He wanted to write her a letter, a novel, explaining all the reasons he was about to put her through what was likely to become one of the worst days of her life.
01/25/2015
Unforeseen Consequences
Sylvester Brahm stood in the lobby of Spirit of Seventy-Six National Credit Union with his hands up, shoulders parallel to the ground, not sure if he should clasp them behind the back of his head or not. He could feel the cold hem of his windbreaker gently caressing along the bare small of his back. The armed security guard commanded him with the intensity and ferocity of a man who has owned many disobedient dogs in his lifetime. Soft peppered puffs of hair peeked out from the sides of the retirement-aged black man’s cap, emblazoned with the name of his security firm instead of the city police department. “Strategic America?” Is that what it said? Sylvester wondered what significance that could possibly have. Despite the man’s generic black with gold trim uniform, his authoritative, polished patent leather shoes which somehow escaped the slush and sand from outside, he was definitely pointing a very real gun at Sylvester. After all, he did just try to rob the bank.
”Get down on the fucking ground right now!” Instead, Sylvester stood right where he was, looking at the gun pointed at him seven meters away. The few other patrons, some waiting in line, some who were in the middle of filling out deposit slips, had all dropped to the ground and covered their heads. The marble was probably cold, and the ladies with skirts are likely more uncomfortable than the men, Sylvester thought. He moved his eyes around the room. It seemed much quieter than a moment ago when he first walked into Spirit of Seventy-Six Credit Union. Before, there was till drawers chinging open and closed, quiet laughter behind the teller’s glass, people shuffling in line, grumbling. All of that had stopped and was now silent except for the ferocious barking of the guard, and a noise that Sylvester convinced himself was a silent alarm that he could hear. “I’m gonna count to three, asshole!” He looked again at the unwavering Glock pointed at him and thought about how different things could have turned out.
“It’s pretty serious, Meghan,” when they were alone and away from the kids, Sylvester had told his wife a few days earlier.
“How serious? What did Dr. ffeninger say? Did you get the biopsy back?”
Sylvester was quiet, looking at the cracks in the kitchen linoleum, thinking he might like to replace the tiles someday during the cooler months. “Sil! Why won’t you answer me, dammit!”
“It’s malignant. It’s also aggressive. He told me it’s spreading to my bones and it could be six months, a couple of years or more, he doesn’t know.”
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Jesus.” Meghan’s already fair face washed clean of her pinkish color. In an instant, all the stages of grief flashed across her face like an overture of things to come. She sat down in the antique mustard yellow kitchen chair and let the stainless steel, tubular arms hold her up like a scarecrow. The contrast of their kitchen’s 1960’s color scheme and Meghan’s pallid complexion was enough to make Sylvester start to feel sick as well.
“Let me get you some ice water.”
“What are you going to do? What about treatment? We don’t have the money. The kids, what about the kids?”
“Relax, we’re going to be fine, everything is going to be fine, here take a sip of water.” She took the icy glass, barely letting it touch her lips, then set it down, wild eyed and frantic.
“How are we going to afford the hospital bills Sil? What if we lose the house? Where will Becky and Roman go to school?”
“We’ll think of something. I’ll think of something. Maybe we can, I don’t know, borrow money or something, or go to another country. We’ll think of something.”
Megan started crying, she grabbed Sylvester and hugged him tighter than they ever hugged before and unleashed a banshee-like shriek into his chest before descending into quick, uncontrollable sobs. “I-love-you,” she seemed to hiccup, repeatedly, and muffled by his own mass. Sylvester stroked her hair back and rested his cheek on the top of her head.
“I love you too baby, don’t worry. We’re going to make it. I’m going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.”
When Sylvester walked into the bank’s lobby he had nothing but his keys, his wallet, and a receipt for some frosted mini donuts and a package of gum he bought earlier in his pockets. He kept a separate savings account from his wife, not for any real reason other than he had started it in high school, it rarely had much in it, and it didn’t seem important enough to make a big deal about closing it when they got married thirteen years ago. She didn’t know how much was ever in it except that it wasn’t much. Sylvester walked past the security guard and waited in line, looking at the way the sunlight reflected off the gleaming marble floor. The floors, the red velvet rope and brass posts, the quiet tittering all around and up into the high ceiling reminded him of a museum he’d gone to as a kid. Shortly, he was called to the next window.
