Free Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson Page B

the stereo clicks off, the silence is jarring. I find my index finger hypnotically tracing the outline of the X-ray as if it formed a sort of map, as if it were a pattern to be brought into focus. Then I have it.
    I say: “The new music store in the neighborhood.”
    I say: “It’s only a few blocks from here.”
    I say: “We’re going to steal the instruments.”
    As soon as the words come out, I know they’re exactly right. Markus nods in agreement. Hank seems unsure at first, but slowly a smile emerges. “It’s beyond perfect,” Lena says. “We’ll carry on Kin’s music for him.”
    Hank takes the lead in masterminding a plan. It should be straightforward, but he wants to know about more than the store’s location and the instruments in the window. He obsesses over the likely floor plan, the possible security system, the layout of the primary street and surrounding avenues. Strategies are hatched about disabling alarm mechanisms, spray-painting the lenses of security cameras, establishing the quickest routes of entry and escape. “This is impossible without a van,” Hank says. I roll my eyes, but it turns out Lena knows someone who can lend us one. Markus alone has second thoughts. It’s difficult to read the level of concern in his burned features, but he keeps hinting at misgivings about the morality of the proposition.
    Lena defends the idea as my brainchild. “This is the way people on the street get things done,” she says.
    â€œIt’s a basic right,” I clarify. “Like starving people who steal bread.”
    Hank puts a slightly different spin on it. “Come on,” he says. “Anybody stupid enough to open a music store in such a shitty neighborhood deserves this.”

    The planning continues for what feels like hours. Maybe it’s a necessary part of screwing up our courage. That evening we’re finally ready to make a dry run and fine-tune the details of our heist. We borrow a beat-up white van that looks well acquainted with this line of work. Hank rolls up the schematic drawings he’s concocted and announces he’ll drive. Markus, Lena, and I huddle on the metal floor in the back. It feels like we’re apostles on our first mission. Markus hums the riff to a favorite Kin Mersey song, Lena taps out the beat on her stomach, and I imagine my voice soaring over top of it all.
    We park the van a block away and casually saunter toward the music store. It’s one of the few occupied storefronts in this so-called commercial zone of the neighborhood. Even in the hazy light of the sporadic streetlamps, I can tell something is wrong. The display window looks unreal, as if it’s mystically shed one of its dimensions. Then I notice a shimmer of glass on the sidewalk and realize we’re too late. It’s been smashed. As we creep closer, I spot a metal trash can lying inside the store. Some bastard tossed it through the glass and cleaned out the instruments. We hear police sirens approaching and tear back to the van. We haven’t done anything wrong but Hank peels maniacally around random corners until the sound dies away. Eventually we shudder to a stop outside a bar, somewhere on the far edge of our neighborhood.
    The bar is open, so we’re forced to get drunk. We slump into a table and order several rounds simultaneously. “This is just a setback,” Hank says. “We’re still going to do this. There’s no doubt about it.” But I can feel the momentum draining away. Our platitudes about carrying on sound listless, like speeches at an infant’s wake. We try to distract ourselves by focusing on the band that’s getting ready to play on the wooden stage in the corner.
    Lena has an idea. She smoothes her multi-color tresses, fixes her lipstick, pastes on her cutest smile, and strolls over to request
a number by Kin Mersey. A balm for our disappointments. She