Terminal (12 page)

“Help me. Show me that You exist. Save me and I promise that I’ll never doubt You again. I’ll go to church. I’ll start living right. I’ll quit drinking down at Murphy’s Place and smoking weed and watching porn. I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. Just take it all away. Take away this pain You gave to me. All You have to do is show me. I don’t understand what it is You want from me. How am I supposed to know unless You tell me?”

The figure on the cross didn’t answer. Instead, He was silent, looming over me.

“Give me some proof. That’s all I’m asking for. Give me a sign— one single, simple sign.”

Silence.

“Cure me,” I whispered. “Make this cancer go away and let me live.”

I still felt sick. I was still dying. I’d become what I hated in other people by giving in to the culture of blame. It was time to move on. I stood up and wiped my bloody nose on the back of my hand.

“Then fuck You. I knew You wouldn’t help. You can’t help me because You don’t exist. You’re not real. You’re just another fairy tale, like the Easter bunny and Santa Claus. You can’t help me. I’ll do this my way.”

There was no lightning bolt or angel with a flaming sword. God didn’t show up and smite me down for my sacrilege. Jesus didn’t climb down from the wall and bash my head in with His cross. The priest would have probably said that was because He was a loving God, a forgiving God, but I knew it was really because He didn’t exist. I’d given Him a chance to prove me wrong, to show me that He was there for me, for all of us.

I’d gotten nothing. Nothing from God. Nothing from the government. Nothing from my doctor or the medical establishment or my employer.

The only person I could rely on to take care of my family was me.

And pretty soon, I’d be gone.

It was time to get on with it.

It was raining when I walked outside. While I’d been inside the church, the beautiful, warm weather had vanished, replaced with dark, ominous clouds. I welcomed them. The downpour washed over me and it felt like a baptism. Dying, I was reborn.

I got back in the truck, and drove home— feeling more alone and depressed than ever before. But I was also beginning to feel something else. Something new. Determination. A feeling of peace settled over me, and I liked the way it felt.

Then the fear set in once again, washing it all away.

The next three days were pretty busy. We went over the plan, cased the bank and the strip mall where it was located, stole license plates for John’s car, mapped escape routes, and planned for everything we could think of that might possibly go wrong. I was still lying to Michelle— getting up for “work” each morning, then spending the day at John’s grungy bachelor pad crib instead, playing video games and watching porno and getting high when we weren’t planning the robbery. (My marijuana use was way up— it’s true what they say. It really does help curb the nausea.) For an extra touch of realism, Sherm even dropped by the foundry and got some dirt to rub on our clothes, hands, and faces, so that it looked like we’d been working. The only thing I didn’t have to fake was the fatigue. The cancer took care of that for me.

Finally, Thursday came and it was time.

The morning of the robbery, Michelle had an early shift. When I woke up, she and T. J. were already gone. She’d left me a note on the refrigerator: “Tommy— I forgot to tell you. I tried to use the ATM card last night after I picked T. J. up, but it was declined. It says that we’re minus two hundred dollars! Can you please call the damn bank today and find out what happened? Does this have to do with the layoffs? This is why I wish you’d let me help you do the bills. Love you, Michelle.”

It was good that they were gone, since I couldn’t seem to stop throwing up. Part of it was the disease, but a lot more of it was my nerves. I’d been over it in my head a hundred times, but now that the day was actually here, I was scared shitless.

John was scared too, and I saw it on his face when he arrived to pick me up. Neither of us mentioned it. We didn’t really talk at all. Instead, we listened to Outkast and sang along a little too loudly. We stopped at Sherm’s and he slid into the backseat, cup of coffee in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other.

“You sure about this, Tommy?”

I nodded in confirmation.

“Then it’s on.”

John let out a strangled sigh and we drove toward the edge of town.

“Carpet Dick, tell me that you checked the car over yesterday like I told you to, right? Turn signals and brake lights and everything are working? Filled the tank up, checked the oil and all of that shit?”

“Yep, we’re good to go.”

“Then let’s go over this shit one more time,” Sherm suggested. “And slow down. The last fucking thing we need right now is to get pulled over for speeding.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay, this is how it goes. When we get to the strip mall, John parks behind the Chinese place, next to the big garbage Dumpster. There’s no traffic back there, garbage pickup isn’t until next Monday, and the Chinks don’t go outside for a smoke break until noon, so nobody will see us. After that, Tommy, me and you walk around the side, pull the ski masks down, and burst hard-core through those bank doors. No fucking names. You don’t call me Sherm and I don’t call you Tommy while we’re in there. Just remember, and I mean it, Tommy— this has to go down hard. That means yelling and cussing and shouting and pushing people around and shit. We need to get their attention with a quickness. It’s the only way this thing is gonna work. We’ve got to let them know who’s in charge. We may have to bloody a few noses or punch some motherfucker in the mouth to get their attention. There will probably be some violence. Be ready for that.”

