Fiction. Two drifters roll into a small lake town in southern Maine, looking to score some easy cash off the locals. 20-30 minutes to read. Originally published at Dark Yonder Magazine, 2023 (see Publications page).

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Burglary Down East

By Austin Treat

Just last week, they ripped off a blue hair who thought they were charming IRS agents. Of course, there are no charming IRS agents, so that was a lie. They smiled and made respectful physical contact with her, touching her gently on the shoulder while saying “I know, Gertrude, taxes are the worst,” and “Turbo Tax can be so confusing, can’t it? You should really consider hiring a tax expert.” They handed her a smart, eggshell white business card that said Tax Expert, but the number called a septic removal company. 

Gertrude took the business card and, to show her gratitude, offered them coffee. They sat together on her floral pattern sofa. Pictures of grandchildren hung on the kitchen fridge. “Beautiful children,” they said, presenting a folder of IRS documents they fabricated at STAPLES. They were so patient explaining the legalese to Gertrude. Basically, she owed the IRS thirty-five hundred dollars. 

“Dear me!” she coughed on her coffee. “How?” 

They told her late fees add up quickly. Compounding interest is a silent killer, they said. She begged and pleaded. She couldn’t afford to pay that much. They nodded their heads, sympathizing. They double-checked her file. Since she was a first-time offender, they said, they were willing to waive her late fee, so she just had to pay the principal amount of two thousand dollars. 

“How about that?” 

Gertrude gave a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you so much.” She wondered if they accepted debit cards, and they sure did keep mobile POS devices on hand. Drawing one from a briefcase they bought at Goodwill, they kindly stole her money. 

In the car, a haggard old Subaru Forester with a Backstreet Boys Millenium CD stuck in the stereo, they ripped down the highway; northeast, headed for the next town. Chuck reminded Irwin about the real IRS, who had recently, and officially, stopped making unannounced home visits to crack down on scammers posing as IRS agents. “That was two years ago, Irwin,” said Chuck. “I know the IRS ain’t advertising that, but even the old fogies will start catching on, sooner or later.”

Irwin nodded, studying the road. “I was getting bored of that gig anyway,” he said. 

“End of an era,” said Chuck. “We gave it a good run though, didn’t we?” 

“We sure did,” said Irwin. 

Both of them agreed, Virginia was dried up.  

***

At a Taco Bell in Maryland, they agreed to skip Delaware. 

“Jersey could be good,” said Irwin, and Chuck shrugged, “OK.” 

The Corkscrew they called it, a con maneuver that needed a busy bar and a costume. In Atlantic City, there was no shortage of crowded restaurants, and since they already had the apron-and-black uniform of a server, they went to work thanking customers and collecting tips. They pocketed three hundred dollars each before the servers they were impersonating chased them out; the whole staff could’ve played minor league, the way they threw highballs. That was the end of Atlantic City and The Corkscrew.  

Connecticut was crawling with cops, so they went to Providence, where they found reasonable success offering photos to tourists before running off with their phones. They took the SIM cards out, destroyed them, and sold the rest on Facebook Marketplace, eBay, and Craig’s List. “New phone,” they typed at a library computer. “CHEAP, barely used; no scratches; no SIM card.” They read books and watched Youtube as the offers flooded in. 

They sold ten in a week. At a hundred a pop, that was good money.

“Not bad,” said Chuck at a casino in Tiverton. 

“It’s no windfall,” said Irwin, sore from losing their Atlantic City money on blackjack. They nursed glasses of scotch at the bar. Neither of them looked at each other. They watched TV and bet on a baseball game, taking the over total score. 

“What’s our next move?” said Chuck, flipping through an old issue of Down East Magazine. “We could sell booze to kids on Cape,” he said. “Fifty bucks for a handle of Rubinoff.”

“Nah,” said Irwin. 

“You love the beach.” 

“We never make any real money in Mass, they’re too cheap.”

“True.”

They watched baseball, but the bats weren’t popping off like they needed to be to hit the over. 

“You know where there’s a lot of money right now?” said Chuck.

“Don’t say New Hampshire.” 

“Sebago.” 

The slot machines behind them chimed, spinning colorful fruit. 

“Maine?” said Irwin. 

“Little ol’ Maine,” said Chuck. 

“Mainers don’t have shit,” said Irwin.

“But the tourists do,” said Chuck, spinning the magazine towards Irwin. “All those fancy lake houses,” he said. “Look. We scope one out, get inside, grab what’s good, then lay low for a couple of weeks.”

“Camping does sound pretty nice,” said Irwin.

“I could use a vacation,” said Chuck. 

If Irwin was on the fence about going along with Chuck’s plan, a grand slam hit the over and changed his mind. A positive portent he called it. They paid their tab and left for Sebago.  

