YOU CAN LEARN A LOT by watching a person. And that’s exactly what these five jalonies had aimed to do. For one week they had watched his every move. The bank manager. Pretty habitual too, which only made their job easier. He worked at, and maintained partial ownership of, an outfit called Breezeway Savings & Loan. He left his pleasant four-bedroom, wood-framed home on the ivy and treelined street every day between 8:00 and 8:05 a.m. He took the same route to work daily, regularly arriving at the bank between 8:15 and 8:20. “Oh God, this better work. I really need the money,” said Joey E-Clair, sitting in the back seat, gnawing on his nails. This made him the perfect storm for violating the personal space of those around him. The car moved at a steady pace. “Sit still, fatboy. You think you got it tough? I’ve been living in squalor for three years,” said Jimmy Rice, middle back seat. Jimmy had a small scar under his left eye and a ubiquitous matchstick between his teeth. They were two things he wore proudly, like a pair of affectations that some lazy writer would give a character on the misguided pretense that it would make him more memorable A Man Walks into a Bank 2 while, in fact, acting as nothing more than a couple of expressions of which the author would quickly grow tired and forget all about. “Squalor? That in California?” “Yeah.” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Squalor, California. It’s up north.” He trilled his lips. “Dipshit.” Salty, the brains of the operation, was in his late-fifties; wavy salt-and-pepper hair just to his collar, the same on his face, medium length, and a lumpy build. Most assumed he’d acquired the nickname Salty because of said hair but in reality, he’d acquired it twenty years prior to any sign of salt appearing on his head or chin. He sat up front in the passenger seat and turned over his left shoulder, not an easy task for the stout man. “Will you two shut up?” Then toot sweet zeroed in on E-Clair chewing on his fingernails which caused him to twist even further. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t even think about spitting your disgusting, gnawedoff nails into the interior of my vehicle. I’d sooner see you swallow them than sully this fine automobile.” E-Clair’s eyes widened, and he pulled his fingers from his mouth without hesitation. “Hey, what did I just say?” said Salty. E-Clair’s eyes widened even more. “Wha? What’d I do?” “I told you not to even think about spitting out your revolting serrated nails.” “Uhh…” “You’re thinking about it. Knock it off.” Lucky Stevens 3 Jimmy tried to inch forward but was blocked by E-Clair’s bloated frame. “Hey, we sure appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Plankman.” Salty offered a no-problem nod and grinned. “It’s not Plankman. Just call me Salty. It’s fine, fine. Just relax and everything will be okay.” Everyone smiled and nodded. “Just don’t screw it up,” Salty said through gritted teeth. He turned red faster than anyone you ever met. Like a horny tomato. A moment passed. Then the feeble and ineffective whispering began. “I really thought it was Plankman,” said Jimmy. “I thought it was Blankman,” said E-Clair. “Oh, Frostman. I think it’s Frostman.” “I got it. Plafrohein. No, that doesn’t sou—” “What the hell are you two talking about? I just got through telling you to call me Salty. None of those are even close, by the way.”

AT 7:50, ON THE BUTTON, the five men—Salty, EClair, Jimmy Rice, the driver Earl, also known as Muzzler, and Ellis Coldwater, young, goodlooking, and relaxed—arrived at the bank manager’s house. Muzzler parked a few doors down from the bank manager’s house as directed. The five men jumped out of the car like experts. Not that it’s an artform or anything, but it’s worth noting that they A Man Walks into a Bank 4 were very good at it. The one exception being— you guessed it—Joey E-Clair. Jimmy scoffed. “Maybe we should put some K-Y Jelly around the door frame.” After a bit of back-and-forth rocking, his extrication was complete. “Don’t slam the door,” said Salty. “No, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mister, er— Salty.” “I swear you’ve gained ten pounds since we began planning this job,” said Jimmy, walking around to E-Clair’s side of the car. “Twelve. That’s the whole point of the job. I’m getting the surgery. Getting my stomach stapled. It ain’t cheap,” said E-Clair. “You oughta get your lips stapled. Start at the source,” said Jimmy. Salty turned red as he threw his hands up, held them like a statue—save for one fugacious shake—and stared, in a tableauic homage to exasperation. The two men lowered their gazes to the ground. “Come on!” Salty said. Ellis smiled to himself as the five men walked toward the house. Jimmy glared at E-Clair. Then he whispered, “You almost got me in trouble, Jenny Craig,” as he put his fist into his palm and shook his head. E-Clair clenched his teeth and strained his eyes. “You son of a bitch. You keep her out of this,” he hissed. When the men reached the side of the garage, they put on their ski masks and gloves. Ellis Lucky Stevens 5 yawned; halfway through, he noticed Salty delivering the stink-eye, which prompted him to cover his mouth. “Oh, yeah.” But