“But no shooting, right?” I wanted to make sure we were absolutely clear on this point.

“Right man, no shooting. The guns are just for show. Worst-case scenario, I shoot a hole in the ceiling.”

I shook my head. “No, Sherm. No shooting at all. We agreed on that from the beginning.”

“Relax. Like I said, it’s a worst-case scenario. And this is gonna be easy. You’re getting worked up over nothing, dog. You’ll see.”

“Now what if I hear you guys shooting?” John asked. “Then what?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck did I just say, John? Did I stutter or something? There’s not going to be any shooting. You just stay in the car and keep out of sight.”

He took a sip of coffee, calmed down, and continued.

“Once we’re inside and have everybody’s attention, we do the takeover. With John in the car, we won’t have an extra person to watch the door and make sure that the hostages don’t try to make a break for it. So when we go through, turn the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. We’ll make them all lie down on the floor, away from the door. That should make it easier to cover them. The door will be in your sight the whole time, so you’ll know if somebody else is coming. You hit the cash drawers while I hit the vault. Like I said before, we don’t have to worry about the dye packs. Just check your shit and make sure they don’t slip you one of those tracking devices. Once we’ve got the cash in the backpacks, we haul our asses out the door, get to the car, and we’re gone before five-oh even arrives.”

“That’s where I come in.” John sat up straight.

“Yeah, John, that’s where you come in. Let’s see how well you were paying attention. What route are we taking?”

“York Road and 116 to Codorus Road, if there’s no cops on our tail,” he recited from memory. “After that, we take the old Glen Rock road to Jefferson, then out past LeHorn Hollow, through Shrewsbury and down to the Maryland border.”

“Beautiful. You remembered. What if we go with plan B and head toward Littlestown instead?”

“Head toward Littlestown, then we drive over the border into Westminster, and grab the 140 to 795.”

“In either case, where do we go when we’re in Maryland?”

“Cockeysville. Plan A, we take the Susquehanna Trail to Interstate 83, then grab the Cockeysville exit. Plan B, we take 795 to Interstate 83 and again grab the Cockeysville exit. Once we’re there, we take Cranberry Lane up to the woods, go down the old service road that leads back to the power lines, park out of sight in behind the trees, switch the license plates on the car, split up for a little bit, then, if nobody has found the car, we meet back there after dark.”

“Then we count the money,” Sherm finished, “and start living large.”

“You really think we’ll nab that much?” I asked.

“Yo, I’m telling you; a bank like this in a town the size of Hanover, we could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand today. Most of that goes to you, of course, but even with the little cut that Carpet Dick and I are taking, it’s still all good.”

“Especially since we’re laid off,” John agreed.

I tried to picture it, tried to imagine holding that much cash in my hands, smelling it, feeling the paper between my fingers, and found that I couldn’t. But that was okay. In a little less than an hour, imagination wouldn’t have to suffice. It would be a reality.

Sherm’s crib was on one edge of Hanover, near the lake. The strip mall and the bank were on the other side, right on the border with McSherrystown. On a normal day, it took twenty minutes to drive from one side to the other. But that day, it seemed to take an instant, like we were traveling at light speed.

John turned into the parking lot. He gripped the steering wheel hard and his knuckles popped. I noticed they were white. Staring straight ahead, he drove around behind the strip mall and parked next to the Chinese restaurant’s garbage Dumpster— just like we’d planned. The look on his face was one of resolve. He reached for the keys, but Sherm stopped him.

“No, just let it run. Last thing we need is for you to shut this car off, and we come out with the money and it doesn’t fucking start again.”

John shrugged.

“Is the coast clear?” Sherm asked, craning his head around.

“I didn’t see anybody,” John’s voice was hushed, somber. “There’s a Drovers Water delivery truck over there, but it’s empty. Look’s like it’s just the three of us. You guys see anyone?”

I shook my head.

“Cool. Me neither.” Sherm placed a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Not really.” I coughed.

“What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”

“For the past week, I’ve been throwing up nonstop, and this morning was no different. Even when I’m not puking, I feel like I’m going to any second. Puff Daddy is remixing shit in my head, along with a military drum corps and a few howitzers and some scientists setting off nuclear bomb tests, and every inch of my body hurts. I’ve got aches in places where I didn’t even know you could get aches. Sometimes my fever is hot enough to fry an egg on my head, and other times it just makes me sweat a little, but it’s always there. I’ve been bullshitting my wife. She’s on the verge of figuring out that I lied to her about our finances, and once that shit hits the fan, it’s only a matter of time before she learns what else I’ve been lying to her about. Like the fact that I’ve been laid off, and I’m still pretending to go to work. Or the fact that I’m fucking dying. God ain’t gonna step in and cure me because I recently learned that He doesn’t exist. Oh, and before I forget, in about two minutes, I’m gonna rob a fucking bank. So no, Sherm, I’m not all right. I’m really not. But thanks for asking, man. Thanks a lot. That means a lot to me.”

