Heist, continued
Week 2, Winner
I know every story needs a villain. In order to have someone you’re rooting for, there has to be someone you’re rooting against. I get that. But the thing is, I never set out to be anyone’s villain. Honestly, I don’t think I am one. It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it? We are all the hero of our own story, and I’m just trying to make the best of a bad hand. Aren’t we all? Let she who is without an instinct for self-preservation cast the first stone.
When I met him, Charlie was working as a puppeteer. Well, as a puppeteer’s apprentice. Following your dreams is a beautiful and noble and admirable thing to do, certainly. But Charlie was starving, and he was about to be evicted. I’m a pragmatic person. I could see that Charlie had skills. Audiences loved him. His puppets could wring tears from a rock, laughter from a libertarian on tax day. But puppetry was never going to bring home the extra-firm tofu.
So I took him under my wing. Nat characterizes it as “isolating” Charlie, “alienating” him from his family, “ruining” his life. But we all know Nat, right? Pure drama. She believes she’s the shining white knight of her story, and yours, and mine, and anyone who interferes with her story arc must be evil.
I am not evil. It’s ridiculous that I even have to say it. But I’m not. Charlie was better off. He was happier. He thanked me for helping him get that bank teller job. His acting skills were crucial — his complete lack of experience would have been a deal breaker for most people. But with my coaching, Charlie crafted the perfect narrative. He walked into that interview with a touch of swagger and a backpack full of sob story. That HR recruiter never stood a chance.
And then, yes, I leaned on Charlie from time to time. I had helped him dig his way out of a bad situation and a dead-end dream. Is it too much to ask that he repay the favor with a few access codes, some inside information about security procedures, the occasional admin password? Charlie shouldn’t have had access to such things, which shielded him from suspicion right up until the end. But Charlie was resourceful. He knew which assistant managers to ply with donuts and coffee, and when they’d be away from their desks long enough for Charlie to find the sticky note with the passwords — right out in the open! — and snap a quick photo. He knew when the usual security guard would be out for his biweekly allergy shots, leaving the less-experienced temp in his place.
And he knew exactly what would happen if — when — he pulled the fire alarm.
I had him brief me on all of it, and made him repeat it over and over until we both knew it inside and out. Every piece had to be in its place. There could be no mistakes.
But we didn’t account for the tornado.
What can I say? I am, after all, human. We all make mistakes.
The forecast that morning was nothing of note — maybe a smattering of rain in the afternoon, which might snarl the Friday rush hour commute, but nothing too serious. Perfect weather for our purposes, as far as I was concerned. We’d quietly get the job done under cover of rain clouds, when everyone was anxious to just head home for the weekend and didn’t want to dot every i and cross every t. Nothing inspires inattention and sloppiness quite like a rainy Friday afternoon. In fact, we had been considering postponing our plan a few weeks, because Charlie had overheard talk that a large cash deposit would be coming in from one of the bank’s high-net-worth clients. But I don’t like to gamble on possibilities, so we decided to stay the course. More fool us.
You could think of me as Robin Hood, if you like. The bank’s clients are all insufferable, overcapitalized buffoons who have no idea what to do with their excess funds. I was doing them a favor, taking that extra cash off their hands and redistributing it to more deserving folk.
Again Nat quibbles with me, and claims that the only “deserving folk” I planned to share the windfall with were myself and, to a lesser extent, Charlie. I suppose Nat would tell you that I am undeserving, of wealth or success or love or breath. She’s mum on whether Charlie is a deserving recipient. “That’s not the point,” she scowls. See how emotional and inconsistent she is? How did I get stuck with such an unsympathetic lawyer?
Where was I? Ah, yes. The tornado. We first got an inkling that the weather might interfere with our plans a few hours before Charlie was to pull the fire alarm. We had planned for it to happen just before closing, at 4:35 pm. Upon evacuating, the bank staff would likely just climb into their cars and head home for the weekend. Ronnie, the assistant manager on duty, would be already gone, out picking up her weekly batch of library books. Jim, the substitute security guard, would have been startled awake by the alarm, at which time Charlie would gently direct him toward his pickup truck, where he would waste dozens of minutes calling the staffing agency and trying to figure out what his role was in this unlikely situation. The building thus emptied, I would have exactly 4 minutes and 27 seconds alone before the first responders would start to arrive. And that was plenty of time.
Around 2 pm, I got the weather alert on my phone: Severe Thunderstorm Warning — an upgrade from the Watch issued earlier that day. An hour after that, an urgent message with an angry red banner shouted TORNADO WATCH, urging me to take precautionary measures. And the bank was directly in the projected path of the storm.
Like many people, I follow the weather closely enough to know my local celebrity meteorologist’s name and birthday, and I enjoy his hilarious weather jokes — Why does the hurricane have terrible depth perception? It only has one eye! Why did the lightning bolt strike the stand-up comedian? Because he was shocking! Oh, how I laugh at these japes. But beyond that, I don’t pay much mind to what Channel 7 Meteorologist Johnny Jackson has to say, because I know from lived experience that when he tells us to expect two feet of snow, we’re more likely to get two inches, and if he predicts severe flooding, we might get a sprinkling of rain. The man is all about the theater of weather, and everything is magnified for dramatic effect.
I assume the same is true of the National Weather Service. Their bold, bright red admonitions to SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY are most likely a bit of a lark because they were feeling a little lonely and ignored down at the regional office.
Maybe they should get a therapy dog, I mused, and checked the time. About an hour to go, and I could feel the adrenaline pushing me toward destiny as I drove across town to the bank. The rain was gentle, not threatening in the least, and I didn’t spare a thought for it. My role was to be on site at the bank just as the fire alarm was pulled. I would present myself as just another customer here for my weekly banking tasks, caught off guard with all the rest when the alarm sounded. But as the true customers fled the scene, I would duck into Ronnie’s office and wait for solitude, as Charlie checked to make sure all staff had gathered at their designated meeting point in the parking lot.
The rain intensified as I neared my destination, which only filled me with glee. More rain would create more chaos. Everyone would be happy to flee the scene, especially after Charlie reassured them that he would be happy to stay and wait for the authorities to arrive. I pictured it in my head and felt as though we were already successful. I gave the satchel on the seat beside me a fond pat. Soon.
When I pulled into the tidy bank parking lot, I was distressed to see Ronnie’s Volvo sedan still occupying the “Reserved for the Assistant Manager” parking space. She should have left for her weekly library outing a good quarter-hour ago. I had instructed Charlie to minimize communications as much as possible today, to avoid slip-ups, suspicions, and evidence trails, but I needed information. I fired off a quick missive via text message:
Dear Charlie, why is Ronnie’s Volvo sedan still occupying its parking space? Should she not have left for her errand before now? I am concerned. Regards, A.
It took Charlie a few minutes to respond, which I found irritating. Is not this form of communication referred to as instant messaging? I often find it not much faster than pneumatic tubes, and about as reliable. But at length I saw the three flashing dots that meant he was forming a response.
She doesn’t want to go out in the rain. She’s waiting for it to let up.
***
This is a second-stage story-start — if you’d like to see where the story goes, “clap” for it. My “winning” second-stage story-start (based on number of readers who clap for it) will be developed further and will become a full short story!
