It was a typical sunny summer afternoon and I needed to get to two different banks before five o’clock to cash a $4000 check at one and deposit the money at the other.
So I left work a little early, got the $4000 cash and some miscellaneous bills from bank one, stuffed it all into my left jean pocket and raced toward bank two.
I pushed the door open at approximately three minutes before closing time and exuberantly approached one of the tellers. It was a relief to have made it in time and I felt a little anxious to rid myself of all that cash.
The look on her face was noticeably unusual, as if either she had just seen a ghost or needed to let go of some methane. The thought did cross my mind that I might be the cause for her strange countenance since it is not uncommon for me to inadvertently scare women.
I glanced at the teller to my left and noticed a rather large man about 26 1/2 inches from my elbow, pulling a hood over his head and quickly turning away from me heading for the door I just came in.
As the door closed behind him the teller to the left began weeping uncontrollably and the teller on the right did her best to squeak out, “That was a hold-up”, to which I intelligently replied, “Pardon me?”
“We just got robbed!” she cried a second time as her composure collapsed like a house of cards.
As her words echoed into nothingness my hand was already well on its way to the holster on my right hip. Clearly there was no time for chit chat so I fearlessly spun toward the door, instructing them “Don’t close the bank, I’ll be right back!”
I did NOT want to be carrying over $4000 in cash any longer than necessary, especially whilst in hot pursuit of a real live bank robber. This particular fact became progressively clear as each following minute unfolded.
By the time the door glided shut at my heels my holster was long empty and I had already put twenty yards behind me, waiting for the 911 operator return from her bathroom break.
As I courageously pursued the likely armed and desperate bank robber across the hot asphalt, at great personal risk I might add, I kept taking mental notes about the man’s attire, physical appearance, etc., while answering vital questions from the “emergency” operator, such as, “What is your name?
Where do you live?
What is your favorite color?”
I said “green, thank you for asking” and hung up on her just as an unmarked squad car pulled up. The well-dressed driver wearing a suit, shiny black shoes, and a 9mm semi-automatic, asked me if I was the heroic caller who was selflessly prepared to take a bullet for the betterment of society.
After noticing his sidearm I carefully explained that maybe green wasn’t my favorite color, depending sometimes upon the mood or whether I had just eaten. He said green is a fine color as he wiped the powdered sugar from his lower lip and proceeded to remind himself whether he could find the safety on his pistola.
I asked if he wanted me to “back him up” as he headed for the laundromat doorway through which the robber had only moments prior walked (you know, the doorway NOBODY would know about if it were not for MY reckless courage).
He said something about his color was purple and that I should probably “wait here”. I first thought those words were meant for my protection but then realized that in the case of a fierce gun battle the officer wanted me positioned outside to apprehend the gunman should he attempt a second getaway.
Within a minute or so all the squad cars in North America and several from bordering nations appeared, along with a mixture of approximately 30,000 local pigeons and seagulls all fighting over the half-eaten donuts that suddenly carpeted the parking lot.
Then to further complicate matters I was rather ungracefully jammed into the back of one of the more impressive suburban-type police vehicles.
I noticed right away that the FRONT area of the vehicle’s cabin was considerably more comfortable and technologically advanced than the rear. “They” had an over abundance of elbow room, audio equipment, cushy seats, and a plethora of other amenities including a flip-out donut warmer.
Hell, I couldn’t even roll my window down to feed the pigeons. Not to mention the back seat was more like a hard plastic bleacher with some sort of suspicious stains all over.
Before I could even establish a comfortable sitting position an intense interrogation commenced. These guys evidently didn’t give a damn about my favorite color but I was pretty sure it would be in my best interest not to mention GREEN. I mean, I was sitting in a squad car at the scene of a ongoing bank robbery and had forty $100 bills in my jean pocket.
So while calming my nerves by silently reciting what little I knew of the Bolivian National Anthem, I kept my wits about me and answered all their questions at least twice except the one about whether I preferred French or Powdered Sugar. My love and respect for Animal Crackers was of no interest to them.
Eventually the robber was brought out for me to identify. I looked at the man and said,
“Well, I never actually SAW the guy’s face and he isn’t wearing that light gray hooded sweatshirt anymore. He isn’t carrying that big red bag full of money either, but yeah, he looks guilty to me.”
Now about this time is when the camera crews from all the local TV stations began to setup their tripods and microphones. Still held captive in the rear of the police vehicle doing my best to act like I had no idea what a one hundred dollar bill even looked like, let alone ever owning one myself, it suddenly occurred to me that the media frenzy would soon place ME center stage.
Recognizing the potentially catastrophic nature of the scene as it developed I began to whimper something about how my elderly mother ALWAYS watches the local news and if she saw her youngest son sitting in the back of a squad car at a bank robbery scene she could easily have a heart attack. The kindly officer seemed to get my drift and told me I was free to leave so I saddled up my Honda and rode off into the sunset, still in quiet possession of my wayward loot.
The next day I got a call from the president of the bank (the REAL President never even RETURNS my calls) thanking me for my “heroic contribution to the community” (Translation: “Geez, I am SO glad I got my money back!”).
A couple of days later the bank dude sent me two $100 gift certificates for one of the finer restaurants in town. Not bad. I had no bullet wounds PLUS there was some fine cuisine in my future.
Shortly after that I discovered a message on my answering machine from Debbie, an FBI agent, explaining I would need to be a witness at the pending trial in St. Paul, perhaps for numerous consecutive days and fully at MY expense.
I felt like I was getting robbed.
