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1.

Wally stood over his wife Gladys’ grave. There was a chair for him but he preferred to lean on his cane, swaying slightly. The day was cold and gray, the rain was supposed to start in early afternoon and turn to snow by evening. Wally didn’t hear the words of the Reverend and was dully aware of those around him. They had little meaning to his life, friends of Gladys more than friends of his. At 92 all his friends were gone; now Gladys was gone too. They had been together only thirty years, his second wife, but he had come to count on her company and council.

His shrinking frame was still sturdy. Although bent with arthritis and his limbs often uncooperative in the morning, Wally still enjoyed his daily activities. Today he hadn’t had the opportunity to take his morning walk so after the ceremony was completed he decided to stroll around the cemetery. The small band of mourners dispersed, leaving the Reverend to pack up his things. He saw Wally wander off through the headstones, toward a small rise.

"I am deeply sorry for your loss." The Reverend caught up with Wally who was walking at a brisk pace. A man of middle years, the Reverend had a rage of dark curls and an almost swarthy complexion.

"Thank you, I appreciated your service, even though neither of us was very religious in the popular sense."

"I am glad to have been of service none-the-less." Wally slowed a bit at the top of the rise. A small white marble bench looked out over the cemetery, he sat down stiffly.

"I must say. You are very spry for your age." The Reverend stood for a moment then sat next to him.

Wally chuckled.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no Reverend, it’s just that when we are young we are called energetic, as we get a little older we are active, when we are old, we are spry."

"I understand. No one likes to be called old." The Reverend reached out and touched Wally on the shoulder.

"It is good to have activities which we enjoy. It helps us through the hard times."

Wally shifted uneasily. "I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I have plenty to do. One thing I do not lack, is a will to live. Gladys was a great companion. She had a heart of gold, often put me to shame the way she would be able to strike up a conversation with anyone. She taught me a lot about life and how to live. And although it’s true that all my friends are gone too, I still have my battles to keep me busy."

"Your battles?" The Reverend puzzled.

"As you may or may not have been aware, Gladys was in failing health for over a year before she passed. I was never a wealthy man. We sold our little house two years ago, and with the money we were able to get into an assisted living building, but with Gladys medical bills our savings have been wiped out and social security barely pays for the small apartment now. I am constantly having to keep the wolf from the door."

"I wasn’t aware." The Reverend looked genuinely concerned.

"Oh, don’t worry, I am taking care of things." He smiled.

"I am sure that my parishioners would be happy to make a contribution."

"Like I said, we were not the religious type and I wouldn’t feel right taking money from your church." Wally stood, leaning on his cane to steady himself, feeling a bit dizzy.

"Still, being religious or not has nothing to do with the offer. We do it because it is the right thing to do."

"I appreciate it, really. I will give it some consideration." He extended his hand. "Thanks again for the wonderful service."

Wally started down the rise toward the row of cars. He did not stop before he reached an old Chevy Malibu, clean but with faded paint and specks of rust.

2.

The morning was bright. The new snow reflected the sunshine and the sky was crisp blue. At exactly 9:02 a.m. the telephone rang. Wally knew who it was so he didn’t rush to pick it up, letting the ancient answering machine whirr into action.

"This is Wally Fromm, if you want to leave a message wait for the beep, if you don’t you can hang up now."

"Mr. Fromm....Mr. Fromm? This is the St. Stephan Medical Center, we would appreciate a return call at 555-753-8275. If we don’t hear from you within 24 hours, we will have no choice but to refer this matter to our collections’ department."

"What are you going to do, come for all my valuable assets?" He scoffed.

He went into the kitchen to get a banana and have a little cereal. He tried to maintain his routine, keeping life to the essentials. At 92 there was not much room for anything but essentials. His quickness had been worn away, and time was speeding up like an over-wound clock. The monotony of the days consolidated his life. He often wondered if there was any reason for one more of the same. Yet his heart kept ticking and thankfully he was regular, like clockwork. After breakfast he took his reading material, usually a copy of some Sci-fi novel or Mystery, into the bathroom and read a chapter.

