Jerry Bateman Goes to the Bank

Jerry Bateman was angry.

Not that this was abnormal, by any stretch. Anger was a suit he wore well, and often—one that he'd been wearing, as a matter of fact, non-stop for about four years now. Personal tragedy had shoved him down grief's well-known path, but he had gotten stuck on Stage 2: Anger.

The day had gotten off to its usual glorious start. He'd left the house in a huff, after spilling his bowl of cereal and then tripping over the cat. He kicked out at the cat, after stumbling, but the cat was expecting it, and deftly skated out of the way. He tossed his cereal bowl noisily into the sink, and left the kitchen.

He fumbled around in the hallway, looking for his briefcase, and found it by the door—a handsome aluminum Samsonite attache, a birthday gift from his wife the year before. He dumped today's newspaper and an apple into it, and then stormed out the front door, giving it a good slam. His wife barely registered the noise—all part of the morning routine, not least of which was the sense of relief that regularly swept over her upon his morning departure.

He moved through the workday joylessly and mechanically, another real estate attorney trying to scrape by in the midst of the biggest real estate downturn in decades. His phone had been awfully quiet, lately. Except for the vendors and creditors calling him, of course. Luckily, he had very little overhead, with a practice of one, so the creditors didn't number that many. Also, he kept his nose clean—so none of the creditors bore Italian surnames.

He'd long since decided that his financial demise was due, at least in part, to a vast conspiracy—those around him were intent on impeding his progress, on slowing him down. His clients were avoiding him, new business was going elsewhere, his bank had frozen his line of credit. The fuckers.

Now at the post office, on his way home after work, he extricated a pile of letters, packages, and junk mail from his box, hoping, but not expecting, to find a client's check, any client's check. He'd floated three checks a couple days before, knowing full well that his account hadn't sufficient funds, but feeling that he had no choice in the matter. Since then, he'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop at any moment. Dark news that he certainly didn't share with his wife. But a couple of clients had promised him payment in the last few days, as well—maybe one of them had finally come through.

And it wasn't the first time he'd floated a check. Tell me about it, his father's voice piped up from the back of his mind—a voice that seemingly had more and more to say, of late. Up to your eyeballs in debt, the voice went on. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest—you never could manage to get your shit together.

His eyelids fluttered, like lights flickering on and off, as usually happened while his father barked at him from beyond the grave. He blinked and shook his head, muttering a fuck you, Dad under his breath, words that had become a sort of prayer he'd found himself offering up more and more. His dead father had so much more to say posthumously than he did while still amongst the living, while still pretending to be a father. None of it was very uplifting—relentlessly pointing out all of Jerry's fuck-ups, and mocking and criticizing him. But of course it was all bark and no bite. The bastard was long dead and gone.

He turned away from his mail box, and headed back toward the exit, flipping through envelopes as he walked, absently dropping some junk mail into a recycling bin. He paused, spotting an envelope near the bottom of his pile that briefly threatened to lift his sour mood—what was clearly a check, addressed to Jerry Bateman, Esq., from The Eisner Brothers, LLC.

He didn't quite smile, but his scowl diminished slightly. A client had come through, this one particularly late, but one that had nonetheless arrived in the nick of time. He greedily tore open the envelope, to confirm the amount of the check. Sure enough, payment in full, enough to put him over the top, stave off final reckoning (or at least significant bleeding), at least for another accounting cycle.

He glanced at his watch, deciding that he had just enough time to hit the bank on the way home to deposit this check, once again passing Go and collecting $200.

His mood re-soured seconds later, however, when he saw the dog-eared, yellow USPS form at the bottom of his pile, indicating that he had an oversized package waiting for him. He looked up at the counter, and was completely unsurprised to see a long, tedious line of customers, long even by USPS standards.

“Of course,” he muttered darkly. He counted twelve people lined up, in an intimidating queue that snaked its way out of the main lobby area, out by the mail boxes and recycling bins. Some of those people were sighing and scowling, passive-aggressive displays of impatient displeasure. Others merely waited, expressionless. Still others were entranced by their smartphones, their thumbs scrolling and tapping and swiping.

