Let's Pretend Everything's Okay

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Tom Doyle,

Artist – Sculptor – Friend

The nature of the universe delights not in anything so much as to alter things, and present them under another form.

– Marcus Antonius

Immediacy and individuality, the traits that mark concrete existence, come from the present occasion; meaning, substance, content, from what is embedded in the self from the past.

– John Dewey

1

IT WAS ABOUT TIME. A tall rather distinguished looking gentleman leaned against a stand-up desk pretending to fill out a deposit slip. He had a dark mustache. He wore dark rimmed glasses and a dark suit under his black topcoat. He did not smile. The vague idea that he should be somewhere else occasionally flitted through his mind. He tried to ignore that thought although he occasionally felt like an alien creature as he surveyed his surroundings. Glancing around he became aware of how quiet the place was. That was just fine he thought.

THE ONLY AUDIBLE SOUND was a strange, prayer-like murmuring emanating from somewhere to his left. That murmuring appeared to be farther away, but it actually originated only a few yards from where he stood. On the wall above, instead of the usual steady ticking of a large clock with its second hand racing rapidly around its face, large red digits blinked down, changing every sixty seconds to usher in a new minute.

Those large red numerals on the wall above changed several times as the tall distinguished looking gentleman kept part of his attention focused on the lone uniformed guard sitting at his desk in the corner engrossed in reading his magazine. When the guard finally looked up and saw that the red numerals reached a certain point, he carefully placed the magazine face down to keep his place because the story he was reading was interesting and he wanted to finish it sometime.

It was with some effort that he rose and lumbered slowly toward the front door. He was a large man, portly, the kind prone to producing flatulence if moving suddenly. Upon reaching the door he pulled the shade down over the plate glass window of the door indicating to the world beyond the bank was now closed for the day.

Locking the door, he left the key in it. Stifling a yawn he stood waiting for the few remaining customers to finish their business and depart. He unlocked and held open the door for each of them as they exited, and then carefully relocked the door waiting patiently like a good soldier for the others who were still at the counter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while his thoughts drifted from the story he was reading in his magazine to the warm supper waiting for him at a cozy little home somewhere across the river, roast beef, maybe with mashed potatoes and gravy. And a nice cold beer, yes! That would be good he thought to himself while yawning and scratching his backside discretely and trying to pull the annoying underwear from the crevice into which it had crept.

A few tellers waited on the remaining customers while others were busy in their daily ritual of counting the currency in their cash drawers as they prepared for the end of another business day. A few of them talked quietly with each other exchanging the kind of banter and gossip employed everywhere by young females. Those muted exchanges created the murmuring sound the gentleman leaning against the stand-up desk heard at this very moment. At another stand-up desk nearby was a rather stocky broad shouldered man wearing unusually clean work clothes who mumbled quietly to himself as he scribbled on the back of another deposit slip. Playing solitary tic-tack-toe, he puzzled over observing that the X’s somehow always managed to better the O’s more often than not.

But his attention quickly turned as his eyes caught the guard’s sluggish movement toward the door. The stocky man waited until the guard locked the door after ushering two more customers out of the bank. Then nodding discreetly at the tall gentleman at the other desk the stocky man quickly moved over to position himself behind the startled guard who now felt the stub-nosed revolver nesting in the stocky man’s bulging coat pocket poking sharply into his back. The guard’s lower portion still itched but he could no longer scratch it. Wordlessly the man in work clothes motioned him back to the desk in the corner where he was rudely shoved into his chair and roughly handcuffed to it.

Keep your mouth shut or I’ll use this on you! the stocky man with the gun whispered hoarsely into the ear of the startled guard while securing him to his chair still warm from prior occupancy. Then the stocky man strode quickly to the door. Turning to face the tellers and the customers who had not noticed him before, now all of them stared at him in wide-eyed amazement as the stocky man with a gun made his terse announcement.

Listen, everybody! Keep quiet all of you! Don’t anybody make any funny moves! Just do as I say, or else you’ll be mighty sorry! he commanded in a loud voice as he brandished his shiny 38 caliber revolver now out of his coat pocket and in sight of the terrified people. He waved the gun at them menacingly as both the tellers and the customers stared incredulously in a state of semi-shock at the man pointing an ominous looking weapon at them.

A few of them gasped softly. Some sniffled. Still others stifled a cry that wanted to escape from their throats but somehow could not. Everyone grew silent, standing stiffly as if they were statues instead of human beings, now afraid to move, now finding themselves frozen in place by this stranger who threatened them. The mustached gentleman also produced a gun from his coat pocket and stepped to the nearest teller handing her a note printed in bold letters on the back of a deposit slip.

HAVE YOUR MANAGER COME HERE NOW HAVE ALL TELLERS TO STEP BACK FROM THE COUNTER AWAY FROM ALARM BUTTONS KEEP THEIR HANDS IN SIGHT OR THEY WILL BE SHOT

After giving the warning in her shaky voice to the other tellers, she hesitantly reached for a telephone while looking at the gunman who nodded approvingly of her careful movements. The lady teller, her face now almost ghostly white, spoke something hurriedly into the telephone loud enough for the gentleman with the gun watching her to overhear. Soon a worried looking man wearing a pin striped suit emerged from an office next to the open vault behind the counter-line.