“Yo, can that sarcasm shit. You want to quit? Because this is our last fucking chance here, Tommy. Once we get out of this car and enter that bank, there ain’t no going back.”

I stared at him, stared at John, closed my eyes, and opened the door. His words echoed in my head.

Ain’t no going back . . .

My mind had already been made up.

“Let’s do this.”

* * *

There are certain moments in your life that, when you think about them later, happen in slow motion. In reality, it probably took us thirty seconds. But sitting here now, when I replay it in my mind, it took hours. Everything was in bullet time, like in The Matrix. I can step outside myself, and envision it from someone else’s view, as if it’s a movie, changing camera angles and adding a sound track.

Sherm and I got out of the car. We pulled the ski masks down over our faces. Beneath our jackets, each of us clutched a pistol in one hand. We each had a large backpack slung over our shoulders. The smell of fried rice and rotting garbage hung thick in the air— so thick, that even my diminished sense of smell could pick it up. For a second, I thought I heard the sound of a car, coming down the alley behind the strip mall, but it was too late, too late to call it off. We were already moving. What had been put in motion couldn’t be stopped.

We didn’t falter. We didn’t look back. Without saying a word, we walked around the side of the restaurant, turned the corner, and there was the bank.

Just as Sherm reached for the door, it opened toward us. An old lady stepped out, blue hair done up in a perm. She was clutching a deposit ticket in one hand and rifling through her purse with the other. She stopped, gawked at us, then let out a little gasp. Her deposit ticket slipped from her quivering hand. Rather than floating to the sidewalk, it seemed to hover in the air, suspended in time.

“Oh my . . .”

Sherm growled in slow motion.

“Get . . . back . . . inside . . . the . . . bank . . . bitch!”

He shoved her forward into the lobby, and she kept repeating “Oh my . . . Oh my . . .” like a mantra. She clasped a silver crucifix hanging around her neck. Another person noticed us, an older, bearded man wearing faded blue jeans and a chambray work shirt. He was at the end of the line, his eyes registering surprise and disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something but Sherm cut him off.

“All right motherfuckers! Everybody hit the goddamn floor, NOW! Right fucking now! Let’s go!”

“You heard him, assholes,” I shouted. “Do it! Get the fuck down! Move!”

Now all of the customers in line turned, and as time slowed even more, I sized them up, studying every detail. A pretty woman about our age clutched the hand of a young boy. Looking at him reminded me of T. J., and I forced the image from my head. The boy looked just like the woman, hair the color of honey, high cheekbones, a short nose, even the same complexion. Both had frightened, wide eyes. She pulled the boy to her side, shielding him as best she could. There was no ring on her finger. Divorced, or a single mom. In front of them was an elderly bald man with glasses and a cane. He shook so badly that his knees knocked together and I thought he might collapse. There was an overweight guy in a Hellboy shirt, obviously the victim of too many nights spent reading comic books and wolfing down candy bars and potato chips, and in front of him, a hefty, solid man in his late thirties, wearing a leather jacket and polished black boots. He looked like a biker. He had steel in his eyes instead of fear, and I knew right away that we’d have to watch him carefully. Rounding out the group were two tellers, one young and blond, the other middle-aged and dyed auburn; and a slick, oily guy in a suit that just had to be the manager. His name tag read KEITH and below that, BRANCH MANAGER. He smiled, as if believing he was the victim of a hidden camera show.

“I SAID GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Sherm bellowed, and this time, they understood.

They screamed as one, except for the guy in the bike leathers, who stood completely still, and Keith the Manager, who kept on smiling. The old woman toppled over in mid “Oh my” as Sherm pushed past her. She hit the floor hard, and was silent. The contents of her purse spilled out around her, and she rubbed the crucifix intensely. The young mother crouched down, pulling the kid with her. The boy’s eyes went from Sherm and me to the old woman and the old man, and he whispered something to his mother. The bearded guy dropped to the carpet and so did the fat boy, pulling the velvet line ropes along with him. The brass poles crashed onto the floor and I noticed a dark, wet stain on his fly. It was spreading fast. The younger teller froze in midtransaction, a stack of twenties falling from one limp hand and fluttering to the floor like green-and-white butterflies. Her other hand reached slowly beneath the counter.

“You hit that goddamned alarm and I’ll cap your cute little ass, sweetheart,” Sherm warned her. “Get your fucking hands up where I can see them. Don’t make me tell you twice!”

She froze, biting her lip in fear, while the older teller started to cry.

“Both of you get out here and get down on the floor with the rest of them. Now!”