Up at the counter, there were six stations at which friendly clerks were supposed to be efficiently serving customers. Only one of these stations was occupied, of course—by a gray-haired clerk in his late 50s. Jerry seethed at the look of complacency on this man's face, in his whole demeanor, that spoke of the kind of lazy, cheerful embrace of extreme inefficiency that could only be found at Post Offices, DMV offices, and a few other sundry government entities hiding behind obscure acronyms.

Still standing near the door, he was momentarily torn. Was he expecting a package? Maybe his wife was? Did she order some kind of crap online again without telling him? Probably. But something tickled at the back of his mind—was it something that he had ordered online, maybe? It was faint, merely a glimmer of a memory, but not faint enough to completely ignore. He glanced at his watch. Did the bank close at 5:30 or 6:00? He couldn't remember. Either way, he decided that he could probably get through this line, collect his package, and still get to the bank before it closed.

He took his place at the back of the line with a sigh, resigned to this fate. He flipped through his stack of mail once more, hoping, in vain, to find a catalog or magazine to pass the time. He settled in, mentally, bracing himself for the merciless irritation of waiting in a mindless, government-sponsored queue.

The man in front of him, a blue-collar type with dirty hands and dirty clothes, suddenly decided that he had better things to do, and he turned, scowling, headed for the door. Jerry moved wordlessly forward, scowling as well, unwilling to acknowledge even this small victory. He took his place behind a woman and a young boy, maybe eight years old.

The kid had a ghost of a shit-eating grin on his face, as he leafed intently through a Lego toy catalog, as entranced by Lego-borne fantasies as his mom was by her cell phone. He read through product descriptions alongside alluring images; she poked furiously at her phone with both thumbs, no doubt working through a profound, substantive, and intellectual text-message conversation.

He glanced up at the line again, saw no promise of forward progress, and looked back at the boy and his catalog. It was the Star Wars line of Legos, presumably laden with tie fighters and star destroyers and other George Lucas inventions. A rough approximation of a smile crossed Jerry's face; he had played with Legos when he was a kid, once—though the toys were much less sophisticated then, and not nearly as expensive (the era of cross-media merchandise franchising still decades away). He wondered if his own face had ever looked like the kid's did now—full of wide-eyed wonder, a cross between full-fledged pre-teen fascination and good old-fashioned toddler lust.

Jerry's eyes flicked from the boy's face to the cover of his catalog, and back again. Almost decided to say something to him, to ask him a Lego-savvy question, maybe about the Imperial ATAT Walker, how tall it was, or how many Storm Troopers could fit inside. His own son would be about that age now, he judged—just past nine years old.

His eyes briefly softened even more, and grew wistful, a look that was foreign and out-of-place on Jerry's hard, lined, scowling face. Leukemia had taken his only child from him four years before, at the ripe old age of 5 years and 3 months. The ancient ache that had never completely left him returned, gripping his heart, threatening to open doors he had long since slammed shut, and his face hardened, his brow darkening. His anger and resentment returned, and he popped back into reality, with an almost audible click, thoughts moving away from Legos and young children, leaving the boy to his catalog, and his mom to her cell phone.

Looking up, he saw the line inch forward, as another satisfied customer walked away from the counter. But there was still a handful of people in front of him, and the counter clerk was still in no particular hurry, making idle chitchat with his next customer.

“Son of a bitch,” Jerry muttered, under his breath (mostly), glancing at his watch again. 5:00. When did that damn bank close? He counted the people in line in front of him, and mentally cursed the geezer behind the counter in the blue USPS uniform. Clearly enjoying the fruits of organized labor, he thought, an uncharitable sentiment that was one of his current favorite themes. Probably waltzes through his whole day at this plodding pace, completely liberated from the strictures of actually having to create value to earn his paycheck. He swore under his breath again. Try working for yourself, buddy. See how your paycheck dries up when you sit on your ass.

Resignedly making his choice, he walked back to his PO box and returned the yellow USPS form, leaving the mystery package for another day. He turned and walked quickly back to his car, head down, lips moving with silent curses. He was oblivious to everyone around him, as he usually was when he worked himself up like this. He plopped himself, his briefcase, and his pile of mail into his Toyota Tercel, pausing only to put the Eisner Brothers' check into his briefcase. Briefly squealing the Toyota's tires, he turned hurriedly onto Main Street.

No more screwing around now, he thought. Just enough time to make that time-sensitive deposit.