His well polished and studied smile vanished quickly after seeing the gun in the hand of the mustached man pointing right toward him. It was close enough so that he could easily count the bullets in the revolver. The man gestured for him to move into the vault whose large steel door yawned open behind the counter-line. The manager’s face reflected fear and disbelief but he moved quickly into the vault as instructed. Suddenly an angry hand of the man holding the gun slapped the manager’s hand sharply as it reached for an alarm button next to the vault door.

Do not try that again or your wife will become a widow before your body hits the floor! the gunman’s voice snapped, Now fill this bag with those bundles of currency from those shelves and be quick about it or else! The tall distinguished looking gentleman handed the pin-striped suit a large paper grocery bag while pointing to stacks of bundled currency with his weapon. The manager began to do as he was told but suddenly the angry hand slapped his again even harder this time.

No, no! Not that small stuff! Just the fifties and the hundreds! the hand’s owner gruffly demanded. The bank manager nervously dropped bundles of the ‘small stuff’ on the floor in his haste to comply as his attention turned nervously to the gun in the hands of the stranger giving him curt orders. Some of those bundles of ones and fives burst open and smaller bills rained down littering the vault floor. The paper bag was soon full to the brim with dozens of bundled currency. Then the manager stood dumbfounded inside the vault while the large heavy door was slammed shut on him by the gunman whose gloved hand spun the tumblers before he quickly moved toward the door carrying the bag of money. He was well beyond the counter-line heading for the exit.

Then it happened.

His accomplice, the stocky man in the clean work clothes had failed to properly fasten the handcuffs meant to restrain the guard to his chair. Thereupon the guard managed to free himself, something not observed by the gunman at the door until it was too late. He was watching the tellers and the digital clock on the wall and failed to see the guard raise his pistol which was now pointed at him. The stocky man by the door had also neglected to remove the guard’s pistol from its holster when he handcuffed him, an oversight that now became highly regrettable.

The stocky man automatically wheeled to face the guard and cursed himself as his eyes grew wide seeing the guard’s pistol pointing at him. The man in work clothes fired three shots. Two missed. The third struck the guard in the chest who meanwhile managed to fire but once. But that one bullet hit its mark spinning the stocky man around and dropping him awkwardly to the floor with a strange twisted look on his face. The guard’s face was expressionless as he too slumped to the floor with a thud, his gun clattering noisily as it fell to the smooth marble floor and slid a few feet away. Neither he nor the robber said a word during the exchange of gunfire but the four shots reverberated through the room sounding like cannon fire to the others in what had been an almost pristine silence. Muffled screams and cries erupted from the tellers and the remaining customers who quickly dropped warily to the floor in the certain belief that they were targets of those flying bullets.

The man with the grocery bag filled with currency muttered a silent oath as he turned to witness the exchange of gunfire. What the hell was happening, he thought to himself as he watched the two shooters slump into two heaps onto the floor. While the tellers and customers continued their muted shrieks sounding much like small wounded animals in distress, the robber moved rapidly to the door stepping cautiously over the stocky man’s prone body.

He should have felt for a pulse but he did not and stepped to the door turning the key in the lock, and after shoving his weapon into a coat pocket he moved outside and disappeared into the steady flow of pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. It was raining lightly as he pulled his coat collar up with a free hand. He strode quickly along toward an intersection, but around its corner he stopped abruptly. What the hell?

The van driven by another accomplice should have been there waiting to whisk him and his partner away. It had been parked just a few feet beyond the fireplug with room to pull out and make a quick get-a-way. Now it was nowhere in sight. What the deuce happened to it? Now the man needed to improvise and do it rather quickly but his mind was the kind capable of rapid mentation. He calmly turned and resumed walking along easily blending into the flow of humanity moving along the sidewalk heading toward the river as the rain increased pelting his face and the bag filled with money.

He felt the revolver in his coat pocket bumping against his hip as he strode briskly along as city people were prone to do. Without losing his stride he deftly removed his false mustache, the dark-rimmed glasses, and casually dumped them into a trash container along the curb. Then he removed his fedora dropping it into another trash container further along replacing it with a baseball cap pulled from his other coat pocket. After crossing another intersection he turned into an alley in the middle of the block. There he slipped out of his topcoat dropping it into a dumpster. Underneath he wore a team jacket emblazoned with the logo of the city’s professional football team into a pocket of which he transferred his revolver. He pulled a large white plastic bag from the other pocket hastily slipping it over the grocery bag filled with money and resumed his methodical march.

After walking several more blocks the man, now wearing a team jacket and a baseball cap came to a bus terminal near the river. He quickly entered to get out of the rain. He stood quietly surveying the hustle and bustle of people walking by him going in opposite directions as they paid little attention to him or each other. Glancing around carefully for a moment he spotted a row of lockers along the wall further down the hallway. With a controlled nonchalance he sauntered over to an empty one into which he shoved the revolver and the plastic bag filled with money. It was locker number 281. He slammed the door shut, locked it and carefully pocketed the key.

