My First Reader Was A Bank Robber

It sounded like a combat zone. Instead of bullets and gunfire: shopping carts skittering along the marble floor, scanners beeping and booping, children that were told no, crying.

It was only Friday.

Then she came, a firebrand of retail fury. She wielded an item—a baby doll that, when touched the slightest, it would emit a screeching, disorienting cry—like a battle-ax.

Gabe Smith, the poor soul who, since graduating high school, has been working in the toy department of Mark’s Massive Outlet for six years, saw the woman coming. In that moment, Gabe prayed for a chain of events, strange and inexplicable they may be, where the lady, in her blind rage would slip on some unseen liquid, and crash into the display case of marbles. He didn’t wish death. Just some good old karma and a few laughs.

This wasn’t Gabe’s first encounter with someone unpleasant. But, today, for some unknown reason, he couldn’t take it anymore. There was a silent rage building slowly in him. Everything around Gabe was silenced; the woman’s rage was seen, not heard.

Then, pounding. Merciless pounding, louder... louder... until, finally:

“Lady, please fuck off,” said Gabe with coolly fervency.

He was angry, pissed even. But he didn’t yell. The woman, astonished at Gabe’s lack of “fast, fun, and friendly service” (the store’s motto, which Gabe thought was superfluously nauseating), shouted for the store manager.

It wasn’t long after Gabe found himself in the “hot seat”, as his boss, Kevin, liked to call it. To Gabe, Kevin Palmer was the epitome of asshole managers who took his job too seriously. So seriously, Gabe imagined, that, at the end of a shift, after he takes a nice, hot shower and washed the day’s stresses away, he puts on a set of pajamas that have the Mark’s Massive Outlet logo.

“Well…” said Kevin, not sure what to tell the young man in front of him “you know I gotta let you go.”

Gabe nodded. It’s all he could do. It’s hard to rebut telling a lady to fuck off in the toy department on a Saturday afternoon.

Kevin opened his desk drawer, reached in, and pulled out an envelope.

“Here’s your paycheck,” said Kevin. “I’ll mail your last one for this week.”

“Thanks.” Gabe replied. As he stood to leave, Kevin, looking at the crestfallen youth: “Next time, think before you speak. You’re a wordsmith, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…” Gabe replied, grating his teeth at the use of “wordsmith.”

Unemployed, behind a month’s rent, and the only thing considered food in his refrigerator, a half-eaten veggie burger he got from a coupon he found at a checkout lane, Gabe was screwed, he thought to himself, as he banged his head against the steering wheel. He was parked outside the bank.

He wracked his brain, thinking of solutions to his mounting problems of food and shelter. He thought to call his aunt, Trish, but he told her the other night that he was going to do “it”—life, being an adult, not asking for help—on his own, and that he won’t ask her for a dime for the rest of their lives. Overwhelmed to the point of tears, Gabe grabbed his paycheck and went to open the door. As he did, a light tapping on the passenger window grabbed his attention. Gabe turned. He went from gloomy to deadpan as a man, dressed in all black, face covered in a ski mask, aims a gun at Gabe. The man taps gently on the glass again, ducking, staying low to not be noticed. Gabe, terrified, unlocks the door.

“Unlock the back doors,” The Robber, ordered.

The Robber hefted, along with himself, two black duffle bags in the back seat. Usually, the robber says, “drive”. But Gabe took the click and the barrel pointed at the back of his head as sufficient enough.

They were an hour out. The large expanse ahead reminded Gabe of horror movies, the ones without the monsters that wear hockey masks or bladed gloves, where the victim is murdered and left by the road to rot and be picked apart by desert dwellers, both diurnal and nocturnal. It was a fate worse than death, Gabe thought, to be left by the wayside to rot away back into the earth. Death was sad enough. To be organic road kill for the earth was another.

Also surprising to Gabe: The Robber had removed his mask before taking a nap. He was very Italian, Gabe thought, as his hair still remained intact after the mask was removed. But then, the surprise of the reveal washed away. Gabe, after all, was driving to his own grave. The mask didn't matter.

The radio lost its signal miles back. Gabe, praying police were in pursuit of his piece of shit jalopy, was disappointed as static flooded the radio waves. Gabe fumbled with the dial and stumbled upon a station that played classical music. It was a piece by Mozart. He didn’t know the title, but he knew it was Mozart.

”Mozart,” The Robber grumbled. He was awake now. “You a fan of classical?” He asked.

“Not really.” It… it was just on.” Gabe responded, shaken.

The Robber nodded. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. As he patted himself down, searching every pocket on his person:

“Fuck, you got a light?”

“Maybe.” Gabe answered. “Check the glove box.”

As The Robber rummaged through the contents of the glove box, he not only found a lighter, but a small, black, leather bound notebook. The Robber, his interest piqued, skimmed through the pages. Gabe, the writer in him, wanted to tell The Robber to fuck off, to not read his mad ramblings and harangues, but given the circumstances, he figured at least he’s being read. Gabe realized, his focus not on the road, but on the man that held him at gunpoint and forced him out to the desert (and robbed a fucking bank!) actually likes his work. The Robber closed the journal and put it back in the glove box. He then looked ahead. A road sign for the next exit was coming into view.