Today, he brought in the newspaper. News in general was not interesting. What was happening in the world was no longer his concern. But today a headline had jumped out at him. It talked about an eighty-three-year-old woman who had walked into a bank, handed a note to the teller and walked out with more than ten grand. Naturally she was caught, but the judge had pity on her and didn’t press charges, she was an old woman after all. When asked why she did it, the woman explained that she had breast cancer and emphysema and had nothing to lose. A couple of weeks later, she died.

Wally finished the article and prepared his bath. It had been at least five years since he had taken a shower. Showers were for younger people. He knew he couldn’t fall while taking a bath, he could drown, and had thought of the prospect on several occasions during Gladys’ illness, when things looked bleak. But in the end he didn’t have the guts to give up. Soon, he wondered if he had the energy to climb out of the bathtub alone. As he watched the tiny ripples, looking at his withered and spotted limbs, he thought of the woman who had robbed the bank. He wondered if there were any other people his age who had read the story and had the same thought. What was there to lose?

Wally had spent his life walking the straight and narrow, being acceptable and accepted. Endless days of the same job, two vacations a year, for what? He had swallowed his anger on almost every occasion. Even after discovering that the credit card companies were taking advantage of his age and charging outrageous fees and when he got the letter from the social security department that his benefits were being reduced because of indexing or some damn thing he didn’t understand. He had been so careful to adhere to society and it’s morals, making ends meet. He was left with very little and now society was abandoning him when he needed them the most.

He totaled all his bills in his head and the amount of pension he was receiving and it didn’t add up. The medical bills and funeral for Gladys were daunting, and heaven forbid something bad happened to him, then what? He had accepted his own medical ailments as conditions of old age, and was lucky that he was fairly healthy. The pills he took were not extensive and most of his chronic conditions he just learned to live with. Barring winning the lottery, his financial situation would never improve. This too, he had to learn to live with.

The water had turned cold, so he cautiously, slowly, got out of the tub with the use of strategically placed hand rails. He dried himself off and smiled. He had made up his mind.

3.

Wally didn’t really know about banks. The only one he was familiar with was the branch he had been going to for the past fifty years. Everyone knew him there. Ellen the Branch Manager had been a teller ten years ago. She was probably not even born when he first opened his account. Of course the bank had changed names at least five times and was now part of one of the biggest chains in the world. He didn’t really like their service, but had no desire to make a change now.

He had written out the note as clearly as he could; even though his hand shook terribly when writing he was sure that the teller would be able to read it. It had taken him a dozen or more tries at what to say. "This is a stick up" seemed too corny, like a bad B movie. "Stay calm and put all the money in the bag" was straight forward, but didn’t seem forceful enough. He didn’t think they would take him seriously. "Put all the money in the bag and don’t try anything, I have a gun." That sounded better, but then where would he get a gun. He didn’t like guns. What he really wanted to say was, "give me the money and keep a little for yourself, let the insurance company pay for it." He settled for, "Put the money in the bag and nobody will get hurt." That sounded like he might have a secret accomplice and throw them off.

"Hi Mr. Fromm, it is so nice to see you today." Kay, the Assistant Manager stood by the door greeting everyone who came in. Wally knew she was following some new bank policy to improve customer service. He used to do it too, when he would greet his customers. But this wasn’t genuine. She seemed preoccupied. Her smile was tight and forced.

"Hello Kay." He smiled back and went straight to the teller line. It wasn’t too long, but then it was 3:30 in the afternoon. He knew that the armored car came at four. He had seen it many times, so he figured this would be when the most cash was in the bank.

