Congratulations Juniper Jackson!

Juniper Jackson got a few stories to tell.

Juniper Jackson ain’t never known no failure. He ain’t never known no chains of any kind. One day his daddy told him to sit in the corner quiet like and wait ‘til he was told to come back and what did Juniper Jackson do? He stood up lickity split and left that chair sittin’ in the corner by isself afore he went off into the big world to find his fortune.

Juniper Jackson took his first purse at the age of five, a week after he left his daddy’s home. He did it so quick and so calm everyone thought he was holdin’ it for his momma, and he ate for a month off of what he found in there.

Juniper Jackson took his first bank at the age of fifteen, bandana tied around his head and no gun or nothin’, just his hand in his pocket and his swingin’ balls. First time he ever did it he felt such a rush like you wouldn’t believe walkin’ away from that place. He knew he’d found his callin’ and that sure as shit he’d be doin’ it for years to come.

You be Juniper Jackson, and you’ve got yourself a few stories to tell from years gone by. You been runnin’ all around the world and seen all kinds of banks, taken all kinds of paper. And in all your forty years and hundreds, if not thousands, of jobs you pulled you ain’t never shot nobody.

All that changes today.

You’ll be pullin’ a quick in and out at a Wells Fargo in the southern part of Wisconsin, in some small town you wouldn’t be able to name if you saw it on a map. You’ll have your gun in the bank of a teller’s neck while she’s counting out the money, whispering to her that it’s all gonna be okay.

And it will be, for her. But a security guard, a young white boy who musta grown up no more’n a mile from that bank, will come up off the floor holding his gun and you’ll slide your weapon right towards him and pow. Right in the chest, he’ll go down with a spin and a clatter as the gun hits the floor and not a peep elsewise.

The way he’ll be layin’, it won’t look right, but you won’t look overlong. You’ll take the money, that as which you’ve gotten from the teller, step out the door and nod at the people inside.

“Sorry,” you’ll tell them afore you start your way outside, walking down the street, across the main drag and towards the parking lot you’ll have stashed the car you stole in.

As you drive away to the movie theater where your real car is parked, two hours north in another town without a name as far as you know, you’ll feel a pang of regret.

“Didn’t want to,” you’ll tell the empty car, looking at the money. “Just had to.”

You’ll sit there and drive and calculate from the weight of the sack how much that young man’s life was worth. Won’t be more than a few thousand dollars, you’ll guess. Ain’t no life worth that little.

Congratulations Juniper Jackson!