Banshee-like wails of police sirens in the distance grew louder and closer as he left the building causing him to shiver slightly. He paused just outside the door for a moment lost in thought. The rain had stopped. But now instead of moving away he turned and retraced his steps walking with deliberate ease toward the bank which he had just robbed. He turned again at the intersection and sauntered along pausing occasionally to glance into a store window pretending interest in some merchandise being displayed there.

A disturbing question moved insistently through his mind. What on earth am I doing here? It was a question that did not make any sense to him. It disappeared only to return repeatedly still demanding an answer, an answer which his mind was unable to formulate, and while outwardly appearing quite composed and rational his stomach churned as he again experienced the strange feeling that he should not be in this place. But where should he be? Regardless of where that would be, he now wished that were true. He smiled to himself realizing if he were somewhere else at this moment in time he would in all likelihood want to be at yet some other place.

He surmised his mind could find or make its own synchrony whenever and wherever it chose, often without rhyme or reason, and without his direction. And most startling of all was the fact that such disturbing thoughts occurred without any conscious effort on his part. Yet he seemed drawn toward the bank as if a huge unseen magnet was pulling him along in a manner which he did not seem to mind in the least.

Retracing his steps he soon approached the bank but now the area surrounding it had been turned into a scene of hectic activity. Police officers were scurrying about everywhere and a growing crowd of pedestrians along the sidewalk cascaded onto the street while two stretchers were wheeled out of the bank and slid unceremoniously into the back of an emergency vehicle which then drove rapidly away with sirens wailing and lights blinking incessantly.

STAND BACK! ALL OF YOU FOLKS! GET BACK! GET BACK I SAID! ALL OF YOU PEOPLE! COME ON, DAMN IT, PEOPLE, STEP BACK! barked a frustrated policeman through a bull-horn at the crowd that seemed unwilling to yield their voyeuristic positions. Come on! Move it! Make way, damn it! Aw! For Christ’s sake! You folks just got to step back right now, back I say! Back! yelled another policeman with some urgency.

GET BACK I SAY! GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY! DON’T YOU PEOPLE EVER LISTEN? barked another bull-horn a few yards away as the first officer was not too politely shoving people away from the entrance to what had become a crime scene. Soon other policemen joined the first two trying to contain the growing crowd who turned to gawk as the stretchers rolled past.

Stop shoving, cop guy! Can’t you see I’m going fast as I can! grumbled an irate onlooker, I’m going fast as I can but you’re standing right in my way! Jeez! Can’t you cops see worth a damn, are you blind or what?

Move it, mister! Move it now, or we’ll take you downtown, too! ordered the policeman next to him. The crowd sullenly receded as yellow tape was strung from a police cruiser to the bank’s door and around to another cruiser several yards away that was parked perpendicular to the curb with roof lights alternately flashing their bright red and blue.

The rasping sound of static from one of the cruiser’s radio blared out its open window only to be ignored and only serving to add to the chaos. The man wearing the baseball cap and the team jacket moved closer to the perimeter established by the yellow tape speaking to no one in particular while seeking information. Listening to the police barking orders, he became aware of his growing headache.

What happened? Does anybody know?

Two guys got shot during a hold up! Right there, inside that there bank, right there! said another onlooker eager to share his newly gained knowledge.

Yeah, they tried to rob that bank right there!

What do you mean tried? God almighty! Somebody just said they got away with a damned big stash of cash! Two big bags full! I just heard it! Over a hundred thousand bucks! Plain as day! Where you at, man?

Not those two! pointing at the stretchers.

No! Not them! Not those two guys!

Who did then? What the hell you talking about, huh? Do you really now anything, huh? Really, now?

Yeah, somebody said they shot each other! spoke a third man calmly pointing at the two stretchers that rolled past but obviously more certain of his facts than the other man who was talking.

Who? The bank robbers? said the first.

No! No! Don’t be such a dolt! One of them was shot by a cop, or a bank guard, or somebody else, who also got shot back! They probably shot each other! A real shootout, like in one of them there frigging Western movies! That’s what happened for damned tootin’! It’s as plain as day! That’s for sure! Yeah, that’s it alright!

They both dead? asked the quiet man wearing a baseball cap and a team jacket standing behind them.

Like the proverbial old doornail man!

How do you know? said the other bystander.

Well, they ain’t being taken for no joy ride, are they now? came the sarcastic response.

No, I suppose not!

The man in the ball cap wearing the team jacket listened carefully to each of the onlooker’s observations, saddened but not surprised, to learn that his companion could now be dead. Then he wondered what possibly could have gone wrong, what happened to prompt the exchange of gunfire to break out during what had been a well planned heist.

It had been a smooth operation, well thought out, and up to the point when the shooting began, well executed. What the hell could have gone wrong? He had reason to believe it should have worked like clockwork, certain that his accomplices possessed the necessary experience for such illicit activity. After all, they had often boasted of their professional ability about such things. Perhaps they were not as experienced as they had led him to believe. But none of that mattered now.

The two of them, and the missing van driver had met at a bar downtown several days before, God knows when or