The teller was a cute 20 something wearing a tight sweater and long brown hair pulled back. She finished up her work from the last customer then looked up into Wally’s eyes. He looked at her for a moment, she waited, her name tag said Judy. He had seen her before, but he had never been in her line. Teller’s seemed to come and go so quickly. He pulled the note from his pocket; it was a bit crumpled so he tried smoothing it out as he put it before her. She looked at it briefly, then at Wally.

"How much did you want to withdraw?"

"All of it." His voice cracked.

"Would you like to know how much you have in your account?"

"No, I want all the money you got."

She looked at him, blinked and without any sign of cognition, continued.

"I can write down the amount in your account, would you like me to do that?"

"No, I want you to give me all the money you have in your drawer." He kept his voice as low as he could so he wouldn’t draw attention.

"Did you read the note?" Wally leaned into the Teller.

"Yes, you can have the money in anything you like, a bag, an envelop, suitcase, it doesn’t matter to me. But frankly Mr. Fromm, you only have $1287.32 in your account. I don’t think a bag will be necessary."

"I ... I.. Have a gun." He wasn’t sure what to do, but saying he had a gun seemed the logical choice. He had to make this dense little girl understand he meant business.

"I have a gun and I want all the money you have in your drawer."

Wally’s teller looked at him, blankly.

"I am sorry, but I will have to call my manager."

"I said, I have a gun, and I want all the money. Get the money or I will use it."

"Mr. Fromm, please, there is no need to get upset. It is normal bank procedure to call the manager in situations like this." She moved away, toward a door behind the teller line.

"Normal bank procedure. Is it normal bank procedure to get shot?"

"I understand that you are upset. Do you want to complete this transaction or not?"

Wally was frustrated. Was this girl as dense as this or was she just pretending? It didn’t matter, she had called his bluff and he was out of options.

"No, that’s alright." He grabbed his note and made his way to the door. His arthritis was kicking up, his leg hurt, as it usually did when he got upset. He leaned on his cane.

His humiliation was exacerbated by having to hobble past the line and Kay, who still had that phony, "how are you, I really don’t care" smile on her face. Everyone seemed to be looking at him like he was just some harmless old man with a screw loose.

As he stepped out onto the street, his humiliation turned to realization. In order for his plan to work he could use the sympathy, but he also needed a way that he could command some respect. Next time he was going to be better prepared.

4.

He ignored the blinking light on the answering machine. He knew that it could only be creditors calling to collect money that he didn’t have. As he eased himself into his big reading chair, he positioning the cushions so that they would support his lower back and relieve some of the sciatic pain. But it didn’t make much difference. He had been living with the pain on and off for more than seventy years. He glanced at his mail. There were plenty of credit card offers, but he already had over $17,000 in debt. He didn’t like being in debt. He had always looked at it as a failure to plan finances carefully. But it seemed unavoidable these days. On the other hand, once he was gone what did he care if he was a million dollars in debt, there would be nothing they could do about it. They would take the few possessions he owned and sell them. He wouldn’t need them. He had no heirs, no one that they could go after. Maybe that was why they were so persistent now. They knew he only had a limited amount of time left and they were panicked about getting their money.

There was a sense of freedom in realizing that his debt would outlive him. At 92 material things didn’t matter so much. Life was once again reduced to the three basics, food, shelter, and clothing.

Wally went to the old record player that he and his wife had bought for their tenth anniversary. It was top of the line at the time, they had felt like rich people when they went to buy it, having saved for months, knowing that if nothing else they would be rich with music. Now it was obsolete, a relic just like Wally.

He put on Barber, "Fugue for strings," it was Gladys’ favorite. Sitting back, letting the music flow over him, he almost stopped feeling his ancient body, the pain in his leg receding for the moment as a dull throbbing to the rise of the music.

Then the phone rang. He tried to ignore it, but its discordance with the music upset him, so he picked it up, fully expecting a bill collector.

"Hello." He was sharp and as unfriendly as he could muster.

"Hello, is this Wally, Wally Fromm?" The voice was pleasant, but then they always selected people with pleasant voices to throw you off, to get your guard down.