A “time-sensitive” deposit? mocked the voice of his dead father. Give me a fucking break. You floated a check, plain and simple. You wrote a check that your ass couldn't cash. And now you're scrambling to dig yourself out of this hole. Fine work, son.

He turned off of Main Street onto Market, ignoring the voice, and then vaulted up the freeway on-ramp as fast as the little Tercel could accommodate. After a minute or two, he finally registered that the radio was spewing some 80's-era Barry Manilow crap, and he flicked off the dial in disgust. He cracked his window a bit to get some air, in spite of the chilly November weather, and flipped down his sun visor as he turned West, into the sun.

Rush hour was in full swing by this time, so traffic was crawling forward at about 20 miles per hour. Jerry was no stranger to rush-hour commuting. Normally, he'd lapse into a comfortable silence, whiling away the miles in the semi-conscious, mildly-annoyed mental state common to most urban commuters. He drove on without complaint, in spite of a tense, smothering silence that hung heavy inside the car, but one that was familiar to Jerry. Even comforting in a way. At least his dad was quiet.

Minutes later, however, traffic started to slow even further. He started to suspect an accident of some sort (just my fucking luck), but then saw a blinking DOT sign: “Construction Ahead,” it said, and then blinked to “Expect Delays.”

Motherfucker. His eyes flicked to the clock on the dashboard, then to the briefcase on the seat beside him, with the Eisner Brothers envelope tucked safely inside it. He reached out, tentatively, and stroked the briefcase's sleek aluminum exterior, an absent look on his face, which reddened with the streaks of brake lights that were converging and streaming in through his windshield. Traffic continued slowing, threatening single-digit speeds. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, on his temple. He wiped them off with the sleeve of his shirt, like a tennis player, and rolled his window down further.

His Tercel inched forward, only to bring more construction signs into view, some of them bearing the clever poetry of construction crew foremen: “Stay alert—don't look for Bert.” Whatever the fuck that means.

He slowed further, more beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, luminescent in the glow of brake lights. He strained his neck, nearly out the window, to see ahead, to gauge how long he might be stuck on this stretch of freeway, crawling ahead at ten miles per hour. But it was as unpredictable as traffic normally is.

He soon came upon another sign, this one reading “Mission St exit closed. Use alternate route.” A few of the bulbs were burned out on this one, but he could still decipher its meaning. He glanced at the clock again, which now read 5:16, and quickly made his decision. Flicking on his turn signal to move back into the right lane, he slowed, waiting for a good samaritan to recognize his turn signal and acknowledge his intention. A couple cars went by, their drivers oblivious in their respective zoned-out commuter bubbles, before a pickup truck slowed to yield the lane to him. He waved his thanks and merged into the next lane, then strained his neck again to scout out the next off-ramp. He saw a familiar green sign with its white letters and white arrow, though he couldn't quite read the letters. He knew it it to be MLK Blvd, though, which would eventually get him closer to his destination on Mission, so he crossed the solid white line and veered onto the freeway's right-hand shoulder, making a dangerous and rapid bee-line for the exit. He endured a honk or two of disapproval, but slipped neatly into line at the off ramp just as the surface-street stoplight turned green, and he rolled smoothly onto MLK, picking up speed again.

Fucking freeway, he thought, as he brought the Tercel back up to a solid 40 miles per hour.

Yep, barked his dad. It was the freeway's fault.

Another glance at the clock—5:23. He goosed the gas pedal to catch a yellow light, and then goosed it again at the next light, this time failing to pierce the plane of the intersection before the light turned red. A red-light camera mounted above the stoplight flashed, and then a second camera flashed from behind him.

“Fuck you, and your ticket, too,” he said out loud. He knew that a digital photo of his scowling face and another of his rear license plate were currently racing across computer networks on their way to some private contracting firm's server farm, where a computerized ticketing system would dispassionately convert the digital images into revenue for both the contractor and the city.

But he drove on, making a mental note to contest the ticket (somebody had to volunteer to be the contentious bastard, to keep those municipal bureaucrats on their toes). He drove through three more intersections without incident, and finally pulled into the bank's parking lot, panting slightly and sweating a great deal. The clock on his dashboard read 5:32.

