Ernie Ballwickle Gets an Idea
Ernie Ballwickle was pleasantly surprised when his hand remained steady as he pointed the gun at the face of the bank teller. He had daydreamed about this for years, and had always imagined that his body would tremble and that the muzzle of the gun would shake uncontrollably when the moment finally arrived. But his body was not trembling and his hand was not shaking and the muzzle of the gun remained focused as if his arm had been chiseled from granite.
It had not been easy finding a bank without plexi-glass protection separating the bank tellers from the customers. Then, one humid and hot afternoon, he had driven past Leach Bank on the corner of Mulberry St. and Clarence Ave. He eased his old brown Dodge sedan into the strip mall parking lot and found a space right next to a handicap spot. He pulled his car all the way up to the wheel stop, put it in park, turned the key back toward his gut, and listened to the old engine gasp and then die.
He tried his best to not look suspicious as he slowly paced up to the bank entrance. He placed his right hand upon a thick wooden handle at the front door, swinging it wide and holding the door open at attention with a smile, as if he were the doorman for the shittiest hotel in California. An older man with a blonde mustache, ostrich skin cowboy boots, and a blue trucker hat reading “Vietnam Vet” walked in past Ernie. “Thank you, kind sir,” said the old man. Ernie’s .38 special weighed heavily in its holster against his right ankle.
Leach Bank had been hanging in there pathetically since 1980. There had been no remodels or renovations to the interior, which was obvious from the wood-paneled walls and crusty hardwood floors. Nothing separated the customers from the bank tellers but stale, depressing air. An old clear plastic tube labeled “Air Mail” stood as a monument to 1980s inefficiency in the dead center of the room.
The bank teller was a young woman with shoulder length dark hair, large brown eyes, and paper thin lips. Miniature Rubik’s cubes swayed and bounced on tiny chains from her taught earlobes. When she first saw the gun, she placed the palms of both hands flat on the desk in front of her, lowered her jaw, and just stared at Ernie as if he were a beautiful sunset.
“Please lady, don’t make me use this thing. Just slide the money to me over the counter, then quietly go to the other drawers and collect the rest of the cash. If you do as I say, I’ll be out of here in 60 seconds, and you can go about your day. Hell, maybe you and a group of your girlfriends can go down to the beach and have a bonfire tonight and drink beer and make some s’mores. Hey, I like your earrings. Just be careful if you have any young kids at home, because they’ll rip those suckers right off,” he said with a crooked smile.
She did as she was told, while Ernie slid a backpack off his left shoulder and opened the zipper. Just as he had promised, within about 60 seconds, his backpack was full of loot and he was scooting himself out the front door.
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s been a pleasure,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the young bank teller.
Ernie did not hear any police sirens, but he knew that the fuzz was on its way. They would surely try to get to the bank silently, and sneak up on him. He plopped into the front seat of his Dodge sedan with no license plates and tossed the heavy black backpack onto the passenger seat. He turned on the ignition and slowly made his way south onto Mulberry St.
It didn’t take long for him to spot the first police cruiser with sirens blaring, in his rearview mirror. He stepped on the gas and the old Dodge came roaring to life under the hood, reminding him that they don’t make cars like they used to. The rumbling of the engine caused the driver’s seat to vibrate and pushed his back firmly into the faux leather upholstery.
A second police cruiser joined the chase, which was fine, as long as Ernie could get to where he was going with at least a minute to spare before the black and whites caught up with him. Racing straight through the heart of a suburban neighborhood on a Tuesday at 5 PM was not exactly what he had planned. The front doors, garage doors, front lawns, and driveways sped by faster and faster until he felt like he was on one of those giant circle rides at the fair where they strap you in and spin you around and around until you throw up all your funnel cake onto the poor fellow standing next to you.
Ernie zipped past the last of the houses and hung a sharp left onto Rockfield Blvd. A narrow, winding road paved the way between two aging suburban subdivisions which had been upscale in their day, but were now just clinging to a small amount of remaining dignity. About 200 yards ahead, he spotted his dirt oasis; an overgrown field splitting two sets of track homes with a cluster of tall trees at the center. He stepped on the gas and his old Dodge dutifully shouted a rebel yell that sent blood rushing straight into his loins.
The Dodge thumped over the curb and a new set of Bridgestones tore through the loose dirt and brown weeds of the field. Ernie glanced in his review mirror, and saw the first black and white making a clumsy left turn onto Rockfield Blvd. These cops drive like a bunch of grannies. A ragged dirt path along the north end of the field lead the way for him and his Dodge. He was close now. He stared straight at the cluster of trees and it seemed as if his old Dodge knew just where to go, without the need for him to steer. He rolled down his window to smell the rugged scent of the trees and dirt and weeds, noticing that the yellow banana scented air freshener hanging from his car cigarette lighter had stopped working months ago.
There they were: six holes in the ground. Each tunnel maybe lead somewhere, or maybe lead nowhere. Only he knew the answer. Eight months, that’s how long it had taken him. He had sat out there every night with his shovel, a bottle of Jack Daniels, a flashlight, and a pack of Marlboros. Drinking, smoking, digging, and pissing. At first he had just planned on digging three tunnels, but eventually decided that six would be safer.
He then had to pick one of the six tunnels for his escape. One of the middle tunnels would have been too obvious. Or would it be? In the end, he finally chose the first tunnel, the one closest to the northern trail that would lead the cars across the field. A blue tarp covered all six tunnels, so no one could see where he would be diving like a hamster running for cover.
The Dodge was still rolling when Ernie stumbled and tripped his way out of the driver’s door with his feet kicking and shuffling the soft dirt clods along the side of the trail. The cop cars were gaining on him, but were still about 250 feet away. Ernie had remembered to grab his flashlight off the passenger seat before ejecting himself from the Dodge. The blue tarp covering the six holes was just 20 feet away now. He was surprised at how labored his breathing was. His sweating surprised him, too: half moons under his arms, with sweat dripping from his brow and off his chin. His cottonmouth was so bad that he could barely pry his jaws apart.
The big dirty blue tarp was just where he had left it, draped from the bottom branches of a tree, secured to the ground below. He slithered under the tarp, dove into the first hole, and crawled on his elbows and gut with his trusty flashlight leading the way. In the background, he heard muffled voices at the entrance of the six holes. Ernie had whittled himself down to about 140 lbs., living off of whiskey, cigarettes, and saltine crackers. Even at his size, the escape tunnel was a tight squeeze. Those cops better be on the Atkins diet if they expect to look for me down here.
Ernie had forgotten just how long the tunnel was, but he made it all the way through, dragging the backpack full of loot with his left foot from start to finish. He burst through a straw covering at the opposite end of the suburban field. A dirt path would lead him just a few minutes up the road, where a shiny black Pantera was waiting for him on Lake Forest Blvd.
The heat was fading and the sky was transforming into a welcoming shade of orange. He was now officially out of breath, but the backpack felt lighter than ever and he walked with a bounce in the step that only blesses the type of man who has succeeded at an arduous task.
Ernie was never the type of man to press his luck with more bank jobs, but this was just too much fun.
THE END
© J.S. Lender 2019
