That morning, in the bank, when the crazy man pulled the heavy gun
out of his overcoat pocket and started screaming orders at the teller,
Maureen stood absolutely still and watched her husband`s reactions.
She had been wondering about him for such a very long time, her brain
neurotically circling this one vital question.

Oh, he talked incessantly, to practically anybody, about his deep
yearning for the manly life of action and adventure - the life that
he had so nobly given up for her, so that he could "take care of" her.
Dwayne, her husband, worked as a foreman for a construction company
and he got along with the men at work - or thought he did - by constant
heroic posturing. Nobody had ever tried to challenge him because he was
just too big. And he would never admit to any sort of wrong-doing anyway.
Dwayne also wielded an impressive array of social skills, much of which,
in her opinion, amounted to simple avoidance behaviour.

The highly agitated bank robber, toward whom Maureen was beginning to
feel a sneaking fondness, had managed to partly dislodge his long, black,
curly wig. He was rakishly revealed to be fortyish and balding, with the
dull gray skin-tone she associated with chronic pain and, by derivation,
drug-abuse. He was a small man, howling now with rage, and his twitching
hands were aiming the big gun at the young teller, who had always irritated
Maureen unspeakably with her expensive, clinging clothes and precise make-up
and haughty green eyes.

But now the teller appeared as she truly was, a very ordinary girl who was
trembling so much that she couldn`t handle the money properly, even though
she wanted most desperately to give the crazy man all of the accursed money.
She kept darting anxious little glances at the awful black hole at the end
of the gun. She couldn`t help it - she was almost certain that the hole was
getting bigger.

And now the little guy was holding the weapon quite steadily considering the
frantic abandon of his other movements and the insane screeching of his loud-
speaker mouth.

The teller`s face looked white as crumpled paper and her hands, those highly
skilled and meticulously manicured fingers, looked like stiff plastic doll-
hands fumbling helplessly at the loose bills and little stacks of money in
the cash drawer.

It was winter and the first feeble rays of sun-light were coming between the
heavy clouds and through the big grimy windows. The few other people who
happened to be in the bank at that early hour seemed to be caught in freeze-
frame, open-mouthed. Maureen watched three seconds tick away on the clock that
was on the wall above the gunman`s crazy head.

And then, suddenly, just beyond her husband`s statuesque, unmoving profile -
he was looking down on everything as always - she saw the teller, the terrified
girl behind the counter, slump to the floor, money fluttering around and over
her still form. It looked like she`d been shot, actually, but there had been no
shot.

Maureen whispered harshly to Dwayne, "The silly girl`s fainted!"

Afterwards, she could never quite forgive her husband for the loss of that
priceless moment when the bank robber stood there dumbfounded and something
really could have been done to stop it... by Dwayne... by him alone...

But then she couldn`t pay much attention to him any more because the tiny
wheels in the crazy man`s head were already beginning to grind into motion
again. His bloodshot eyes flashed around the building looking for somebody
to take care of the problem for him. To Maureen, this was obviously a long-
standing pattern of behaviour for this particular individual and was most
likely, she reflected bitterly, learned at his mother`s knee. She flicked
one more glance at Dwayne.

And then the bank robber was yelling, "Hey you! You stupid old bitch-lady
there! Yeah, dummy, you!" And he was pointing his filthy finger at Maureen,
actually clawing at the air four or five times with his free hand.

To the crazy man, Maureen looked vaguely reassuring, sort of like that
famous painting of "The Moaning Lisa", so he tore the slipping wig off his
own head and threw it at hers.

The hairy, reeking thing slid down over her face and over her body and settled
around her feet. That was when she got "the creeps", knew for the first time
in her life exactly what everybody meant by that odd phrase of slang. She could
hear noises coming from Dwayne, small whimpering noises, probably quite
unconsciously.

So, telling herself that she was thinking mainly of the poor girl who was lying
unconscious on the floor behind the counter, Maureen stepped forward and sideways,
thankfully disentangling the disgusting wig from around her shoes.

Carefully, she took small, unassuming steps, minimized all her other movements,
and avoided making eye-contact. Then, standing humbly before the bank robber -
who was such an unbelievably repugnant piece of human trash close up - Maureen
asked him, "What do you want me to do?"

The little guy tantrummed like Rumpelstiltskin and bellowed at her, "You pick up
the freaking money, you stupid old cow, and you do it fast!" There was dirt in
all the creases and wrinkles on his unshaven face, which suddenly spasmed with
anxiety and rage and projected itself toward her, screaming, "Move!"

(to be continued)

07/29/2018