***

They bribed their way into a Residents Only beach in Standish on the third day of prowling Sebago for places to rob. They absolutely did not wear enough sunblock. Poor Chuck looked like a baboon’s ass. “I’m done,” he told Irwin. “Let’s just pick somewhere and rob it. All these houses look rich. What’re we waiting for?” He was sitting in the shade, rubbing aloe on his burnt skin. 

“The weakest link,” said Irwin. “Ideally a hermit who keeps cash in the house.” 

“Well shit, Irwin,” said Chuck. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” 

A mother next to them changed her baby’s diaper just as the wind shifted in their direction, carrying fragments of digested breakfast into their nostrils. 

“I’m leaving,” said Chuck. “I’m sunburnt, and I’m hungry.” 

Worried that Chuck might be stroking out in the heat, Irwin nodded, and said he wanted to go for a quick dip before they left. 

Chuck took the car keys and marched across the sand. 

Irwin dove into the lake, with water so clean and clear he could see the bottom even when his feet couldn’t touch. Surfacing, he noticed a house on an island camouflaged by trees. Framed in the center, with woodsy peninsulas on either side, boats dancing across the foreground, pulling tubes and water skiers; an idyllic view that looked so natural for such a pristine lake that no one else seemed to notice, like seeing good-looking people on TV. 

Irwin swam back to shore, got his towel, and jogged to the parking lot.

Chuck chose a greasy dive in Standish near a boat launch called Guffs Grub & Pub. They could hear people arguing in the apartments above the restaurant’s exposed pipes. A server came over to take their order. They wanted steak sandwiches and cold beer. The server smiled and left for the kitchen. In the meantime, Chuck and Irwin played a game of pool. Irwin won, but only because Chuck let him. 

“The sunburn affected my shot,” he said. 

At a glossy wood table, they ate in silence, enjoying their food, and half-watching a women’s soccer game on TV. Irwin thought of the island. Chuck watched the athletes play and pictured a woman he knew.

A sallow-skinned regular saddled up to their table. His voice smashed into their lunch. He asked how the food was, steadying himself on an empty chair. 

“Good, thanks,” said Irwin, dismissive.

“Don’t see many of you around here.”

Irwin looked hard at the man. “Excuse me?” 

“Young kids, I mean. How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

The old man’s eyes went wide. “No?! I thought you were twenty-two, twenty-three at most.” His drink perspired in a wrinkly old hand, his skin so thin that the con men could see through it. He teetered, swaying side to side, smiling, and dude-flirting. Chuck asked if the man was from Maine. The man said no. With the floodgates open, the old timer’s autobiography came rushing out. Irwin looked for the waitress, but Chuck was engrossed. 

In a soft, toothless lisp, the fogie spoke about his past Ivy League education, his service in the Air Force, where he worked on airplanes, a skill he translated into a lucrative engineering career in the private sector, making millions. Now he works on his own time, three days a week. Has to still earn money, he joked, to keep his wife happy. That was the agreement, he said, for them to live on an island. 

Irwin sat up. 

“Where do you live?” said Irwin. 

“Here in Standish, on the island across from Harmon’s Beach,” the old man said matter-of-factly. 

“We were just there,” said Irwin. “At the beach, I mean.”

“You can see my island from there,” said the old man.

“I know,” said Irwin. “It’s just you and the wife there?”

The old man went to sip his drink but missed his mouth. “That’s right,” he said. “And we like it that way. Peace and quiet.”

“Lucky you,” said Irwin, inviting the old man back to his barstool. 

When the old man left, Chuck looked at Irwin. 

“How’re we getting there?” said Chuck.

Irwin winked. “Let’s get some kayaks.”

Chuck smiled. 

*** 

They eyeballed a house with two kayaks audaciously left in plain sight. 

Not a moment after the owners left, Irwin backed into their driveway.

Timing was key. Irwin barked commands. Chuck grumbled grievances. The two of them shoved the first kayak inside the Subaru with the backseats down. 

“Push it!” said Irwin. Half the kayak stuck out. “We can’t have a stolen kayak sticking out the back, Chuck,” hissed Irwin. 

Chuck pushed until sweat crowned his forehead. “It won’t go any further,” he said. “The kayak is starting to push me!”

 “Fine,” said Irwin. “Let’s get the other one.” 

They secured the second kayak on top of the Subaru with a series of shabby loop knots, and Irwin jumped in the driver’s seat. Chuck sat in the back with his knees in his mouth. 

Irwin looked right before pulling out of the driveway, but couldn’t see a damn thing through the kayak sitting there; then, looking straight ahead, he saw a spider web of deep, jagged fissures in the windshield. 

Later, it cost him five hundred dollars to fix it. 

Naturally, Irwin blew a gasket. 