the stink-eye didn’t go away. Ellis relented. “Hey Salty, it’s better than having some guy on the job who gets rattled, isn’t it?” “Sure, but that’s a little relaxed given the circumstances. Even for you.” Ellis extended a shrug and a half-smile. Muzzler had picked the lock on the side garage door late the previous night so things would go faster. The men entered the garage, single file, and headed for the adjoining door to the house. Before they breached the home, E-Clair paused, cleared his throat, and took some microfilm out of his pocket. All eyes were glued to him as he placed it into an old coffee can that was on a nearby shelf. “No, no,” said Salty. “We don’t need any MacGuffins on this job. Put it away.” E-Clair shrugged in an act of acquiescence, pretending to put the microfilm back into his pocket, but really leaving it in the can. The fact of the matter was, he liked a good MacGuffin. Almost as much as he liked an Egg McMuffin. With their guns in hand, the men opened the door, which led to the kitchen. The scene they stumbled onto was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Only more realistic. Mr. Bank Manager was seated at the kitchen table reading the morning paper. A Man Walks into a Bank 6 Mrs. Bank Manager was at the kitchen sink—her back to them—doing the dishes. Neither of them noticed the five masked men who had just entered their home. Other than a few clattering dishes and some heavy breathing, courtesy of E-Clair, the room was almost silent. This is a little anti-climactic, thought Jimmy. He glanced at E-Clair in disgust. Salty cleared his throat, which both homeowners must have thought was the other person. After doing it again louder, Salty yelled, “Hey!” These two may not be morning people, but this is ridiculous. “Oh, I don’t be-lieve this,” said Salty, moving a coffee mug toward the table’s centerpiece. “Right on the edge of the table. Just an accident waiting to happen.” The bank manager looked up and let his newspaper drop. His eyes widened. His wife, in the meantime, whirled around and screamed, throwing a plate up to the ceiling. Keeping her hands in the air, she continued to scream and began running. Jimmy gasped. Then he glowered in her direction, eyes fixed on her like a pit bull’s. Salty blocked her way, his gun pointed at her face. “Calm. Down,” he said evenly. Her mouth remained open, but she stopped screaming and lowered her arms. “Relax and no one is going to get hurt,” he continued in a mollifying tone. Then he put a Lucky Stevens 7 couple of his stubby fingers under her chin and closed her mouth. “You,” he said addressing EClair. “Go clean up that broken plate.” E-Clair blinked a few times, let it process, and then complied. And then the bank manager spoke up in a thick English accent. “Yes, my dear, do relax until we find out what it’s all about. Composure, my turtledove, composure.” Salty put his non-gun hand on the kitchen table and said to the bank manager, “Thank you. That was helpful.” To the group, he said, “All right, listen...” But when he tried to lift his gloved hand from the table, he noticed it was stuck. Syrup. “Okay, okay, that’s strike two. Who was sitting here?” “I’m afraid that was I,” said the bank manager, grinning sheepishly. Salty clenched his teeth and shook his head. And then pleading, “People…how hard is it to eat a waffle without making a big sticky mess?” The room was silent. Salty exhaled and rubbed his eye with the back of his wrist, accepting the fact that the question he’d asked in dead earnest had devolved into a rhetorical one. You,” he said, pointing at Jimmy. “Stop glowering at Mrs. Larkin and get me a wet dishrag.” Mrs. Larkin squinted and pursed her lips in wonder at the glowering that had apparently been going on. A Man Walks into a Bank 8 Jimmy jumped into action as Salty massaged his temple and muttered under his breath, “God. I swear. I would never do that with the syrup.” Then Salty looked at Ellis and exhaled. “See, this is the problem when your line of work requires you to do business on other people’s turf, so to speak.” “Yeah, yeah. It’s like trying to pick up chicks at a family reunion,” said Ellis. “O…kay um, I don’t quite, uh, see how that...Why don’t we just get down to business,” said Salty, wiping his glove and then the table. His eyes were drawn to the quick-moving broom EClair brandished near the sink. “Make sure you get all the little pieces. Of the plate. Some are hard to see.” E-Clair said he was being very careful, but Salty still looked concerned. Almost like he was dying to go over and check on E-Clair’s progress. Then he glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall. “All right, Larkin. Mrs. Larkin. Let’s get down to this,” Salty began again. “This is very simple. Larkin, George. We are going to the bank with you this morning for a very large withdrawal. Mrs. Larkin will stay here with this man. We’ll call him Number Three.” Ellis Coldwater stepped forward and lifted a hand like he was being introduced at a corporate training event. “If anything goes wrong, Number Three will receive a call and will be instructed to put a bullet in Mrs. Larkin’s head. But don’t worry. The money Lucky Stevens 9 in the bank is insured so