There is something about the sight of an armored truck that just makes me long to rob it.
This urge first surfaced when I worked in Spain. I used to take the bus to work. Every day, Monday through Friday, I would get off the bus, and there she would be: a shiny armored truck, back doors flung open to the morning air, canvas bags piled near the front of the cab.
Not once did I ever see a driver or a guard. But every day, Monday through Friday, I would thank God that I was wearing high heels.
“There is no way I could ever get in and out of that truck and then run fast enough to get away. Oh well…” And this recurring yen would hit me again the following day, and the next….
It wasn’t the money: it was the idea of getting away with it. It was those casual canvas bags beckoning from the floor of the truck.
The absolute worst thing was that once the armored-car-set-up had been firmly resisted, a far greater one often presented itself. At least, this one only tested me about twice a week: it was the egg-carrying waiter.
On the next corner from the armored truck, a waiter would be carrying a delivery of about ten trays of eggs. I longed to trip him. You know, just to see. Once again, I would be thankful for the high heels, because there was no way that waiter would ever have let me make my getaway.
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