Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 29

29

The sun began to rise. Its rays grilled my back and its light stung my eyes. I hadn't slept all night, and my senses felt fragile. At least I wasn't tired. Too much adrenaline. My crew was trapped, jailed even. It was up to me, the last man standing, to save them. Phase one of my who-knows-how-many-phase plan was complete. And now I waited. Behind the trees. Watching. How long could the officers take the heat, inside a police station without air-conditioning?

After about five minutes, one officer opened a window. But I knew it was too warm. There was no breeze. Just heat. The window wasn't going to stop that tin station from baking the officers like a couple potatoes.

After another five minutes, the officer propped open the door. I still didn't think it would work. You could poke some holes, but that potato would still bake, sure as dinner would be on the table by 6:00 pm.

Still, all that waiting upset my constitution. Too much time alone. The bad thoughts swirled. Maybe Stinky Mike was right. If I find what I'm meant to do, everything will work out. The problem is, I'm not meant to do anything. There's no one project that consistently makes me happy. No goal I can work towards that's rewarding regardless of success or failure. Not even writing. Writing doesn't give back, see? No matter how much love I put into, say, a short story, the short story won't love me back. Only people love me back. When I write, it's to connect with people. To give to them, and then for them to give back to me.

Worse, constantly searching for what I'm meant to do prevents me from doing anything. Every time I try something, I give up because it doesn't feel like what I'm meant to do. School is a perfect example. Some parts can be interesting, but overall it sucks. I mistrust anyone who says different. But maybe if I applied myself to school, to the good and the bad, I'd grow to like it. Maybe I should just go to university, after all. Even if I don't like it, so what? I have to get used to the fact that there's nothing I'm meant to do. That I'm not special. That I don't need meaning, but discipline. Stop fooling. If I'd just keep my head down and work hard, no matter the task, I bet I could get pretty far—farther than I am now, at any rate.

That's the whole point of this adventure, really. To prove to everyone, to myself especially, that I am disciplined, that I can accomplish something, that when I set my mind to a task, I do it or die trying. I'm just so sick of dying, you know?

So what is the task now? Oh right, to save my friends. I need to get to work now more than ever. And I need to do it quick.

As I turned my mind back to my friends, I heard faint grunts and groans from inside the station. It was surely the officers. I knew a Matty grunt and I knew a Chris groan. This was neither. Then the officers actually left the station. Their clothes were drenched in sweat and they were fanning themselves with papers. The sky had turned from a sunrise orange to a bright, morning yellow. The heat was as unbearable as it had been all summer.

The officers stood in the shade, complaining. Then, one of them said something like, 'It's too goddam hot. Let's go home. We can deal with these kids later. Let em sweat it out.' Then, to my surprise and great joy, they got in their cars, and left.

I waited a few moments to make sure the officers were gone. I didn't see anything. I didn't hear or taste anything either. By all my senses, the officers seemed gone. So I left my hiding place and walked to the door. It was locked. I looked to the window. It was still open, thank God. I walked under it. But it was too high. I hoisted myself onto the air conditioner. Standing on top of it, the window was just in reach. But it was covered by a screen.

Should I break in? It was a police station, after all. That was awfully illegal. Besides, the window might be booby-trapped. Would an alarm go off? Would it electrocute me? I looked around the trailer-cum-station. Who was I kidding? The police couldn't even afford a proper air-conditioner. This shack wasn't a piece of work from James Bond. We weren't in London. We were in Luville. And you know what they say in Luville? Or what they should say, in any case: If it looks like a shack, and acts like a shack, then it is a shack.

So I took a deep breath, swung my leg and kicked the screen. My leg went right through. No alarm, no electrocution, just a cloud of dust and the shocked voices of my co-adventurers.