building, which used to be a bank. Long and wide windows with a bronze reflection, dark stone walls in between. A couple of other shoppers wandered around the GMC trucks. At the end of that line sat a deep green Yukon parallel to the highway. Jill liked the shape, the color, the size.

The salesman was at Ken's side, Ken still nose-and-fingertips to the glass.

"You folks sneaking up on me today? Dreaming out loud?"

"No, I want this one," Ken said.

"That's good. Make my job easier, I don't mind. I'm Dave." The salesman was built strong with a slight paunch. Dark hair and a tan, pockmarked face, maybe late thirties. Ken shook his hand, smiled, then looked around the lot.

"Joe Garnett," Ken said. "My wife, Bette."

Jill smiled and waved, thought, Why Bette? Shit. "What about the Yukon here? They're popular, right?"

"Everybody wants one. That one came in yesterday. No pressure here, all right? Want to drive one?" Dave looked at the LeSabre. "This your trade-in?"

"Could be."

"Cashing in on retirement. I see."

Ken shrugged. "I earned it. I want to drive the Seville. We'll look at the truck later."

Dave went to get the key. Jill said, "But look at it. It's a tank. You could go anywhere."

"If I go off in the mountains, you couldn't use it for a few weeks."

"I get the rest of the year."

Ken leaned on the car and shoved his hands in his pockets. He scrubbed a shoe on the ground. They were sweating, needing the air conditioner. The noise on 90 picked up again, traffic ripping currents.

"You really mean it, I can take some vacations?" Ken said.

"Whatever you want. If you need it, take it. Go be happy."

"But I like hanging around with you. It'd be more fun if you came."

"You came down here because of me. You stayed this long. I'm surprised, really. I was looking for this restlessness from you five years ago." Jill put her hands behind her neck and twisted her waist left and right.

Dave came back with the keys and exchanged with Ken, said they could ride without him. Ken and Jill got in, cranked up, and eased it to the road. The leather seats were fantastic and soft. Jill sat back, stretched her legs full in front of her-it was like a den, the room inside. Ken looked at Jill and they laughed like it was a dirty joke. The air was an arctic jet, and there were different settings for driver and passenger. Jill put her face right in front of a vent and blinked fast.

Ken drove up a block to Market Street, turned right, flicked some radio buttons. He said, "It's got that tracking device, where they can find you with satellites."

"The Yukon doesn't have that."

"Where's this nursery?"

Jill told him to take a left at Old Mobile Avenue, between an abandoned gas station and a shabby one, past a muffler shop, until Jill pointed at a cinder block building painted white with Gallespye's in green above the front double doors. There was a pickup truck parked in front. Ken pulled the Seville into a side spot, where they caught a glimpse of the greenhouse in back. They got out and went in, Ken playing with the auto lock key chain.

Inside, the place smelled like shit and felt sticky. It was one big room: a rack of seed packets, garden tools lining the walls, a few birdbaths, lawnmowers. Fertilizer bags were stacked on wood slats. Some tall houseplants, ferns and begonias, were on brick-and-board shelves lining the far left wall, and the greenhouse entrance was at the end of it. A young woman with hair pulled tight and pinned up stood behind the long counter at a cash register. She smiled and said, "Hey."

"What do you need?" Ken said.

"Flowers, petunias I guess. More fertilizer. Some weed killer."

"Seeds?" Ken picked up a pack and shook it, looked at the front. "Popcorn!"

"Just plants. They grow better. Out there," Jill said and headed for the greenhouse, Ken following. A woman passed them carrying a tray of periwinkles.

The greenhouse air had a stronger shit smell mixed with syrupy flower odor. Ken pulled his shirt over his nose, but Jill marched through glancing and touching - zenias, impatiens, heather, roses. The light was hazy green, coating everything. All the plants were in black plastic separators on waist high tables along the walls and down a center aisle. Jill stopped at the petunias and lifted a tray of mixed colors.

"Did I tell you about the bank hits I saw on the news?" Ken said.

"I saw that. They go down easy here."

"I made that deposit today, took the .32 with me, just to see. I could've done it, I know."

"It's different now." She looked at him. "You'd have to catch up with the times, make changes."

"Do you miss it?"

"Yeah," Jill said. "But everybody quits sometime. Cops quit. Bankers quit. We did okay."

Ken leaned in close, brushed her cheek with his lips. He said, "But I miss you and me. We've settled. I go out somewhere, I know I'll see you when I get home. Back then, I never knew. Might've gone to jail, might've got shot, you might've got shot. It made the vows real, you know?"

"I know. We could have sent each other to jail if we wanted."

"And we didn't."

Jill lifted a second tray. "Carry one, will you?"

Ken grabbed the tray of petunias and followed Jill out of the greenhouse. The other customer had gone and the counter girl was flipping through an issue of National Review. They set the trays on the counter. Jill went for a bottle of weed killer.

"You have a wheelbarrow we can carry it out to the car in? We need a couple bags of fertilizer, too," Ken said.

"I've got a dolly. That'll handle it." The girl said. She wheeled the dolly from behind the counter, and Ken stacked two bags of fertilizer on it. The girl put box tops on the flower trays, to stack them without crushing, then she handed Ken the weed killer in a bag. She rang up a total.

Jill tiptoed up to Ken's ear and whispered, "You still got the gun, right?"

He nodded.

"Take this place." She backed down and said louder, "You pay. I'll wheel it out to the car." Jill lifted the dolly back and rolled out the door.

Ken smiled at the waiting girl and said, "Okay, hon, you need to stay calm first, all right? Things will go nice."

He pulled the .32 from his pocket and held it low in front of him, not pointing at her but letting her see it. She babbled something about not hurting her, she'd do what he said.

"We take the flowers, the bags, and money. Big bills. Tens and twenties. Open the register now." He handed her the weed killer bag. "Put it in here."

She opened the drawer and said, "No tens, but plenty of fives."

"That'll do. Fives and twenties and hundreds, but you don't have hundreds, right?"

She shook her head, worked fast and clumsy at putting the bills in the bag. Ken thought maybe a few hundred. She handed the bag to him.

"That's great. You need to walk backwards, keep your eyes on me, to the greenhouse door. Count to a hundred, one at a time. Got me?"

The girl nodded and took slow backward steps. There was a portable phone by the cash register. Ken grabbed it, retreated and watched as the girl reached the greenhouse. Ken ran out the front to the car, which Jill had already pulled out in the street, door open. Ken jumped over the dolly and fell into the passenger seat. Jill floored it.

"The stuff's in the trunk?" Ken said.

"Which way?"

"Hang a left, back to 90. Let's try for Mobile."

Ken dumped the bag in his lap and did a quick count: Two hundred fifty-five dollars - hardly worth it, but still a rush. He said, "You really up to this? We can ditch the car and go home."

"We'll ditch the car later," Jill said. "Where to?"

Ken shrugged. "Florida?"

"Let me call Mom first."

# # #

Anthony Neil Smith is from the Mississippi Gulf Coast. He is an editor with Mississippi Review Web and Plots With Guns. His fiction has appeared in Barcelona Review, 12 Gauge Review, Blue Murder, Absinthe Literary Review, Crimestalker Casebook, Thrilling Detective, and others, with forthcoming work in Murderous Intent and Judas E-Zine. He doesn't like spiders at all.