"Who wants to know?" He said gruffly.

"Oh, this is David Lester. I ministered your wife’s funeral. We spoke afterwards, do you remember?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry, I usually only get calls from collectors, I wasn’t expecting..."

"I understand." His voice was caring, yet firm. He was not a man that suffered long explanations. "I remembered that you were having some problems paying for your wife’s medical bills and such." The "and such" gave him away as a New Englander, Wally was impressed that the Reverend had remembered and actually found his number to call.

"Yes, I said I would be alright."

"I know, I am sure you are." He seemed genuine, which was a little unnerving to Wally. "It’s just that, well, I mentioned it to my parishioners and they took it upon themselves to take up a collection."

"I told you, I didn’t want . . . "

"I know, I know, but they did it anyway, so I thought you should have it. It’s not much but it might help."

"I don’t know what to say." Wally’s voice trailed off.

"Perhaps I could come by and take you out for lunch."

"Oh, I don’t eat much these days, too much work." He still had an appetite but it usually peaked around four in the afternoon, so normal meals were a thing of the past.

"I could just drop by then, we could have a chat." Wally couldn’t help feeling there was something else the Reverend wanted. Perhaps he was trolling for new parishioners.

"That would be fine."

"Tuesday, around 1pm." The Reverend was happy. Wally didn’t write it down. Even if he forgot, a surprise visit would be refreshing.

"Okay, Tuesday at one. Be sure to knock loudly, I tend to not hear the door if I am in the bedroom."

"Fine, fine. I look forward to it. By for now." The Reverend hung up and Wally stood there for a moment, listening to the hang up signal. He slowly replaced the receiver and went to sit in his reading chair. The music had stopped. He sat in silence.

5.

This time Wally walked into the bank with a vest full of road flares. They looked like real dynamite, if someone didn’t get too close. The vest was one he hadn’t worn in ten years. He made his way to the teller window. The bank was empty. Kay was no where in sight, and most of the tellers were chatting behind the plexiglass shield that they had erected about six years ago. Wally thought it made the place look like a museum and deciding which were the exhibits depended on which side of the glass you were on.

He shoved his piece of paper through the slot and the teller, a girl about 23, not the same girl as last time, but this girl had perfect skin, was slim, and filled out her red sweater perfectly. She looked at the note, then at Wally. A smile crept across her face.

"I remember you. You were in here the other day. Everyone was talking about you."

Wally was feeling a little light headed. Perhaps it was a drop in his blood sugar. Nothing serious, but he knew that it would make it hard for him to concentrate.

"Would you just do what the note says please. I have a bomb." He opened his coat to show her, holding onto the buzzer button he had found at the hardware store.

"Oh my, now where did you get all that? You be careful now. Let me get the manager."

His frustration was nearing a breaking point. His head swam.

"If you don’t do what I say, I will push this button and we will all be blown to kingdom come." He tried to say it as forcefully and menacingly as he could, but his voice wavered and sounded weak. It was loud enough to get the attention of the manager though, and he started heading over.

"For God’s sake, just put the money in the bag and hand it over to me."

"May I be of assistance?" The manager had arrived. He was a tall man rather portly with a shaved head and a small goatee.

"No thank you." Wally was upset.

"Mary, is there something wrong?" Mary was frozen for a moment. Then recovered.

"This man claims to have a bomb and wants all the money."

The manager looked at Wally, and backed up a few steps. "You realize that such threats are taken very seriously."

A moment later sirens could be heard. Wally looked around, the place was deserted and through the double glass doors he saw that the sidewalk was deserted.

"That was fast." He thought, but it really didn’t matter.

6.

The bomb squad "disarmed" Wally, dressed in their heavy kalvar suits and helmets, looking like upright turtles, prodding his vest with long tongs. He told them what they were, just plain old road flares, but they still treated them like they would explode any minute. Wally realized that years of experience had made them live by the adage - better safe than sorry.