I’m sure nothing will go wrong. Right, Mr. Larkin?” “Absolutely. I mean absolutely not. Nothing shall go awry is what I mean. You have my word. Please don’t worry, my dear,” said George in the Queen’s English. “I’m quite certain all these hooligans want—please pardon the horrid expression, gentlemen—is the money.” “That’s right,” said Ellis. “Like the boss said, it’s very simple.” “All right, you two behave,” said Salty, looking at Mr. and Mrs. Larkin. “And it’ll all be over very soon.” George approached his wife and hugged her. “Don’t worry, darling.” She nodded, welling up but trying to smile. “Let’s go, George,” said Salty. Then he stopped and looked at E-Clair. “You sure you got all the little pieces?” E-Clair looked back at Salty and knitted his brows. “Of the broken plate,” said Salty. “Wha—oh, yeah. I got everything.” He started to choke. “You could eaglymph” He was squeezing out the words now. Cough, gurgle, gag. “Eat offa that plaaaakkkee” His throat was closing, his face contorting and turning red under his mask, but he seemed to insist on wringing out more words. “I meeeee da floorrrrrr.” He strained. “It’s joooost thehhhh—” “Whattya got? Thirty seconds to live or something? Why are you still talking?” said Salty. A Man Walks into a Bank 10 “Give me the information when you’re done choking for God’s sake. Get him some water, somebody.” Somebody did. E-Clair lapped it up, placed his glass on the counter, and leaned on his knees to pant. Salty’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “There’s a coaster right there! What’re you doing? Why would you put the glass next to the coaster? That’s like putting a bowl of loaded spaghetti next to a child! Why would you do that?” E-Clair, still gagging, tried to answer this caustic question, one that most would have considered to be extremely rhetorical, rounding out the whole queasy episode with a two-part spasmodic fart, born of strain that was simply too much for him. Salty turned toward the wall and sighed. Then he took one last wistful look over at where the broken plate had been. He knew damn well he would have done a better job with the cleanup but figured, for the sake of time, he would have to let it go and move on. He knew, from experience though, that in the wee small hours, this one would stick with him. “All right, I’m sorry. I gotta say something before we leave.” It was Jimmy. “I didn’t want to interrupt before, but I-I can’t hold it in anymore. Mrs. Larkin, it’s 2019. Why are you wearing blackface?” Lucky Stevens 11 “What?” said Mrs. Larkin. “I’m not in blackface.” She touched her cheek and a look of realization came over her. “Oh. This is my mask.” Jimmy stared at her, his mouth agape. “For my skin,” she continued. “It keeps it tight.” “Oh! Oh, you keepin’ it tight? That’s an African-American term. I think.” “Yesterday’s mask was purple.” “Don’t change the subject. That is racism right there. Take that shit off!” “But my facialist told me to leave it on for twenty minutes.” “Who’s your facialist? David Duke?” Jimmy shook his head, looked around the room with a pleading expression, and put his palms up as if to say, Can you believe this? Salty exhaled as if to say, Where do I get these guys? “Do you see what color my face is?” “Um…kinda red? Horny red? Like a horny tomato…maybe?” said Jimmy. “Can we go now, before it gets any redder?” Jimmy lowered his head and turned toward the door. As he walked out, he vise-gripped his teeth and muttered, “Oh, do you always do what your facialist tells you to do? If your facialist told you to jump off a bridge…” Salty rolled his eyes, for he had a nose for platitudes the way most men have a nose for baby back ribs. Of course in his particular case, he had a nose for both. “Oh, Mrs. Larkin,” said Salty. A Man Walks into a Bank 12 She turned her head all at once and raised her eyebrows. “Yes?” “You have a little bit of your, uh, mask, on your fingers.” Salty winced. “From when you touched your face. You might want to wipe it off. Before it gets on the furniture or anything.”

OUT THEY WENT, INTO THE garage. 8:07 a.m. Right away, Muzzler slipped out the side door, removed his mask and gloves, and walked toward the car they had all arrived in not twenty minutes earlier. He then headed to the bank solo, driving the speed limit all the way. Salty meanwhile straightened a picture of a Jaguar (the car) on the wall. After that, he relieved George of his phone in order to avoid plot holes, and then supervised as Jimmy and E-Clair fitted him with a blindfold. Once they were done, EClair proceeded to spin George around, in place. “Egads, man,” said George. “What would be the point of this?” “What are you doing?” said Salty. “This isn’t pin the tail on the donkey, jackass.” “Just thought it’d be a good idea to disorient him, so he doesn’t know where he’s going,” said E-Clair. “He knows where the bank is, Magellan. He works there. In the meantime, it would probably be best if he wasn’t nauseous.” “Makes sense. Makes sense.” Lucky Stevens 13 George was then laid down on the backseat floor of his own car. The gang removed their masks and got into the vehicle. They raised the garage door and took off, giving further instructions to George as they drove.