Our Generation's Gypsy

We had minutes. Minutes to grab anything Sara and I could get our dirty silent hands on. Mark stood watch at the heavy oak doors of the church, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and tapping his foot nervously. Sara and I were almost done blowing out and snatching the white prayer candles. My hands were burning from hot wax and incased by the dried paraffin from the first few candles I didn’t give time to dry. I still had room in my sack; not a good thing in Mark’s opinion. I walked down the center aisle of the church, scavenging for something we’d be able to pawn, sell or use.
“Ha, oh shit look at this!” Sara was standing in the first row of pews, looking down at something that put a grin and wide-eyed look on her dirt-smeared face. I approached her with an extended index finger to my lips, reminding her that we weren’t supposed to be there. Then I saw what she was looking at.
“Holy shit.” I heard slip out of my mouth in a breathy exhale, realizing it was kind of funny to be saying such a thing in a house of worship. On the edge of the pew’s bench was the basket of offerings that must have been left there from today’s service. It was filled with one, five, ten, and twenty dollar bills. No, not full; it was over flowing. I looked at the basket of money and forgot that we were on the clock. This run just got a whole lot more exciting…and illegal. Sara and I looked at each other for a moment, grins spreading across our faces as we realized what we were about to do.
The wax on my fingers made it easier to grab the bills. My knapsack, lacking an inch of room, was full of money, candles, roseries, Bibles and a single song book. No one really buys the song books at our little merchandise marts we set up when we move around, but the Bibles, rosaries and glass-held relic candles get sold relatively quickly; especially in Mexican neighborhoods. I gently swung my pack across my back, making sure I didn’t break the glass, and grabbed the strap securely with my other hand.
“Let’s get out of here. Churches freak me out.” Having run out of room in her over-sized purse, Sara was now stuffing money into the pockets of her tattered jacket, her face still plastered with that greedy smile. She stuffed the last handful of bills down the front of her shirt and into her bra.
“We should take the basket too. Do you have any room?” Sara looked at my backpack, put the basket on the floor, and slid it under the bench with her foot. “Alright let’s go,” Sarah slung her purse over her shoulder as we started walking towards the back of the church where Mark was standing guard.
We were halfway down the center aisle when Mark let out an “SHHH.” The frantic sound reverberated through the aisles of the cavernous church and up through the dark wood of the ceiling to the point of the steeple. Sara and I froze and looked at him. Only is arm was sticking into the church through a crack, palm stretched wide in a “STOP in the name of love” way, while the rest of his body was hidden by the big oak doors; our only way out. Sara and I looked at each other frantically then a motion from the door caught our eye. The stop sign had turned into a fast up-and-down waving motion. Mark’s arm then slid through the door quickly and the heavy oak door was closed.
Sara and I froze as the echo from the abandoning door close made its way down the aisle. As the sound reached where we were standing we split, almost as if on cue, turning to opposite sides of the church and launched ourselves into a row of pews. My elbows and forearms pulled me under a bench and into the protection of invisibility. I quickly maneuvered to face the aisle to see if Sara had landed safely. She was propped up on her elbows and studying her floor-burnt palms with an exaggerated frown. She looked to her left and let out a peep of joy that made me flinch. She extended her left arm towards the row in front of her, her right elbow still propped on the waxy wood floor. She slid a black retractable umbrella out from under the bench in front of her and, with a look of satisfaction, unzipped her bulging bag. Flinching again at the sound I looked around me. There was dirt left behind from parishioner’s Sunday shoes, left behind by those who just paid us their week’s tithing; we are their poor and their hungry, we’re just speeding up the transaction. I mused at the thought of the three us in line at a food pantry pleading for another can of beans or begging for pity from some self-righteous suburbanite. I smiled at the thought of us ever falling to some pathetic poor house then a clinking noise snapped me out of my head.
Sara was trying the shove the umbrella into her purse that obviously had no room for it, causing the glass from the candles to clink and the rosaries to shake against them like maracas. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth to get her attention. She froze and looked up at me. With a murderous look I mouthed the words “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Exaggerating each word to make sure she knows who she’s dealing with. Honestly sometimes I don’t know why Mark keeps her around; the girl is just bafflingly stupid sometimes. Sara looked at me like a dog that’s just been scolded then wiggles as she stuffed the decent sized umbrella down the front of her jeans. I roll my eyes and strain my eyes to look down the aisle. It didn’t look like anyone was coming and I hadn’t heard anything except the noises from Sara’s stupidity. Just to be sure I gave myself a couple more minutes of dead silence, straightened my hat, and slowly pushed myself out from under the pew’s wooden bench.