He was led away by the two officers who had handcuffed him. The cuffs loose around his skinny wrists. They placed him in their police car and stood talking to other officers, the bomb squad and some people from the bank. Every now and then they would look in his direction. His leg began to hurt, his foot was falling asleep, and he still felt light headed. He tried to stretch it but the front seat was pushing his knees up to his chest.

Finally, the officers climbed into the front seat. There was a shorter, Latino looking officer who had a butch cut but roundish features. He drove. Then there was the tall blonde who was square jawed and intimidatingly muscular. They both looked back at him, smiling.

"So, Mr. Fromm, we will be taking you down to the station now." The blonde spoke in a loud and, what Wally thought, was a condescending tone.

"That’s fine, but I am rather uncomfortable, how long will it take?"

"It’s not to far." The two looked at each other and chuckled.

"What’s so funny?" Wally was annoyed.

The officers tried to stifle their mirth. They both looked at him again, a long look, like they were sizing him up.

"Tell me something old man." It was the blonde officer again. "How did you ever figure getting away with robbing a bank? You certainly couldn’t run away."

"Maybe he has an accomplice." The Latino finally spoke.

"Yea, maybe his seventy-year-old son." They both broke out in laughter that was even more humiliating than being prodded by the bomb squad.

"My son died in Vietnam, and I didn’t plan on getting away." The officers stopped laughing and blinked at him witlessly.

"Now, if you please get me to the station, before all the circulation in my legs is cut off."

They drove the fifteen minutes to the station in silence.

7.

Jail was a vile place, but it was a new experience, though Wally wasn’t there long enough to get the full tour. Not being a great flight risk, his bail was low.

Reverend Lester, greeted him as they processed his release. When Wally hadn’t been at his place for their lunch engagement, the Reverend had gone looking for him.

"I must say, I was a bit surprised." The Reverend was solemn. " I didn’t expect to use the money that was gathered for you in good faith, to bail you out of jail."

"I didn’t ask for anything from you or your congregation."

"You’re a piece of work Mr. Fromm. But God puts many challenges in front of us and we must take up the mantle."

"I’d appreciate a ride." Wally shuffled into the sunlight. His hip, his leg, it seemed that every joint hurt and all he wanted to do was take a long hot bath.

The price for the ride, was Reverend Lester’s sermon; a bit on the annoying side since he lost his faith in organized religion some forty years ago.

"I appreciate you trying to save my soul, Mr. Lester, but I think it is in very good shape. Better than most, and I anticipate God has no problem with me."

"You just tried to rob a bank!" The Reverend’s voice rose an octave and Wally could see he was a little frustrated.

"I didn’t hurt anyone, nor would I have."

"Thievery is a sin."

"Then the bankers should be in fear for their souls, charging outrageous interest rates and fees. They are the ones doing the harm."

"That does not excuse your behavior."

"Thank you for your concern Reverend, I believe you are doing your best to do your best. But you really shouldn’t be worrying about me. Save one of those younger souls."

"We are all the same in the eyes of God." Wally couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

"If you truly believe that Reverend, then you understand me and what I am doing."

The Reverend sighed.

As they pulled up in front of Wally’s building, he thanked Reverend Lester.

"I really do appreciate what you are doing even though I think that your crusade on my behalf is wasted effort. I really do have things under control, but I appreciate your concern. I am sure it will be duly noted in the Good Soul handbook, when you get to have your meeting with God."

Wally watched as the Reverend pulled away and didn’t move until he was long gone from sight, only because it was more of an effort to walk the twenty steps to his door than to stay still.

8.

"Ninety days’ probation." The judge said, wielding his gavel with the nonchalance of one who was either too busy, too jaded, didn’t give a damn, or all three. Wally was incensed. His Public Defender hadn’t done much, nor did Wally want him too. The judge, a man in his mid fifties, a shock of dyed brown hair, curling across his large forehead, a hard mouth punctuated with lines turning down at the corners, looked down from the bench and saw an old man. Wally knew he had gone soft on him because of his age.