“Next please,” said a slightly chubby girl, about nineteen, who’s smile pleasantly interrupted the gray-gray suit she was wearing. “My name’s Becky, how can I help you today?”
“That’s funny, that’s my daughter’s name. Becky”
“Oh, haha! That’s wonderful, is it short for Rebecca too?”
“Actually, no, it’s just Becky. After a friend of my wife’s?”
“Haha, neat! So what can we do for you today?”
“Well Becky, I’d like to withdraw from my account and close it today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What made you change your mind about banking with us?” Her intonation switched from sincere to scripted instantly.
“Nothing, I just have another account with my wife, that’s all. Here’s my debit card and my I.D.”
“Great, just fill this out, and we’ll get that started.”
Sylvester reached into his back pocket to get out the receipt for the donuts. He could feel sweat accumulating at his hairline just above his temples and behind his ears, feeling like he was a kid again and about to do something regrettable. With the pen chained to the teller’s counter, he scribbled on the piece of paper the words “I have a gun. Don’t scream. Put $ in envlpe.” He hesitated, and saw that Becky was still entering his information on the computer screen and not paying attention. He then added in small squashed letters, “ImSorry.” He wanted to write her a letter, a novel, explaining all the reasons he was about to put her through what was likely to become one of the worst days of her life. Unless of course she was to get cancer, or worse yet, have to watch someone she loved die from it. He wanted to explain that he hadn’t told his wife about the cancer for months and that he had been planning this all along. About the cooked-up idea that some people, he had heard, were getting themselves arrested and put in jail to receive medical treatment. He wanted to rationalize with this teenage girl how he was about to spend his life behind bars just for the chance to live so that he might see his kids grown even if he couldn’t be there for them. He wanted to tell her to be strong, be safe, grow up to be beautiful and wise and never scared of desperate, nervous people in line at the bank. He wanted to tell her all the things he would say to his own daughter if she were the one behind the glass.
Sylvester slipped the note under the glass and into the metal tray. A sign of her inexperience, Becky read it, moving her eyes back and forth and gasped loudly, holding her hand to her mouth. She looked at Sylvester and then around at her coworkers. Sylvester couldn’t be sure exactly what happened next, if the guard saw what was happening or if another teller did and triggered an alarm. Either way, Sylvester was now standing with his arms parallel to the ground with his hands above his head, listening to the guard shouting, “Get down on the fucking ground right now!”
With the irreversible wheels set in motion, Sylvester panicked. He was an average man, an every-man. He avoided confrontation and preferred to talk and tell young new employees he was sorry he had to rob them. He never even owned a gun and hadn’t shot one since he was a boy. He caught himself thinking the guard’s Glock seemed smaller than he had imagined. What caliber is that, .38, .45? How do they measure bullets, in millimeters? Sylvester’s mind was tugging at escape hatches, trying to make a run for it, and confusing the poor man.
“One!”
Sylvester heard the guard shout and imagined what it would be like in prison, hearing that shouting all day long. Treated like a dog.
“Two!”
He imagined seeing his daughter Becky through the Plexiglas window the same way he had seen Becky the teller. She would be taller and more of a woman every time they met. He’d never help her with homework again, read bedtime stories to her and her brother. Roman was just starting pre-k and had yet to really become his own person, but Sylvester saw he was becoming curious, strong, and willful, just like he had been growing up. The boy was going to grow up with a jailbird father, and then what would happen to him? What was going to happen to the lives of the people he loved with the burden of an incarcerated father, a husband? Why tie up all their emotions and energy in a false hope, an absent figure who could never be comfortably replaced or forgotten, just sitting, rotting, and dying from the inside out in a faraway cell. He could never beat cancer. Only succumb and become a cancer to his family himself.
“THREE!”
Before the guard had even finished what he was saying, Sylvester dropped his right hand as quickly as possible and reached inside the left half of his windbreaker. Four shots rang out and Sylvester fell to the floor. A slick red pool formed underneath him, spreading out across the marble floor and flowing in between the gilded squares like aqueducts. A young girl somewhere far away screamed, and screamed, only stopping to catch her breath before shrieking again. She grew quieter and quieter until she was completely gone.