Folks in three states heard him call the one word he knew that sounded like a curse and a culprit at the same time…

“CHUUUCK!” he yelled.

***

They slept in separate tents that night. Irwin pulled into a quiet cemetery and parked by the dense, woodland edge. He knew it wasn’t completely Chuck’s fault for cracking the windshield. Irwin pushed him too hard. But he couldn’t forgive him for being a brute. Not yet. He’d sleep on it or not sleep on it. Neither of them got a wink that night. Irwin heard the dead rooting around in the dark and Chuck had a root the size of New Jersey stuck in his back. He remembered Atlantic City, heard tumblers whizzing by his head, and he shivered. 

In the morning, a peaceful burial procession unfolded nearby, and as the casket lowered, they ripped down the cemetery’s dirt path, heading for Sebago. One-by-one, the duly departed’s family turned their heads to the clunky, wheezing Subaru coughing dust clouds on the mourners, who covered their mouths and swore. The priest took the ensuing commotion as a blessing in disguise and released a Hail Mary fart he’d been holding since John 3:16. 

As an olive branch, Irwin bought Chuck breakfast at a local diner and apologized for blaming him. Irwin’s sincerity, and the bacon, went a long way. 

“Lesson learned,” said Chuck. “You can’t fit a ten-foot kayak in a nine-foot car.”  

They launched their new kayaks at the smallest public beach they’d ever seen since they couldn’t afford to bribe anyone anymore. Twenty miles northwest of Portland, the lake was calm, and the island wasn’t far. On the water, Chuck had such an adamant conversation with a snapping turtle that he nearly capsized.

They noted an absence of human activity on the island. There were no voices between the trees and there were no boats docked anywhere. Irwin liked what he saw. They found a sandy inlet on the north side of the island, opposite the empty dock, and hid their kayaks. 

Their heartbeats quickened. They stalked through the underbrush, stopping at a large clearing where the old man’s house stood. Irwin surveyed the area to make sure they were alone. When he felt satisfied with his field observations, he signaled for them to advance. 

They infiltrated the old man’s house like two redneck commandos. 

Inside a stranger’s house, they felt something between danger and lust. Every sound, sharp; every smell, intense. There were no locked doors, which made sense. If you lived alone on an island, what would you lock doors for? 

They came through the back door. If Chuck could pocket the view from the porch, he’d sell it for millions. A creamy sun warmed the lake, blending blues and greens framed between rows of luscious trees. The view’s richness stopped Chuck in his tracks. 

Irwin went deeper inside. 

The living room contained outdated magazines, sparse furniture, dusty knickknacks, and little else. Irwin moved to the kitchen, checking shelves for spare cash, fine silver, and forgotten jewelry, but didn’t find anything. On a whim, he checked the fridge: empty too. It wasn’t even plugged in. A clammy dread burrowed in his belly. Irwin flipped the light switch and nothing happened. 

Upstairs, he found his first signs of life: a slept-in bed, a battery-powered lamp, books, a radio. Open photo albums carpeted the bedroom floor. Irwin looked closer. They captured a lifetime of romance. First, of a young man and a beautiful woman, hiking, kissing, smiling; traveling Europe; laying on the beach. Then, they were in an apartment together, watering plants, laughing while the man held the woman. Flipping more pages, Irwin saw the island house, followed by snuggled-up selfies on the porch; swimming off the dock; the woman naked, and waiting on the same bed Irwin stood next to. Eeek. Irwin skipped ahead. A sunset shared under a warm blanket, but the woman looked frail, her sickness accentuated by the vibrant vegetation around her. Now Irwin looked at the man and recognized him. The old timer from the bar. He didn’t lie. This was his house. He held his wife by her thin waist and tried smiling like she did, only his blue eyes wouldn’t cooperate; they wouldn’t yield the sadness they contained. 

Irwin shut the photo album. He knelt beside the old man’s shrine and recognized the woman from the photos in a framed picture by a small urn of ashes and a pile of tarnished jewelry. There were two wedding bands, a diamond engagement ring, a set of pearl earrings, and a gold necklace. 

Chuck stood frozen on the porch, rooted to the floor, mesmerized by the lake. It felt right.

Irwin returned, crestfallen. But Chuck couldn’t take his eyes off the water. “I could stay here forever,” he said. 

“You wouldn’t be the only one,” said Irwin, tugging at his arm. “Let’s go.” 

They left over the water. 

Paddling back, Chuck asked Irwin if he found anything in the house.

“Barely,” said Irwin. 

Chuck danced three fingers on the water and drifted for a while.   

They made enough money selling the kayaks for a new windshield and a full tank of gas. Going north for the winter, Irwin thought they could make decent money logging. No questions asked. A few rings and a necklace wouldn’t last them that long.   

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