A record for Emily, and on a Monday morning to boot. In town before the roosters crowed, my first stop was Doug’s Shoe Repair to have the nice fellow replace the soles on my roping boots. My second stop would be the crazy-day sale at Herberger’s, where all Calvin Kleins would run out to greet me.

A few weeks later, I felt kind of bad returning my boots for repair after the nice job Doug did the first time, but the split on the side just didn’t hold off water or mud. He didn’t want to take any cash, but I handed over two bucks anyway for a cup of coffee for him and the missus.

The third time they needed fixing, I spent my cash at the donut shop first, as Doug was subject to my official “three strikes law.” As I was sitting in the car outside the shoe shop waiting for the lights to come on, a van pulled up on one side of me and an old jalopy on the other. I sank down in the seat, thinking it just didn’t seem normal for that many shoe-fixing customers to be lined up at the door that early. As I reached for the automatic door locks, the coffee spilled all over my lap.

Ever try to hide and scream in silent pain at the same time?

I accomplished it, but not before the sliding door to the van opened, revealing a couple of gangster-like guys in shabby suits. My eyeballs were about even with the top of the door as the closest fellow walked inches from me to the front of my car to meet up with the other guys from the jalopy on the sidewalk. It was dang cold out with a north wind that hunkered even the furriest dog. There were six gangsters total against one Emily, and all I had for defense was a broken boot! About that time, a gust of wind came up and revealed a pistol under the jacket of the tallest suit-wearer. I didn’t feel the rest of the coffee pouring on my lap, and only after a couple of minutes did I remember to swallow the rest of my donut and breathe.

Pretty soon, the group split up with half going around one side of the building and half on the other. Slid halfway down to the gas pedal, in my rearview mirror I saw a police car pull up on the other side of the street. This was it, I was in the middle of a mob war and tried to pencil my final wishes on the donut bag. No luck; my hand was shaking so bad I couldn’t hold the pen, much less draw a picture of Al Capone!

Rounding the corner faster than Speedy Gonzalez, the tall guy had his gun drawn and skidded to a stop right in front of me! Hearing the yelling as my face was pasted on the floor boards by then, I waited to “float up” and see my bullet-ridden body in the car below. Seeing the shadow of the uniformed officer meeting up with the gun-toting gangster, I realized they weren’t out to eliminate each other and remembered to breathe again. Getting a little curiosity courage, I slid up and turned my head sideways to protect the very smart “brain side” from any stray ammo.

All but one of the group was huddled in front of my car, and I figured out the whole show must have been a stakeout for the apartment around the corner. As I peeked through the steering wheel, the driver of the jalopy came trotting around the corner, slipped on the ice and went down flat as a pancake on the sidewalk.

Ever try to cover your mouth to keep from laughing and being shot at by Barney Fife at the same time?

I accomplished that too, but not before turning a bright shade of blue with coffee dripping from my nose.

Not wanting to be seen in public with coffee-stained trousers, I headed back home to tell Ed of my near-death experience between a whole bunch of gangsters and the entire police force.

Still a little on edge, I followed a gravel truck a little too close and was “rocked.” A small hole in the windshield, surrounded by an eight-inch spider web in the glass, just perfected the day to a T. Or it sure could be taken as a bullet hole now, couldn’t it? Ed would ask, “What happened?” in a sincere, caring way as he saw my coffee-stained jeans and my face still slightly blue from lack of oxygen. Then I would point to the bullet hole in the windshield and have a breakdown of sorts, spilling the whole miserable story of being caught in the middle of the worst gangster war our town had ever seen. A nap on the couch with a heavy blanket and being served homemade soup would be the only thing to take away my woes – besides Ed cleaning the entire horse barn and promising to feed and tuck in each and every one.

After I felt better, borrowing Ed’s pickup to drive in to the police station to file report after report would be necessary. Calvin, I’m back…