A Day on the Job

I realized it’s been a long time since I’ve posted here. I’ve started a number of stories but hadn’t really finished any of them until I realized this one was about done and wrapped it up today. Maybe expect more stories coming along before too long? But also maybe don’t get your hopes up, you fucking optimist.

This is another story that kinda fits into the vignette thing. This might be the only time we meet Mr. R P-R, or maybe he’ll be featured in a future story. Only time will tell.

I also realized recently that I already have two or three more novels planned out for once I finish City Intersection. Jesus.

(It’s not really related to this story (other than being about crime), but I just saw Baby Driver last night and it’s an amazing movie, I’d highly recommend it, especially if you like the kind of stories I write.)

edit: Oh my god, it’s been so long since I posted that I forgot to provide music! Looks like I forgot it on a couple other recent(ish) posts as well, so I’ll be editing it into those.

This is the second track that I worked with for the final project of the Music Appreciation class. (See “Shattered Light” for the first one.) Worked out well, because I went to Hungary immediately after doing that. (Bartók is a Hungarian composer.)


“Yeah, the job started today. I’m doing it right now, actually.
“Oh, geez! Sorry, didn’t mean to distract you from your work.”
“No problem.
“Well, talk to you later.”
“Nah, I can stay on the line, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Uh, just one second, okay?
I lowered the phone from my ear and pressed it up against my chest, ineffectively muting it – not that I really needed to. With my other hand, I retrieved a pistol – god, that beautiful Ruger SP101, model 5771, my love, my life – from my jacket and pointed it at the young man across the counter. Looked like it was his first day, poor kid. Had I known, I would’ve robbed this bank before he got here.
“Fill a bag or whatever with money, all right? Push the little ‘help me, I’m a little bitch who needs the cops to do everything for me’ button, I don’t care, just fill a bag with cash,” I said, gesturing with the gun, then bringing the phone back up to my ear.
“Sorry about that. Just had to clear something up with the job.”
The man looked horror-stricken, blood drained from his face and sweat already beginning to add a glisten to his skin, eyes bulging. He had one hand under the counter and I could tell that he was frantically pressing the alarm button.
“Uh, yeah, one moment again,” I said to the woman on the other end of the line, my dear Patricia. “You only need to press it once, dude. Like, pressing it again doesn’t make the alarm louder or something. It’s like the button you press for a crosswalk, you never think it worked the first time so you press it again, but it doesn’t actually do anything.”
“Well anyway, were you just calling to check in, or what?” I said, returning to the call. A woman had entered the bank, gone up to a teller next to me, and soon noticed the gun in my hand and the man who was poorly concealing his panic. She screamed, pointed at the gun, all of the normal things, but I just pressed the phone closer to my ear, trying to block it out, and whispered to her “Hey, could you shut up for a moment? I’m trying to have a conversation.”
“This rude fucking bitch here is just screaming at me, sure you can hear it.”
“Yup. Hit her for me, would you?”
I reached out and smacked the woman, her face blanched immediately then flared up redder than before. She was officially pissed.
“In regards to your question, partially just checking up with you, partially wanting to see if you had anything in mind for dinner.”
“Oh that’s right, Friday night, date night. I didn’t really have anything in mind, but if I had to make a suggestion… I could go for Chinese. Or maybe Japanese? Or Korean? I dunno. Just something Asian, I guess. Actually wait, no, Indian. The god of Asian food. It’s funny how a lot of people don’t consider it Asian food though, isn’t it? Anyway, does that sound good?”
“Sounds great. And yeah, it is kind of weird.”
“Alright, should I pick you up at like, five-thirty?”
“Okay, see you then.” I hung up the phone and slipped it into my pocket. The woman was still screaming, but was clearly wearing herself out and still feeling the sting on her cheek, gingerly holding it with one hand.
“So, how’s it goin’ there, bud?” I said to the man behind the counter. He had, to his credit, partially filled the bag with money, but was clearly trying to stall for time until, as he thought, the police would come. He looked up at me, visibly shaking and still horrified, fingers fumbling bills as he tried to stuff them into the bag.
“Don’t sweat it, man, there’s no rush. Take a deep breath, steel yourself, and grow some balls so you can put money in a bag without looking like you have Tourette’s or Parkinson’s or some shit.”
“I do,” a thin voice snuck out of his constricted throat and clenched teeth.
“You do what?”
“I do have Parkinson’s.”
“Oh. Sorry about that, then. It’s just something I’d say in-character.”
“In-character?” His curiousity momentarily overcame his fear and he spoke normally.
“Yeah, you know. Like when you’re playing D&D and you talk to the DM, as an NPC, in-character. This character’s name is Romeo Parmigiano-Reggiano. His dad was Hamlet Parmigiano and his mom was Ophelia Reggiano, but they got divorced.”
“Sorry to hear that…? Wait, do you mean your character in D&D or you right now?”
“Right now.”
While we had been talking, he had continued filling the bag with money unconsciously, and it was now about full. I put out my hand for it and he handed it to me, still trying to internalize what I had said.
“Well, it was good to meet you, man. Hey, want to come have dinner with me and my wife?”
“You mean, you want me to be a third wheel on your date?”
“It’s not really a date, we just always go out for dinner on Friday nights. We’ll often have friends come along. You like Indian food?”
“Yeah, but I have to work late tonight. And I’m sure there’s going to be tons of questioning and stuff. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“No problem. And hey, sorry for stressing you out and kind of insulting you and stuff. It was nice meeting you.” I turned around and began walking out of the building. Nearby, I saw the woman from earlier.
“You, however,” I said to her, “can go fuck yourself.”


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