He climbed out of the car, snatching his briefcase and nearly removing the neighboring car's rear-view mirror with it. It was certainly heavy enough to take out a mirror and its plastic casing. He stalked off toward the building's entrance, walking swiftly and efficiently, stealing compulsive glances at his watch every few steps.

As he approached the glass door, he could see a security guard fumbling with a set of keys. He was an older man, lots of gray hair, the soft lumps of age slightly pushing out his rumpled uniform. And he was apparently getting ready to lock up for the day. Jerry rushed forward, grabbing hold of the door and skating through. The guard looked up, a comical look of surprise mingled with soft disapproval on his face. Jerry stared back at him, daring him to speak up, to object, to send him back out into the world, Eisner Brothers' check still in hand, undeposited, and therefore useless to him.

The guard looked away, clearly not having much stomach for confrontation. Jerry had that effect on a lot of people. He continued on, heading toward the line at the counter, partially disappointed by the missed opportunity for conflict, by the unrealized promise of confrontation. But he kept moving, the check in his briefcase slightly outweighing his need for a negativity fix. Glancing up, he realized that he wouldn't have to wait for that fix after all, as he finally registered the lengthy queue of customers waiting in line, another clusterfuck, another conspiracy designed to prevent him from completing his business.

Here, too, the signs of inefficiency jumped out at him. Ten teller stands—two of them occupied, one of which appeared to be hosting a lengthy, complicated transaction involving piles of bills and rolls of coins. There was no priority line for business customers, no means of separating queues for simple vs complex transactions, no sense of urgency on the part of any of the employees, who probably cared about little more than the imminent arrival of punch-out time.

He counted seven customers in line, who were corralled into formation by one of those Disneyland-type nylon roping systems, creating a queue of switchbacks designed to both make the line feel shorter, and to calm the cattle while they waited. The line skated around a waist-high island in the middle of the lobby, with pens and deposit slips and other sorts of forms and paperwork. Jerry took his place at the back of the line, behind a man in a puffy winter parka, who was, in turn, standing behind a teenager with dark clothes and purple hair.

He took a couple deep breaths, his disgust with poor process design somewhat mitigated by the overall relief that he'd be able to deposit that check today. His briefcase hung dutifully from his right hand, shiny and reflective in the glare of overhead fluorescents. His breathing slowed somewhat, and some of the sweat dried from his brow, cooling him as it evaporated. His face no longer bore the harsh light of urgency, as he settled into that familiar semi-conscious state of waiting in line, well-known by virtually every American, every Westerner even. His eyes glazed over like a commuter's in rush-hour traffic.

He looked back at the front door, where the security guard had finally managed to extricate the correct key (which actually looked more like an allen wrench) and was busy locking the door. Jerry could see from his spot in line that it was one of those heavy commercial glass doors that locked in such a way that it could still be opened from the inside. He glanced at his watch again, then realized that it didn't really matter what time it was. Surely they wouldn't ask anybody to leave without first completing their business?

The line inched forward, as one of the customers being served walked off, transaction presumably complete. Of course, it wasn't the complicated transaction—the teller on the right was still counting out rolls of quarters. Both her posture and that of her customer's suggested that they were both settled in for an interminable, mindless, but familiar task.

A faint feeling of resentment and indignation penetrated the congealed, stale surface of Jerry's mind. He looked around and saw other bank employees sitting at desks, some in glass-walled offices. They all had that hurried, end-of-day look on their faces, eager to get into their cars and take their place in the 10-mile-per-hour line of ants marching toward home.

Another transaction was completed up ahead, and a voice called out, “I can help the next customer in line,” her voice resonant with a forced cheerfulness. I'm happy to help you but we all know that I'm not really happy to help you—not at 5:30 in the afternoon.

The remaining customers shuffled forward, some faster than others, some entranced by smart phones, others by nothing in particular. The man in the parka inched ahead, and Jerry followed him, watching a young woman with purple hair approach the teller stand and open her purse. He watched the exchange of paperwork, the transaction completely devoid of any actual legal tender, just computer print-outs and other slips of paper that promised of currency in specific quantities. Words were shared, questions asked and answered, bottom lines were signed, and the exchange was complete. Another satisfied customer headed toward the door. The line of ants marched forward again.