“Star Diner. That’s where we’re going.” The Robber said.

It wasn’t exactly a diner. It was a hybrid of a gas station and small chain diner. Gabe had no name for it, but he would. The menu was diminutively southern: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes. The aroma, although pleasant, didn’t match the presentation: the fried chicken looked pale, off-color; the mac and cheese looked as if it had succumbed to the elements of being exposed, uncovered, in the refrigerator for days.

The two men both forwent the food and just had two black coffees. It was safer this way. The Robber had his attention on the window outside. From their booth, you had the perfect view of traffic coming off the interstate to the diner.

“So, what’s the plan?” asked The Robber.” He lighted another cigarette.

“Sorry?” Gabe murmured, both hands clasping the coffee mug.

“The journal. The writing thing,” The Robber, turning his head away from Gabe, exhaling as to not blow smoke in Gabe’s face: “You in college?”

“No. I took a few classes at community college, but for the writing thing, I kinda just picked it back up.” Gabe answered.

“Not your thing, huh? I get that. It wasn’t that I hated learning. I just wasn’t… I dunno, engaged.”

He wasn’t sure if it was impatience or fear, but Gabe could not longer hold the question that’s been in his mind since this fateful meeting:

“Are you gonna kill me?” Gabe asked, his voice quivering slightly.

Before The Robber could answer, a pair of high beams blasted the booth from outside. As Gabe raised his forearm up to shield his eyes from the light, The Robber exhaled, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood over a dazed, semi-blinded Gabe. The lights from outside had died.

“Hold that thought.” The Robber said.

It was an ‘89 Cadillac. Deville. Custom. Old school. It smelled like it came out of a box. Emblazoned on each headrest, a gold-stitched “V.”

“We got two hours to make it to the airport.” Don Carlo, the driver, said to the young man getting in. He was a stout man with massive hands. Adorned on each of his gorilla-sized fingers: gaudy rings adorned with eyeballs, zodiac symbols, and other metaphysical and spiritual motifs.

“I could pop him on the way, drop him off on the side of the road.” Don Carlo concluded. Clearly, he’s done this before a few times.

“Or we do it now. Fuck it. We’re right here.” Steve "Slim" Limboski pressed. Steve was a skinny Jew from New York who, as he’s been told, “always wore a tooth pick.”

“We’re not gonna kill him.” Vicktor said.

“I dunno, boss.” Don Carlo said, slight anxiety in his voice.

“Plus, he wants to do something with his life. He’s got a goal, not like those losers my dad keeps making us deal with.”

“Like what?” asked Steve, incredulously, playing with his toothpick.

“He wants to be a writer.” Vicktor said.

“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Steve, continuing, “we would be doin’ him a favor.” Don Carlo nodded in agreement.

“Nah, I read his stuff—a little of it, at least. Ain’t bad.” Vicktor said.

“So, what’s the play, boss?” Don Carlo asked.

Gabe, watching from the booth inside, saw three men—six pairs of eyes—all, on cue, turn their gaze on him, and he knew the answer to his question.

It was after midnight. Gabe had followed the Cadillac farther down from the (diner station?). They had parked somewhere in a field, away from the road, the headlights from both cars were on.

“First,” The Robber said, “my guy here"—he pointed to the very large man standing to his right with, what Gabe thought, had a strange taste in jewelry as far as mafia guys go—“is gonna knock you out.

“How much you weigh, kid?” the large man asked.

“I dunno. Buck seventy?” Gabe replied.

Don Carlo shrugged, then, clenching his fist, readying the blow:

“Wait, why can’t he hit me!?” Gabe shouted, desperately pointing to the much smaller man on the hood of the car.

“Thanks for the ride. Good luck with everything.” The Robber said with finality.

Then, a large fist was the last thing Gabe remembered.

A searing pain jolted Gabe awake. It all felt like a dream; that feeling of something strange happening after a dream coursed through him. It wasn’t until he saw his nose—broken, purple, covered in dried blood—that he realized it was all real. Gabe shifted in his seat, and realized his jacket was stuffed with something. As he unzipped it, his eyes widened in disbelief: a stack of $1000 bills fell from his lap.

With each descending tooth of his zipper, more stacks falling to the floor, to where, finally, Gabe counted twenty stacks. Twenty-thousand in total.

Along with the money, a small handwritten note:

"Your cut. Sorry, we didn’t know where else to put it.”

Later that night, Gabe, sitting down to write, never thought he would do a dedication page in his book. But, he always wanted to have a cool dedication page, one of those obscure ones like “To Queen. You told me to write this, and I did.”

Fortunately, Gabe thought of one, and, typing:

To “Robbie”: Thanks for the advice—and the broken nose. Cheers.

Hours Before

Gabe is slumped in the driver seat, out cold. Don Carlo and Steve are stuffing Gabe’s jacket with the twenty-large.

“Why can’t we just put it under the seat or the trunk?” Steve shouted.

“Because he ain’t gonna see it, Steve.” Vicktor answered. “Now hurry up.” Then, he took out a cigarette and lit it.