Wally turned as he was being ushered out and faced the judge who was shuffling papers, the case already a distant memory.

"What kind of sentence would you have given me if I was a 26-year-old kid?" The judge looked up, blinked, trying to refocus.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are young enough to be my son, I am old enough to be your father, I am sure that influenced your decision, but what if I was some young punk, what kind of sentence would you have given me."

"Why are you still in my courtroom?" The Public Defender grabbed Wally by the arm. He apologized to the judge. Wally pulled his arm away and teetered for a minute.

"I think I have the right to know if I am being given consideration for my age. If someone younger than I had done what I did, would you have given them 90 days probation?"

"You have been given your sentence and I believe it was fair. You can always appeal."

"No you misunderstand me, I just want you to give me the same sentence you would give a younger person, I don’t want to be treated differently because of my age."

The judge took off his glasses and leaned forward.

"Listen, you could be the old man in the sea, or Moses for that matter and I would still give you 90 days probation for strapping road flares to your chest and walking into a bank. Thank goodness you didn’t light them or you might have burned yourself. What do you want? You want to be locked up in county for a couple of days? I don’t see the need for that."

"But judge..." The judge held up his hand and then waved Wally away. The public defender was spineless.

"I am sorry for this judge Capelli. He’s a bit senile." Once again he tried to herd Wally out of the courtroom.

"Senile!?" That did it, Wally pushed the PD. away and went up to the bench.

"What would it take for me to get locked up judge? I mean what would I have to do to go to jail, no not jail, to prison for the rest of my life?"

Stunned, the judge looked around the room for a moment, then at the public defender, then at Wally.

"All I can tell you is that it would have to be a felony, something really bad and frankly Mr. Fromm, I don’t think you have it in you. Why what are you saying? What would you want to do such a thing for anyway?"

"That’s my business, but thank you judge, for the insight." Wally walked slowly down the aisle, his leg ached and his feet were swollen from sitting. The judge watched him, the public defender watched him, and the few stragglers who had heard the last encounter watched him. He knew by the time he reached the door, that in order to make his plan work, he would have to ramp things up considerably.

9.

Back at his apartment, Wally sat in the twilight alone, without turning on the lights, just thinking about what the judge had said. He knew that once his body really started going down hill, there wouldn’t be any stopping it. His ability to do those things he still enjoyed would disappear, he would loose control and his fate would be in the hands of strangers. He would be shuffled around, handed off like a wrinkled dollar bill and suddenly his plan became even more urgent.

The problem was, how do you commit a felony without actually hurting anyone?

Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t the actual committing of the crime that was necessary, but the idea of it, the planning. The plan would be to plan the crime and get caught. That was the answer, it didn’t take a lot of physical energy, no one would get hurt and he would be sent away. Perfect. But in order to get caught, he would have to be discovered, and he would have to be believable.

From a dusty box on the upper shelf of the bedroom closet, he took out his yellowed copy of "The Anarchist’s Cookbook." The author had given it to him when Wally had been a professor at a small college in Vermont back in the early seventies. He remembered him to be an arrogant fellow, but the book was destined to be a classic. Now in the climate of the new century with terrorism, unrest, social decline, Wally was sure it was getting renewed attention.

He wrote down a list of items he would need to make a decent sized bomb and shoved it into his coat pocket, which he put on and headed out to the garage.

The new mall a half a mile from his apartment complex was as far as he needed to go. With the home supply and hardware stores, garden shops, electronic boutiques, Wally was amazed at the buffet that waited to supply his every need.

Who would question an old man, or a young one for that matter?

"I have a big garden." He said to the cashier at the garden shop where he bought the fertilizer. "Damn, a hot water pipe burst in my kitchen, " he confided in the customer service rep at the hardware store.

