Harold Buys a Gun and Murders a Bank Robber

Harold bought a gun. It was a Sig Sauer 22mm pistol. It rested firmly in its holster against the small of his back.

In Tucson Arizona, crime rates were up 15% and Harold felt he needed a gun. His dad carried a gun. His mom carried a gun. His father said often, “There are three kinds of people in this world: sheep, wolves, and shepherds. Which would you rather be?” Sheep, wolves, shepherds--a popular topic at the dinner table. As those words repeated, they had stuck soundly in Harold's conscience and transposed themselves onto the faces of people he passed. Sheep, wolves, shepherds.

Today, in the lobby of the Tucson City Bank, as Harold stood in line to deposit his paycheck, a man in a mask fired a volley of bullets into the ceiling. The citizens in the small bank-room scattered dumbly, and Harold, forgetting himself, scattered with them.

Behind the counter, the teller fumbled with a handful of trash bags the gunman had instructed her to fill. The other civilians in the room cowered like animals in disparate parts of the lobby, waiting for the ordeal to come to a close. The masked gunman spun circles nervously in the center of the room, pointing his pistol in every direction. Harold recognized the model--a Sig Sauer 22mm. Harold's stomach twisted around his heart and squeezed.

Several times in his youth, Harold almost did terrible things: when he was eight years old, as he rode in the backseat of the car he wondered what would happen if he opened the door and jumped. When he reached out for the door handle, a frightful yet wonderful feeling shot through his stomach, and he withdrew his hand with a gasp. At thirteen he played with his little sister at the top of the stairs and wondered, for a brief moment, what it would be like if he pushed her over the rail. Afterward, he distanced himself from the balcony. At seventeen he was in love with roller coasters. When he got his driver's license, he nearly ran into a woman crossing the street and never once considered why he didn't slow down. Once, when he was twenty-one, he found himself staring wistfully down a tall flight of stairs, enjoying the strange feeling of power that rose in his stomach, and cringed with excited morbidity at the question: What if?

The gunman swore at the teller for her slowness and moved his attention toward a group of students near the counter. Shaking, and holding out a paper bag, he demanded in a squeaky voice for them to empty their purses and wallets. They did. He moved about the room ordering others to do the same. “I am a shepherd,” were the only words running through Harold's head.

Harold was a good shot. His father trained cadets at the police academy, his mother taught gunmanship courses, and together they had raised him to be a competent shepherd. Shooting was in Harold's blood. Today in the bank-room, he remembered the fear he felt in the backseat of the car. The danger, the excitement, the power--it frightened him in a familiar, wonderful way. He felt like he was standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, one movement away from the most fearfully exhilarating free-fall he could ever experience.

Harold woke from his daydream to the sound of bullets. Things had not been going fast enough. An older gentleman had refused to cooperate. In an attempt to escape, the he had run for the door. The gunman had panicked, lifted his pistol and shot. The old man was lying on the floor holding his thigh. The masked gunman stood in shock. There was screaming.

Harold stared. He'd missed it. His moment.

The gunman pointed his pistol at a woman in the aisle and told her to watch the injured man. Now mad with anxiety, he jumped from person to person, emptying their pockets and ripping off their jewelry. All the while, he moved closer and closer to Harold. “What if?” Harold thought, and the feeling in his stomach returned. The gunman was twenty feet away. Harold’s fingers itched for his gun. The masked figure skittered toward him. Harold had never shot a man before. Fifteen feet—he could make out the bloodshot eyes, filled with panic. Ten feet—Harold’s heart pounded in his chest and he could feel the sweat trickling down his spine. Three feet. The gunman squealed at Harold to empty his pockets. I am a shepherd, Harold thought, This is a wolf," and his hand moved toward the holster on the small of his back.

"I've finished," muttered the bank-teller as she pointed at the filled bags. The wolf turned from Harold and rushed to the counter. Sirens blared in the distance; the authorities were blocks away. The wolf was trapped. It grabbed the bags and scrambled for the door.

Harold wouldn't have it. His finger itched, his stomach twisted. He drew his pistol, placed his feet firmly on the ground just like he was on the shooting range. “Stop!" Harold yelled, "I’ll shoot!” The wolf did not stop, instead it turned and fired into the ceiling and ran for the door. Harold focused and fired twice--two well placed rounds into the lower torso. The wolf collapsed to his knees, bag in hand, facing the exit. In the split second that followed, as the wolf slumped to his knees and looked out the exit at the flashing police cruisers in front of the Tucson City Bank--in that split second, as Harold kept the wolf’s head fixed down his Sig Sauer’s front sight—Harold's adrenaline pumped, his heart turned flips—his mind formed the word’s “What if?” and his stomach howled with excitement as Harold's finger pulled the trigger.

As the citizens of the bank-room stared in shock, the masked man fell forward in a heap, and Harold felt like a million dollars.

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Inspiration For Short