I'm writing a short story for english class

English I AICE
Wyatt DeWitt
November 13, 2007
Short Story Assignment
Larceny
A Short Story

Doug Powell grimaced as he looked at the sticky pale-green glob on his shoe.
Gum, he thought angrily. I hate stepping in gum. Doug scraped his New Balance sneaker on the concrete ground and stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants, feeling the white paper envelope in his pocket with the Power Rangers birthday card inside. It made him feel a little better, but something told him stepping in some idiot’s chewed-up candy would be the least of his troubles. He shrugged off the dark, pessimistic thought.
Doug knew, as he walked to the front door of the Wellington bank, locking his Nissan Altima behind him, that his son Scott eagerly waited for him at home, his wife Carla had told him over the cell phone. Doug had come to withdraw a hundred dollars (all the local ATM’s were down because of a street gang smashing them open to make some quick money) so he could go to the store to buy six-year-old Scott his new bicycle. Scott had worked hard to get his birthday present, keeping his room clean, doing extra credit in school, helping his mom with the dishes. Now the sapphire-blue bike could be his.
As Doug walked into the bank, a man with shaggy brown hair and sunglasses knocked into him aggressively, but ignored the fact that he had just hit Doug. He hunched up his shoulders, the sleeves of his black windbreaker slightly rippling. Doug scowled, but switched back as quickly as a chameleon changes color. He walked up to the teller and pulled out his plastic card: DOUGLAS GREGORY POWELL.
“Why, hello there! How are you doing?”
“Um, fine, I guess. Kind of tired,” he mumbled. “The coffee machine was broken at work.”
“That’s a shame! Well, how much do you want to withdraw?” Doug was staring into space and she spoke loudly to break the trance.
“Oh! Yeah! Uh, a hundred dollars, please.”
“Just a moment, sir,” said the ever-smiling teller in her bubbly voice. As she walked off, her blonde ponytail bobbed behind her. Her big white smile was annoying Doug, but he got his mind off it and quietly drummed his fingers on the counter. The teller returned moments later.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re having some trouble with the vault, could you please wait over there for a minute?” She gestured to a row of chairs in the far corner of the big room.
“Sure,” muttered Doug, angry that on the one day he came to the bank it was messed up. He trotted over and plopped in a red chair with a velvety cushion. He pulled out his lime-green iPod and stuck the snow-white headphones in his ears. He scrolled down to The Strokes and set it to play all their songs. Doug tapped his foot to the beat, and after about thirty-eight seconds the vocals kicked in, but the scratchy singer was interrupted by a loud sound that pierced the air.
“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND. NOW,” screeched the man from before, the guy with the windbreaker and shades. He held a magnum pistol into the air, firing shots. Doug hurled himself to the ground, perhaps too forcefully. He felt a jolt of pain in the right side of his chest, the thump reminding him all too vividly that this floor was tile and not the carpet he was accustomed to at his home on 1331 Hudson Drive. Doug looked up again to the man with the gun, who was on the other side of the room. A loud alarm was going off, so the gunman shot out all the speakers. They exploded with loud POPS. He pointed to the wall on the opposite side from the tellers. The tellers came out of their booths and ran swiftly. They sat against the blindingly white wall, as did the bank patrons. Doug put his hands to the floor. The tile was icy cold, the entire bank was silent and the air was heavy with sobs and whines. The burglar put the metallic black firearm into his waistband and pulled a bandana over his mouth. He spoke softly now, gently.
“I need one of you tellers to come with me. I need that vault opened so I can grab the cash. But you probably figured that out,” he said with a cruel smile. It looked more like the line of his solemn mouth just tilted a few degrees. A young banker with shiny brunette hair stood up and delicately whispered,
“We’re just tellers. We don’t know how to open that safe- it’s broken anyway. You’d need a computer programmer to, like, hack it or something. I don’t know.”
Doug cursed under his breath, angry that this was the day he wore his “MICROSOFT: TECHNICAL LIAISON” shirt with his name on it. He wished it was casual Friday at the office. Doug swore again as the robber shot a glance towards him. He noticed the shirt.
“Get up.” When Doug failed to respond quickly enough, stumbling in his fear, the maniac bellowed, “I said, GET UP!” Doug jumped to his feet, hearing a scared little girl crying in the corner.
The gunman ordered Doug to get onto his feet and pointed to the door leading to the vault. How he knew where it was located was something Doug couldn’t figure out, but Doug opened the door and saw the safe.
Just by looking he could tell it wasn’t the kind of computer he could fix. It was far beyond the standard PC you’d find anywhere else. Cold sweat trickled down Doug’s face as he turned to the burglar.
“Well, um, I…” he stammered, struggling to get the words. His face was that of a statue, frozen into an expression of pure terror. “I don’t r-repair this kind of c-computer. S-s-sorry.” Doug couldn’t have clenched his fists tighter if he was hanging by a rope over the Grand Canyon. The robber pulled his gun out.
“Figure it out,” he said. “Or I swear to God I’ll blow your brains all over that keyboard.” He spoke quickly, and his voice was gravelly like a chain-smoker’s. Doug turned to him.
“If you kill me, what about my wife? My son? How do you think you’ll feel when you know that you’ve taken me away from them? Turn yourself in to the police. I hear the sirens outside.” The robber looked.
“I don’t have a choice. I’m totally broke. I need money to survive.”
Doug stared angrily. “That’s it?!?!” he exclaimed. “You could have stayed with someone or something, but instead you want to steal money? That’s a load of crap. You always have a choice. It’s not too late to make the right one.” The gunner dropped his magnum and ran out the door, all the way outside. Doug went to see what happened and was shocked to see it had actually worked. He was already in the cop-car, and the police had identified him as Brett Ambrose, age 35, birthplace Fort Myers, Florida. Doug got in his own car and drove to the local Toys R Us – which had a working ATM.
This time, there were no problems. Doug came home with the bike.

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