He brought everything home and placed items randomly around the living room, partly assembled some on his kitchen table. He went to his old Royal typewriter and composed some cryptic notes about how society had done him wrong and he was going to get back at the system that ignored him. This was particularly cathartic, because most of it was true. If he wasn’t in the position he was because of the damn heartless credit card companies, the new bankruptcy laws, his meager pension, he wouldn’t have to go through with his plan.

Some of the notes he mailed to the White House even though he knew they would be ignored, or he would get a pleasant note back, saying how the President welcomed comments. He had a Senator’s address from a previous complaint, and a local councilman who he had befriended during a Democratic rally a few years back. Of course he sent it off to the media, but knew that it all had to be corroborated by other sources to be considered valid. That is where Reverend Lester came in.

10.

"I was pleasantly surprised by your call Wally." The Reverend looked around the cluttered apartment at the dirty laundry, overflowing waste baskets, and used food cartons.

"Sorry for the mess, Gladys’s touch is sorely missed." Wally smiled outwardly and inwardly, because in reality he was the neat one. He had arranged the mess to give the place more of an ambiance of desperation. He thought he had done a really good job and by the look on the Reverend’s face he was right.

"Frankly, I contacted you because I like you, I didn’t know anyone else I could trust."

"Well, I am honored."

"Would you like something to drink, or eat? I have some soda, I think I have crackers somewhere." He moved toward the kitchen but the Reverend was quick to decline.

"Yes, well ok then. As I was saying, I need someone I can trust and who can give me absolution."

"Oh, well." The Reverend wasn’t expecting that. "I am sure willing to help, but I think that you have already atoned for the incident at the bank."

"It’s not about that Reverend. It’s not something that I did, it’s something I am going to do." Wally turned away slightly to let the weight of his words sink in.

"Something you are going to do?" The Reverend shifted uneasily.

"I have it all planned out. I think the whole problem with the bank was that I had to come face to face with people."

"Face to face?"

"Yes, I had to perpetrate a crime where I had to actually see the people. I think I am much too sensitive for that. So I have decided to get my point across by blowing up the Westend building. It not only houses the bank, but the credit card offices and a branch of the Social Security Department. I can hit all three with one blow."

The Reverend was in shock. "You have to be kidding."

"No, I am not kidding. Look, it is really quite simple." Wally held up a piece of pipe with a fuse hanging out of it. "I have made a bunch of these, I attach them to my car and fill the trunk with, this..." He held up a handful of fertilizer. "That should do the trick."

"You can’t be serious?" The Reverend had turned white.

"What have I got to lose Reverend?"

"What about all those people? They have something to lose."

"That’s the beauty of it, I won’t have to go out alone, I can have some company."

Now the Reverend was on his feet, angry. "You are crazy."

"Reverend, you know me. Have you known me to be crazy?"

"I don’t know you. I don’t know you at all. This is outrageous, you can’t do this. You can’t."

"Does that mean you won’t give me absolution?" The Reverend started pacing, gesturing.

"You know that I can’t sit still and let you do this."

"But you are a man of the cloth, you are sworn to secrecy. I have asked you for absolution." Wally feigned annoyance.

"You have to tell me that you are not going to go through with this. You have to promise me that you will not do this. Otherwise, I am bound by my conscious to tell the authorities."

"I thought I could trust you, I thought you could absolve me of my sins so that I can stand up to death and smile." Wally pulled out a black .38 from it’s hiding place in the couch. (The mall did indeed have everything Wally needed.) He pointed it at the Reverend. The Reverend’s eyes went wide.

"Now Wally." He started backing toward the door. Wally followed him, trying not to let it show that his arm was weakening under the weight of the pistol.

"I have no choice now." He brought the gun up as high as he could. He shook with the strain. The Reverend made a dash for the door. Wally fired into the floor.

11.

