True Story

Winter’s last gasp attacked mid-April, after a week-long tease of seventy-degree days. Ice cream season was in full swing at the Torrington Creamery with extended store hours. Jessie and I had the 4-8 P.M. shift. Darkness descended early on our fishbowl. Unlit, the parking lot was a black hole. Howling wind hurled unseen ice crystals at the plate glass windows. I shivered in my white, polyester, short-sleeved uniform. A licensed driver for less than two months, I dreaded the drive home.

The shift tally would be small due to the weather. Except for the usuals, who picked up milk after work, the place was dead. Although we earned $1.25 per hour, the company lost money by staying open past six.

Jessie was 18, a Freshman at the University of Connecticut. Two years my elder, she was my idol.  Not only was she smart, but she drove a 1967 blue Mustang. Being alone in the store that night, would have been scary, but with confident Jessie, I had nothing to fear.

Forty-five minutes before closing, we started cleaning the ice cream freezers, scoops and the buckets that held them. At eight, we would lock up, run the tape and count the money. Because the store was one room, with glass on two sides, counting money was visible from outside. Only a tiny bathroom, where the safe was located, was private. Seven years earlier, one person manned the store except for weekends and summer hours. At the end of the day, the individual would carry the money and receipts to the owner’s home. Policy changed after the sixteen-year-old girl was hit on the head and robbed.

Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, I will tell you about Torrington, Connecticut, at that time. Built on a river, it was a thriving, manufacturing city. Populated mostly by Italian immigrants, there was a smattering of Jews, Poles, Irish, Lithuanians and Czechoslovakians. Except for lawyers, doctors and judges, the majority were blue-collar, hard-working people who went to church, paid in cash and did business on a handshake. People retired after forty plus years with the same company. Houses were unlocked or locked with a skeleton key that could be purchased at any hardware store. Children were free to walk or ride bicycles anywhere.

Crime was not a factor of everyday life. The newspaper published Girl Scout and Boy Scout meeting minutes to fill space. There were no murders to report.  In 1966, assigning two people per evening shift and installing a safe were heightened security measures. Computers, video cameras and cell phones did not exist for the public. Each bank employed an elderly guard to sit inside, unlike today’s, who resemble commandos and secure the exterior. To say it was a different time that called for different measures is an understatement.

Cleaning chores done, at 7:55, I opted for a bathroom break before the harrowing drive home on slick roads. While crammed into an oversized closet, which barely fit a sink and toilet, I heard a man’s voice through the wooden, hollow core door. My ears pricked up, but the words were muffled, until he yelled.

“Give me all your money!”

Frozen half-way to a standing position, options raced through my mind. Do I open the door to scare the guy away or stay quiet? This modest sixteen-year-old feared being caught with her pants down. Paralyzed by fear, I did nothing.

Pop! More rustling, then the intruder shouted, “Don’t call the cops for fifteen minutes. I’ll be watching.”

The door closed and Jessie yelled my name. Rubber knees barely held my weight as I put myself together. When I opened the door, Jessie ran past me to the wall phone in the rear of the store.

“What are you doing?” I screamed.

“Calling the police.”

“He might come back.”

A cooler head prevailed. “He’s gone. I locked the doors.”

When the phone was free, I called my father. Vice President of the dairy, he was the official point of contact, while the President was out of town. The police station was midway between the creamery and my house, but my father beat the police to the scene. A stoic German Swiss, he did not wear his heart on his sleeve, but that night was an exception.

Jessie gave a detailed description of the culprit, conversation and toy gun to the detective. My idol elevated to heroine. I had nothing to add, except to corroborate the time and a few boisterous words.

Shaken and stirred, I drove home, with my father on my bumper. He was not letting his younger daughter out of his sight and I was glad of it. I had not seen the guy, but he may have seen me. The few hours I slept, were with the lamps lit.

In the morning, I shrugged off my wild imagination and went to school. When I needed reassurance, I told myself that a man with a toy gun played stick-up and did not get away with much. There was less than $100 in the till, including the register’s change. Joke was on him. Laughing made the perpetrator less formidable.

Walking to the parking lot after school, I met Jessie and the detective. Jessie’s outstretched hand explained her stooped shoulders and quivering chin. The marked, plastic bag held the 22 mm slug that the police dug out of the wall. First shock, the gun was real. Second, the plotted trajectory was between Jessie and the refrigerator, that was less than six inches from her arm. Third, it lodged next to the trim around the bathroom door. If it were a few inches to the left, it would have penetrated the bathroom door and probably hit me. Jessie went downtown to go through mug shots. I tagged along to provide moral support.

Two weeks later, the culprit was still on the loose and suspected of knocking over two liquor stores. The modus operandi was the same, an armed strike five minutes before closing. 

Jessie and I continued to work at the creamery. After sunset, police cruised the area and parked in the lot at quitting time. Their presence was comforting, but the strain was taking a toll. The faceless man plagued my dreams. He lunged from the shadows or stalked from behind. Every night as his hands clenched my throat, I woke up in a sweat. Seeing a mental health professional was not a consideration. They treated crazy people. Held together by spit and chewing gum, I faked my sanity.

The dufus and his pal, the getaway driver, were caught a week later, when stopped for a burned-out taillight. The officer noticed multiple weapons on the back seat and took them into custody. Had the guns been concealed in the trunk, they would have gotten away with a warning.

Earth school teaches valuable lessons and shapes our futures. In retrospect, divine hands were at work. There were no injuries during the robberies and the arrest was a fluke. I played the bit role in God’s plan. Jessie, the star, understood the message, changed her major and became a dedicated, compassionate minister, who spent the rest of her life spreading His Light and Love.