Registering the fact that he was now almost to the front of the line, Jerry lifted the briefcase and set it on the island's counter, pulling a deposit slip from a stack of them, and grabbing a pen that was joined to the counter by a plastic wire that resembled an old-style telephone cord. He opened the briefcase a crack, pulled out the Eisner Brothers' check, and started scrawling the details on the deposit slip.

Behind him, the line inched forward again, as the goth teen completed her business, and the man in the parka shuffled over to the waiting teller. Jerry remained bent over his work, adding a dollar amount and his signature to the deposit slip. Since he was last in line, there was no need to hurry. He didn't give a rat's ass if any of the bank employees had to wait for him. Give them a taste of their own medicine.

Yes, very mature, spoke up Jerry's dad. You'll sure show them. He ignored his dad and continued filling out the deposit slip.

And then time slowed down.

Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath, a sound full of surprise and fear. He turned, in slow-motion, to see the man in the parka holding a small handgun, which was pointed at the teller. He kept the gun low, the butt of its grip sitting on the counter's surface. He had slid a note across the counter, but the teller, a pretty young woman with short, business-like hair, couldn't take her eyes off the gun.

Jerry recognized the gun as a .22LR revolver, by Smith and Wesson. He had a couple of these at home, in fact. Stainless steel finish with a black rubber grip, this one with an eight-round cylinder. Eight shots. Approximately one for each human being still inside the bank lobby. It didn't pack much of a punch, but when someone waved it at you, you followed their instructions.

The teller's lips were moving silently, and her eyes remained fixed on the .22. The gunman shoved the note at her again, trying to draw her attention to it. Jerry couldn't read the note, but he was pretty sure he could guess the gist of it. Hand over as much cash as you can. Don't scream. Don't set off the alarm. Nobody needs to get hurt.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” muttered Jerry, in full appreciation of the situation's irony, also fully appreciating the extent of the ongoing conspiracy to stop him in his tracks, to fully effect his financial undoing.

Behind him, Jerry heard some shuffling feet, as the security guard took a couple uncertain steps forward, clearly in over his head, having no idea what to do next. Barney-fucking-Fife, Jerry thought.

The man in the parka gestured with the gun, pointing at the note, trying to get the teller to focus on it. He was completely unmasked and ungloved, Jerry noted, either too stupid to contemplate fingerprints and security cameras, or overconfident of his chances, convinced of his own invincibility.

Jerry picked up his briefcase and stepped forward, simultaneously sliding his check and deposit slip into his coat pocket. His sense of fear had long ago atrophied and withered away, a subconscious spring cleaning, in the wake of his son's death, in an effort to make more room for anger and resentment. He no longer understood fear, and so he didn't recognize it on the bank teller's face—saw only indecision, inaction, incompetence. Her lips were still moving, but she continued ignoring the gunman's orders and his note, her eyes frozen on the gun in front of her.

“Son of a bitch,” Jerry yelled, his anger finally bubbling over. “Dirty fucking son of a BITCH!” At this, the gunman glanced sideways at him, a comical look of surprise on his face, the gun not moving. Clearly he had anticipated fear, panic, outright terror, even. But he hadn't expected anger. Much less the degree of rage that Jerry now directed at him.

“You stupid motherfucker,” Jerry spat at him. “Do you think I don't know what this is? Do you think I can't see what's going on here?”

The gunman turned a little more toward him, torn between finishing his bank transaction and dealing with this new crisis brewing on the side. His movements were slow and sloppy—clearly an amateur. His face still bore the comical look of surprise and puzzlement. But Jerry's briefcase was already in motion, pinwheeling in a tight arc. It was big and heavy, but so was Jerry, and his aluminum Samsonite temporarily turned into a heavy instrument of destruction. It came down on the man's gun hand, snapping a satisfying number of bones, sending the gun skittering across the counter, onto the floor at Jerry's feet. The man screamed in agony. One of the customers behind them screamed. The security guard was yelling, too. “...stand down, man! Don't piss him off, let him take the money and get the fuck out of here...!”

These sounds didn't even register in Jerry's mind. He was in the zone, now, the red-hot zone of boiled-over rage. Sounds and sights were meaningless. He only had eyes and ears for the man with the gun, the man who was so obviously trying to get in his way, to fuck him over, to keep him from making his time-sensitive deposit.