A SWAT team burst down Wally’s door at five in the morning. He was up and in his pajamas, having had insomnia that night. Even after taking a couple of sleeping pills, he couldn’t fall asleep. He was reading when they came in. They were unduly rough, didn’t they know he was 92 years old? For the second time handcuffs fell loosely around his skinny wrists. They gathered up all the materials he had so conscientiously bought and placed around his apartment. He was sure they had enough evidence to convict him.

At his trial, all the notes he had written, surprisingly, even the one to the White House were paraded in front of the Jury as evidence. Naturally, the star witness was Reverend Lester. He looked at Wally like an apologetic father as he told the court how Wally divulged his plans to blow up the Westend building and then pulled a gun on him, threatening his life.

Wally’s defense didn’t have a leg to stand on. The jury hadn’t deliberated more than three hours before returning. They really had only one option. He chuckled as the verdict was read. Not loud enough to be heard, but knowing his plan was almost complete he couldn’t help himself.

Wally got ten years, the patriot act saw to it. For him, of course, it was a life sentence, even being in "good condition for his age" he would never see 102.

They sent him to Ithaca, maximum security, he had heard that maximum security was the better place to be. Medium and minimum and you got lost in the population, the level of attention and care was less, so maximum was perfect for him.

As he settled into his cell, a wave of relief washed over him. He looked around the small room with only a few of the memorabilia that they had allowed in, including a small framed picture of Gladys. Wally had no phone or creaky answering machine to worry about, no worrying about his next meal, or even taking his medications. They came around in the morning and evening, regular as clock work.

The inconveniences were a bit bothersome at the beginning, noises he wasn’t used to, the hard cold steel with only green peaking through barred windows. The food was pretty bad, and gave him indigestion for a month. He complained almost every day, even writing to the same people he had sent the threatening letters. Then finally, the kitchen started preparing some blander more palpable food. Besides that he was left alone for the most part. There was no point in any of the gangs trying to rough him up, or recruit him to their ranks. He actually held a place of reverence among the population, had the opportunity to tell some of his more interesting life stories and was a celebrity in his own little way.

12.

Six months after his incarceration, Wally had settled into the routine that gave him a sense of security and satisfaction. Some advocacy groups had sent him letters saying they wanted to represent his case and set him free. Representatives came to see him, he agreed to let them come by because they were the only visitors he was likely to get.

He sat across from them, smiling pleasantly, not really listening to what they had to say, then told them he was quite happy where he was and that they should spend their time on someone who wanted their help.

Wally was surprised at how the time was passing. He had so many memories from his life that he was able to relive in his head. He started a journal that he knew noone would be able to read since the tremor in his hand made his writing illegible; it was just another vehicle for his memory. He would play chess with some of the older inmates, he even began teaching again, which gave him a great sense of accomplishment.

One day in March, his name was announced as having a visitor. He was surprised to say the least, although he really should have expected it.

The Reverend Lester sat with his hands crossed. He was paler than the last time Wally had seen him. He smiled wanly and stood up as Wally came in, sitting down again when Wally sat.

" I know that I am probably the last person you want to see, but I had to come and tell you how sorry I am. You do realize that I had no choice, I had to go with my conscience."

"I was counting on it." Wally leaned forward.

The Reverend blinked. "What an odd thing to say."

"I am glad that you are here, Reverend. I think it is important to be as thankful and forgiving as possible in this life. I have made my peace with so many people, all except you."

The Reverend shifted uneasily. "It is good to give thanks."

"Thank you Reverend." Wally was genuine.

"But, but..."

"No Reverend, I mean it. Thank you." He bowed his head.

"I don’t know what to say."

"You are a good man, a little misguided, but good. I hope you understand a little more when you get closer to my age."

"Understand what?" The Reverend did not move. Wally stood up.

"I will say goodbye now." The quizzical look on the Reverend’s face reminded him of a child. Wally shook his hand, turned, and then shuffled off to his final home.