Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 4: Uneasy Age

Recapitulation: On the morning of their big job, Barry managed to smash Jenna’s car into another one. This does not augur well for their later efforts.

***

The comfort from McDonald’s food comes in the first ten minutes of consumption, when the warmth and grease combine to put your body at ease. It tells you that you’re safe, you’re secure, and for a couple of dollars, you’ve satiated your hunger. The problem is outside that ten minute window, when the grease congeals, or you’ve taken in much more than your weekly allotment of grease in a single meal. Then it converges upon your colon, teaching you new lessons about safety and security.

Barry leaned on his forearms, belching like Old Faithful. Jenna meanwhile slipped his half eaten biscuit sandwich away from him and gobbled it down. She even licked the cheese melted onto the wrapping, then cleared off the excess dribbled grease pooled in the nooks and crannies. She wanted as much of the security as she could find, even reaching out for a third sandwich to reset the ten minute clock.

“I feel sick.” Barry groaned and burped again. He tasted a sour melange of bile, stomach acid, oil and potato.

“You should relax, it’s going to be ok. We’ll go in, grab, get out.” She held out her right hand, still holding the sandwich, a ring on each hand, not a single one fitting proper on those bony sticks. “We’ve got everything we need.”

“No, I mean I feel sick from the McDonalds.”

“Tastes okay.” She took another bite of his sandwich. “I don’t think they poisoned it.”

“You won’t be eighteen forever.” He blinked. “How old are you anyways?”

“That’s a horrible thing to ask your wife. You never ask a lady her age.” She spoke these last words with a rarefied tone, as if crystalline sugar floated forth from her lips to seed the clouds, that they might rain sweet rain. Even clasped her hand to her chest, southern belle misplaced in modern America.

“I didn’t ask a lady, I asked you.”

“How you managed to get someone like me, I’ll never know. What does it matter how old I am?”

“Just tell me you’re old enough to get a driver’s license.”

“I’m old enough to get a driver’s license.” She parroted like a pro.

“You’re not actually old enough to get a driver’s license are you?”

“Depends, which state are we talking about here?”

Barry raised his head before letting it fall back down. “Oh God, I’m harboring a runaway.”

“Relax, it’s going to be ok.” She reached into her pocket and flipped him a New York driver’s license. The lamination had curled back, leaving the picture of her sticking her tongue out at the camera.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Alright, what about this one?” Next came a Maryland license. This one had a hologram across it, quite well done.

“Oh god. Just complete this statement: ‘I will blank get in trouble because you are not over eighteen.’”

Jenna cocked her head. “What?”

“How much trouble am I going to get into here?”

“None, we’re not going to get caught.” She took the licenses, slipped them back into her pocket, and danced towards the bedroom. “I’ll be ready in a bit dear.”

The shower hissed. Barry covered his head and tried to pull himself through the table into the ground.