—
I GET in the car and back out into the street. I’m behind Black at the light. I don’t especially like Black because he’s always on some bullshit. Still he’s alright as far as dope boys go. All his brothers are in jail.
The arrow’s green and Black makes a left. I follow him and pass him going up Cedar. The morning is overcast, but it’s bright nonetheless—a bright overcast morning! In just-spring! And maybe it will stay this way forever. It would be nice, but it’s a childish thing to wish for.
I go past South Taylor, past the pharmacy, past the abandoned KFC, past the Wendy’s, past the high school, past the movies, past Lee Road, another pharmacy, more houses, and I’m twenty-five years old and I don’t understand what it is that people do. It’s as if all this were built on nothing, and nothing were holding this together. And then I hear people talk, and that just makes things worse.
I didn’t make the light at Meadowbrook. I turn right at Coventry and follow it down to Hampshire and turn left. Here the street signs are painted to look like they’ve been tie-dyed. I used to live here before they did that. Then I couldn’t anymore. It was like finding out you’d had some shit on your face the whole time you’d been talking.
I go up Hampshire where it’s one-way and the brick apartment buildings on either side. Some of the apartments have balconies. And the trees are nice. I don’t understand them either but I like them. I think I’d like them all. It’d have to be a pretty fucked-up tree in order for me not to like it.
The lane is two-ways with houses on either side after the stop. Some of the houses are duplexes, some are single-family homes, and they all look nice, and there are more trees, and bigger ones. I turn around in the street and park at the curb. Black pulls up and I get into his car. He cuts over and turns left onto Lancashire. He drives down and stops a little ways back from the corner. There is nothing more left to do now.
* * *
—
SOMEWHERE ALONG the way I got into this, and it’s become a habit with me. One thing leads to another, leads to another. Things get better, they get worse. Then one day you’re all the way thrown out, before you ever knew it was that serious. And you might be crazy, and you might have a gun, but even then it’s usually no big deal.
I have the door open and the car chimes. “I’ll be quick, so you might as well start now. You know where you’re going, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Just make the first left three times and you can’t go wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? Because you don’t look like you do. It isn’t too late to change your mind.”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you in the parking lot in about two minutes, give or take. Please be there.”
He says, “I got this.”
“Too easy, right?”
“Too easy.”
* * *
—
I’M ON the sidewalk. I’m an Indians hat and a red scarf. I’m a blue hoodie and a white button-down shirt, some jeans, white Adidas, nothing out of the ordinary. The gun is in my waist. I pull the scarf up before I go by the ATMs, and the scarf covers the lower half of my face. It’s a little late for it to do any good; I’ve been at this awhile now, and it’s no secret what my face looks like. And here’s a guy walking out and I’m at the door going in and I’m not worried. I’m through the door, and I have the gun out so everybody can see: “NO ALARMS. I’M A WANTED MAN. THEY’LL KILL ME.”
I’m only kidding around. And I think everybody knows as much. But this is nevertheless a holdup, and I’ll need some money before I’ll leave.
I walk to the counter, with the gun down now so it’s pointed at the floor. There’s no sense in making a big deal out of this. One thing about holding up banks is you’re mostly robbing women, so you don’t ever want to be rude. About 80% of the time, so long as you’re not rude, the women don’t mind when you hold up the bank; probably it breaks up the monotony for them. Of course there are exceptions; about 20% have a bad outlook. Like there was one lady, looked like Janet Reno, wouldn’t come off a cent more than $1800; she’d have seen everybody dead before she’d have come off another cent. She actually thought the bank was right. But this was a fanatic. Usually the tellers are pretty cool: you give them a note or tell them you’re there to do a robbery, and they go in the cash drawers and lay the money on the counter, and you take it and you leave and that’s all there is to it. Really it’s very civilized. It’s like a quiet joke you’ve shared with them. I say joke because in my case I don’t imagine there was ever one to believe I’d do anything serious if push came to shove, though I do make it a point to try and at least look a little deranged because I don’t want anyone getting in trouble on account of me. I have a lot of sadness in the face to make up for, so I have to make faces like I’m crazy or else people will think I’m a pussy. The risk you run is that sometimes people think you’re a crazy pussy. But I have to do what I can; otherwise her manager might say to her, “Why’d you give that pussy the money? You’re fired!” And she goes home and tells the kids there isn’t going to be any Christmas.
It doesn’t matter. Here is a teller. I say to her, “It’s nothing personal.”
And do you know we recognize each other! There was another robbery, on the West Side, Lakewood, maybe a month ago (the days run together). I robbed the other teller, but she was there too. It was funny how it happened. The other teller laid $1400 on the counter and said it was all she had. I remember the lie in her voice and thinking, This poor woman thinks I’m retarded. But then what did I care? She was pretty and it wasn’t like I wanted everything, I only ever wanted what was enough for now.
So now I’m robbing this teller and we’ve recognized each other and it isn’t a big deal. I don’t think she’s against me. I think maybe we’re the same age. She’s pale as I am. And her hair is dark. Her eyes are blue with flecks of gold in them, and I could be in love with her if things had been different. And then maybe we are somewhere.
I say, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“Vanessa.”
“I’m sorry, Vanessa.”
“What’s your name?”
“You’re funny, Vanessa.”
She empties out the cash drawers quickly, which is good as I’m not trying to hang out—there’s a police station not a quarter mile from here. I take the stacks of money off the counter and shove them into my pockets. It looked alright: it doesn’t matter, it isn’t ever very much. It’s like smash and grab, like hit and run: the important thing is to get away.
The important thing is to run fast.
I slam through the doors going out and round the corner, go past the ATMs. But I don’t run back up the street; I turn and run behind the bank, past the dumpster, past the place where I used to live upstairs, then down the steps in back of the almost vegetarian restaurant, to the chain-link fence. And the parking lot is there, but I don’t see Black. And I’m not at all surprised as this is typical fucking dope boy behavior.
The important thing is don’t run.