Mistakes Were Made

A Confession

Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.

—Oscar Wilde

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"Mistakes were made, though I’m just fine—"
the man remarked about the crime.
He sat at the bar and nursed a beer,
he looked my way and began to leer.

“Who are you? And what do you want?”
he growled at me, all bluster and taunt.

“No one, sir,” I said, looking down,
my lips gone tight, my whole face a frown.

He slammed his glass and cracked a grin,
said, “Do you know who I am? Do you know where I’ve been?
Do y’know the name that runs this town?
The name that makes all lawmen frown?”

I shook my head. He didn’t care.
He was fixin’ to tell me right then and there.

“Mistakes were made—they always are—
whether robbing a bank near or far.
The one we did was right in town,
three men entered, no one sat down.

I brought my boys—my flesh, my blood—
we came with guns and there we stood.
Masked and ready with nothing to lose,
three cruel sinners with something to prove.

We told them all to hit the floor,
grabbed the cash and hit the door.
Shots rang out and someone bled good,
the hot red lifestuff leaked on the wood.

I told my boys to keep it cool,
but panic makes a man a fool.
Tommy dropped the bag and ran,
Jackie, the idjit, had no plan.

Tommy caught a bullet clean,
worst damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Jackie ran but not too far,
they found him crouching under a car.

My boys went down, they’re both gone now,
the devil came to collect his vow.
From me, a sinner who made an unholy pact,
with the big man downstairs, one I can’t take back.

But me? I walked. I slipped the net.
I’m the one they haven’t caught just yet.
A free man, drinking, still alive,
only one of three to truly survive.”

I swallowed hard. I shouldn’t have come.
The barkeep polished a glass, playing dumb.
But his eyes flicked once—just once—my way,
and I understood there was nothing to say.

The barkeep knew. He was very much in.
This wasn’t a story. This was a sin
dressed up like confession at very last call,
told to a stranger pinned on the wall.

“Mistakes were made, that’s for sure.
Yours was coming through this door.”

He reached beneath his coat so slow,
pulled the steel and let it show.

The barkeep turned and wiped the glass,
well aware of what would pass.

“Mistakes were made,” the man said low.
“And you, my friend, have got to go.”

The shot rang out. I hit the floor.
The barkeep stood up and locked the door.

Mistakes were made beneath the sun,
mistakes were made by everyone—
the son who ran, the son who dropped,
me who should have never stopped
to drink a beer I’d never finish,
in a bar with no one else in it.

Dead on the floor and out of sight.
Mistakes were made, you’re goddamn right.

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Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.

If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share in a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on X.

With sincere gratitude,

Tom