Book Club Robber

I pat at my hip where it always sits and clutched my bag tighter to my side.

I can see through the glass, a normal crowd for a Thursday.

I already know I don’t have to yell. A whisper does just fine if they can’t read the note. I’m sure they will smile at the picture I drew this time. It helps I have a beautiful smile. The men swoon when I flash it their way. “She’s a keeper” is what they always say when they see it. I’ll put that on a little extra today.

The low music greets my ears as I step inside. I glance to the left, always an guard officer to the left. I size him up, he’s maybe a buck eighty if I had to guess. Always hard to tell exactly when they sit.

This one is more serious than the others, the black shoes a dead ringer. Rubber soles, he knows, they can help in running faster. No match for my little legs. I’ll just play cooler than my normal cool. My body isn’t built for running.

I flash the guard officer a smile. He returns the favor adding in sparkly eyes. Ohh, I like that. I should sparkle my eyes, too.

I make my way to the counter. Little legs, a nuisance of my height, it’s edge hits me at my nose. Not any worries, I don’t need anything below my nose, just my eyes to see.

Trying to think what I was supposed to say.

I clear my throat to get his attention. “Good morning, I need to make a withdraw.”

I pull it out of my front pocket and slide my note across the counter. Now, all I have to do is wait.

I clutch my bag and slowly pat at my side again. Slow movements, nothing to make anyone suspicious. The officer to the left, he won’t notice much. I promise, nothing to see.

I count in my head the seconds it should take to read my note for my polite withdraw requests.

I worked extra hard on this note. Studied more this time on picking out the right words. Before only four words, those felt so impersonal. It worked, but I wanted to sound more professional this time. Everything else practice. This time was more special.

I insisted on adding the picture too. No one told me to do that, but it felt right. A signature.

I fancied seeing the headlines in the newspaper. Auctioning off my drawings. The articles from the wordie news people telling the world about me. Higher bids for my signature work. Bigger than any lottery winnings I’m certain.

The thoughts on how famous I will be. Not Kardashian famous, bigger. Brighter. Fancier. The world will know, normal can be of value.

I felt that excitement start to tickle a giggle at the thought. I had to hold my giggle in. Giggles aren’t as professional. I’m more of one of those keep it cool and no one will get hurt professionals.

Being famous- I was motivated. More famous than my meatloaf. Every Thursday, Meatloaf Day.

My husband says it should be a holiday with confetti cannons and popping corks off of wine style celebrations. He’s not much suspecting of my special ingredient. The cat loves it. It makes the cat a little less crazy. Smooth and mellow. Mellow enough for it to half like me.

The normals. I do that very well. It’s easy and not crazy to do. Everything the same. Every Thursday.

But today is different. More special than all others. I will be made famous this day. I’m certain of that. I’m a professional now. They will see.

Wait, what was I supposed to do right now? Yes, I was supposed to count. Let me do that.

I watch him from the other side of the counter. The extra words helped, he’s still reading. He looks strong. I wonder what he does after work. If I have time, I’ll ask him out on a date. After everything here. He’ll be famous too, the man behind all of this. Everyone needs a good support group. He can be mine.

Let me sparkle my eyes and flash my smile. I wonder if he would like Meatloaf - it is Thursday.

Seven. Eight. Ni-

“That’s funny.”

He sets the withdraw requests on the counter.

I slide the paper back to me, “Funny as in yes. Or funny as in try again next Tuesday?”

“Funny as in ‘that’s cute’ funny.”

“So, 'cute' funny as in a no?”

I look at my note. It was perfect.

I’ve not met resistance like this before. Normally nothing is said.

But this one talks.

“Well, the funny thing about all of this.” I pull it out. Matte black, short and stubby like his fingers. How does he type with little fingers? “I’m not asking, it’s more of a demand.”

I swing it around and plunk the bag on the counter, covering my note. I don’t have to read it to know what it says. Nothing funny about telling him I’m robbing the joint.

“Honey, go home. I’m trying to work, and for the last time - NO, you cannot buy a new purse, you have plenty. With shoes to match. And there’s plenty of money in the bank. I’ll be home by six.”

I stared at him. Giving him my best stink eye I can muster. I know if I stare long enough, he will cave in. Wait, yes wait for it - that’s all I have to do. I’ve done my part, he’s been trained. I’ve broken him down to respond in seven seconds, down from the normal ten. I know how he works.

“Stop reading that book. Your name is Joy, not the New York Police Detective Jackie Jenkins.”

“My name isn’t Joy or Jackie, Sir. It’s Patty Patrick and I’m here to rob your bank.”

“What book are you reading now? The Lost Art of Proper Bank Robberies or the Proper Formats and Formulas To Perform a Proper Stick Up? I already told you not to read either of those. And this note. Why did you write it in crayon? A blue crayon at that. The picture? People don’t have 16 fingers, Joy. I’ll be home at six.”

He starts clicking the keyboard, in a whisper, “If you’re going to play pretend, at least spell ‘robbery’ right. Joy, did you feed the cat before you left? I’ll see you at home.”

“But, I don’t want to go home. That cat doesn’t like me much.”

He pauses and glances up. A smile like he thinks he knows me. “Well, Joy, you don’t have to go home. But if you stay here, you have to stay away from the crayons.”

“So… Meatloaf for dinner. Six? And you’re feeding the cat.” I whispered.