Do they think I'm stupid or something?

This is my post for the latest IndieInk Challenge. I was challenged by Amanda with the prompt "Do they think I'm stupid or something?"  My reply......

I’ve certainly been more comfortable, but I have everything I need to stay up in this tree at least until dark.  Nightfall will make escape and evasion much easier, if the search isn’t abandoned by then.

My phone is silenced, no worries there, and I have enough water to drink.  The bottle will even provide a makeshift toilet if and when the need arises.  My Kindle is somewhere shy of a full charge, but I probably ought to stay aware of my surroundings rather than getting lost in Kerouac or Twain at this point anyway.

Squad cars arrived quickly, too quickly, in fact.  I wonder if I may have been seen going in, but I was careful, I dismiss that theory.  “Suspicious man in the neighborhood” could have prompted a 911 call, but I’m white, clean-cut, and blend in with the residents of these multi-million dollar homes seamlessly, so strolling down the sidewalk carrying a small satchel shouldn’t have alarmed even the most paranoid pensioner.  I must have been sloppy and tripped an alarm.

The job was carried off with flawless, silent precision, or so I thought.  The lock on the back door was just as flimsy as expected, and the jewelry box in the bedroom filled with not only gaudy baubles but the pleasant surprise of a stash of pink, yellow and black Bellagio chips.  Upon finding the tokens I considered leaving the bracelets and necklaces behind,   but my guy is good at disassembling and rendering such things untraceable, so I grabbed everything.

My ninety seconds of work, figured at an hourly rate, would put me into an obscene income bracket shared by only the Buffets, Gates and sheiks of this world, although my tax liability (zero) would be considerably smaller.  The risk associated with my line of work, however, was crystallized by the sirens that began blaring when I was scarcely two streets away from the scene of my caper.

Running would draw unwanted attention, but I was too far from the wall I needed to scale to be free of the Spanish Trails development, so I needed cover, and fast.  Fortune smiled on me, leading me through two dog-free backyards, and to my arboreal haven.

The tree was tucked neatly between a house and a privacy screen, with low branches so high that it wouldn’t appear immediately climbable.  Aided by the same miniature grappling hook that got me into the gated community to begin with, I wasted no time disappearing into my leafy sanctuary, finding a perch that afforded both camouflage and a 360 degree view of my surroundings.

I’m almost sad that nobody thought to bring in a dog or two to aid in the search.  I’m dying to know if this scent smoke works as well on canines as all of the hunters giving testimonials on the company web site claim it works on deer.  I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t dissuade ants even a little bit.  They’ve been exploring me nonstop since I came to rest.

Nearly three hours have elapsed since I took refuge in the tree, and I’ve seen eleven cars driven by residents come and go.  Law enforcement has vanished – two black and whites and an unmarked detective’s vehicle all arrived, did their duty, and moved on.  What concerns me, however, is the pair of white security SUVs I’ve been watching make the same slow drives up and down the streets surrounding my location.  I’m positive neither they, nor the police, know my whereabouts, but these two rent-a-cops seem convinced that their missing burglar must be holed up somewhere nearby. 

Do they think I’m stupid or something? Are they really expecting me to come out of hiding and flag them down to turn myself in? 

By my fifth hour of residence in the tree, everything is stiff.  I’ve tried to continue stretching and moving a little, but my legs and back are tightening up and the bark is digging into my flesh enough that I’ve decided it’s time to make my move, despite the remaining sunlight.  The security patrol, once so vigilant, has returned to the luxury of the community’s entrance gate.

I plan my exit strategy, knowing I’ve got to return to my entry point in order to escape, lest I scale the wrong wall and be spotted by cars on the other side. A quick survey of my route and a text message to my driver sets me in motion.  At the very least, I’ll probably cross paths with a dog walker or two. 

Returning to the ground isn’t nearly as graceful a process as my adrenaline-fueled ascent.  Not wanting to potentially abandon my hook and cord, I hang from the lowest branch and release, landing with a painful, ankle-twisting thud.  I suppress the urge to scream as the damaged joint sends shockwaves to my brain, but I can’t dwell on the injury.  I rise and begin my walk, hoping against hope that no pursuit is forthcoming, at least none more swift than a desert tortoise. 

I look out of place now, drenched with sweat and hobbling along with a pronounced limp, but I traverse the distance to safety with nary a second look from the elderly couple walking their fat little beagle, the little girl learning to ride her bike under mom’s watchful eye, or the team of Mexican gardeners tending to one particularly sprawling lawn.  I worry that I may be seen dipping between houses and popping a gate to reach freedom, but I’m committed. 

Just in time, my phone buzzes with the news that my chariot awaits, a mere 9’ cinderblock hurdle keeping me from a 50 point drop in my blood pressure.

“Hey, what are you doing back there?!?”

The voice is stern, angry, and close.  I’ll have one shot at getting over this accursed wall, my less than stable ankle notwithstanding.  I quicken my pace, producing and throwing my grapping hook all in one motion. 

“Stop!”

It’s a command, not a request, and I can almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck as I yank the cord once to test it and mutter to myself “Fuck” as the entire contraption slides back over the wall and lands at my feet.

I wheel, bracing for confrontation, maybe an impact, and find myself face to face with something resembling a grizzly bear more than a man.  He tops my 5’9 by at least six inches, and he’s nearly as broad across the shoulders as he is tall.  Seeing an intruder enter his neighbor’s backyard, he decided to play the Good Samaritan. 

A physical resolution to our conflict appears inevitable, and unfortunately all manner of lower-body attacks have been removed from my arsenal, as kicking with or planting on my twisted left ankle would do more damage to me than to my opponent. 

“I don’t know what your game is, you little maggot, but you’re not going anywhere.  Sit down on the ground right there,” Grizzly instructs me, pointing to the grass beneath my feet and engaging his phone to call the cavalry. 

To the surprise of both me and my ursine captor, suddenly a voice comes from atop the wall.  “I have a better idea.  Put the phone back in your pocket and give my friend a boost over the wall.  Do it now.”

A man with a gun has a way of being very convincing, and my getaway driver, Alan, is just so equipped.  He’d seen my near-miss with the grappling hook, overheard my new friend, and backed his car between bushes and right up to the wall, giving him a look at the proceedings. 

Within seconds, I’m helped across the final obstacle in my path, and find myself speeding towards the interstate, finally able to relax enough to take stock of my loot.  The In-n-Out drive thru is on the horizon, and my brief life as a squirrel fades into memory.  I’ve been seen, and will have to avoid at least this part of town for a while, but this was a huge score and should finance me for long enough that the heat blows over. 

The only trees I hope to see for a while are those with palm fronds.