“...don't have time for this shit...” Jerry was muttering, spittle flying, as the briefcase rebounded off the counter, leaving behind a mangled wreck of a human hand sticking out of the business end of a heavy winter parka sleeve. Jerry shoved the man aside, and put his briefcase back on the floor, picking up the gun. He looked at it absently, slowly turning it over in his hand.

The man in the parka bounced into the island, still screaming. Regaining his balance, he looked down at his mangled hand. He tried briefly to flex it, but screamed in pain again. He turned back toward Jerry, now enraged in his own right by the tall, crazy stranger that had decidedly rained on today's fucking parade. “Son of a bitch,” he said, his voice tense and heavy with mingled surprise and anger. “Son of a bitch!” He said it over and over, breathing heavily. His good hand briefly disappeared into the parka's pocket, and then emerged with another gun, this one a smaller Saturday night special, some sort of cheap, semi-automatic that was more likely to be found in a woman's purse.

The gun rose, sloppily, in Jerry's direction. “Son of a bitch,” the man said again, and fired. The bullet went comically wide, striking the far wall behind the counter. The teller screamed. Most of the bank's other occupants hit the deck, some of them also screaming. The teller stood her ground, for some reason, overpowered by panic, her self-preservation instinct as yet untapped.

Jerry, alone, didn't blink. He was still calmly and absently examining the .22 he had recently acquired, and then turned slowly to look at the would-be bank robber, now would-be murderer. The bank robber inexplicably waved the gun around, in what he presumably considered a menacing, threatening way, but without pulling the trigger. He's out of ammo, Jerry thought. Stupid fuck.

“Motherfucker,” said Jerry softly, almost genially, now completely over the edge, his eyes shining much too brightly. He slowly raised the .22, the gun coming to rest in a level aim at the puffy parka.

The Barney Fife guard piped up again, in a tittering child-like voice. “Cut it out, man!” he shouted. “Cut the shit! Stand down!”

Jerry paid him no mind. He gripped the gun with two hands, and looked calmly at the bank robber, who had stopped waving the empty gun, which now hung impotently at his side. Jerry squeezed the trigger, and the .22 barked and flashed. The bullet caught the man in the shoulder, throwing him gently but firmly backward and to his left. The man stayed on his feet somehow, grunting and panting. Blood oozed from what Jerry guessed to be a clean shoulder wound, a circular stain appearing on the front of his parka, slowly growing bigger and bigger. The gun fell from his hand, clanging thinly on the floor.

Eyes still ablaze, Jerry stepped forward and fired again, this time striking center-mass. The man lurched backward again, his full weight striking the island counter bearing the deposit slips and leashed pens, and he crumpled silently to the floor. Where he lay on his back, very, very still.

Jerry watched him, panting, lips still moving but no longer producing sound. His eyes still blazed in fury, his face still lit up and burning brightly. He looked down at the man wordlessly, absently wondering if he was still breathing, still alive, though in an emotionless, scientific way.

He glanced down at the briefcase at his feet, which now bore a sizable dent in one side, decorated by splotches of red and what looked like pieces of skin. He reached into his back pocket, brought out a folded white handkerchief, and carefully wiped the blood and human hand off the gleaming aluminum, his lips still silently moving.

Those fiery eyes next turned toward the bank teller, who was still paralyzed behind the counter. She stood stock-still, her eyes now glued to the unconscious (dead?) man on the floor. The man whose hand had been crunched by 20 pounds of aluminum, and whose torso had taken two bullets. Jerry approached the counter, and the teller's eyes flicked over to him. Her lips still moved soundlessly, a silent aria known only to her, as her mind raced to register and process what her eyes were telling her.

Jerry managed a smile, but one that didn't reach his eyes.

“Now,” he said jovially, setting the gun down on the counter. “I would like to make a deposit.” There was a smudge of blood on his hand, but he didn't seem to notice, as he slid the Eisner Brothers' check and the completed deposit slip over to her. She looked at it blankly. “Into my checking account,” he added helpfully, still smiling.

If she understood his words, she gave no indication, her eyes moving rapidly from the man on the floor, to the man with the dented briefcase, to the check and deposit slip on the counter in front of her.

She backed away slowly, her own eyes now blazing with their own light.

And she began to scream.