PART II (See below for part one)
He spun right into me and we were face-to-face, nose-to-nose, and I was looking at “The Fly.” He had his hoodie pulled down and tight obscurely his face completely and only his eyes were exposed, but those were covered by wrap around sunglasses. No wonder he was unaware that I was standing right behind him. His sunglasses were so dark, and wrapped from the one corner of the eye to the other, so I was nose to nose with those huge bug eye sunglasses. He was as shocked as I. The robber and I simultaneously said the same thing. We both gasped, “Whoa!” (Owe me a coke.)
Then what happened next could only be described as “I lost it.” He pushed me out of the way, and said, “Move, bitch.”
“NO. HE. DIDN’T. Did he just TOUCH me? Did that guy just have the audacity to TOUCH my person? Wait; did he call me a bitch? He PUSHED me and called me a bitch. Oh, hell no.” Call me bitch anytime, but just DON’T – TOUCH – ME.
I couldn’t help myself. The monster that is always close to the surface, my lightning quick anger, came flying out as uncontrollable rage. I started to hit him. I started pounding hard on this back with both my hands all the way out the door. I kicked him and punched the back of his head and back. I let go of so many MFs and FUs that I am embarrassed to this day for the language that came out of my mouth. “GET OUT, YOU MOTHER F! GET OUT OF MY BRANCH YOU MF, F YOU! SON OF A BITCH, F YOU, I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS. GET OUT MOTHER F, BEFORE I KILL YOU.” Well you get the picture.
Terrified, the guy starts throwing money out of his pockets, screaming, “GET OFF ME!” He expected me to stop and pick up the money. It crossed my mind for a split second, but my fury was not yet spent. Five’s and ten’s went flying into the air cascading all around us. I smack him out the door. In desperation he reaches into his pocket and pulls more money out and now it’s blowing around in the parking lot. My anger spent, I stop long enough to order people to “Pick That Money Up, I’ll be right back.” I ran in the same direction as the robber. I wasn’t chasing him down, (Really, do you see the heels I’m wearing?) but wanted to see what direction he ran. I got to the corner, just in time to see him jump in a car waiting for him in the alley.
When I returned, the dutiful customers that picked up money began handing it to me. I thanked them, went into the branch and locked the doors behind me. I can hear sirens in the distance.
I look around the lobby and it dawns on me. There were three men in the lobby, and one of them had two young children with him. There was Mr. S. (A man who would never know how much I had his back.) still wondering what was going on. I cringe. They were witness to my total loss of self-control. They witnessed a woman go berserk and go monkey shit on some poor guy and probably didn’t know what just happened or understand why.
Will Dad bother to explain anything of what just happened to his kids as to why the lady at the bank went crazy? At home they’ll ask, “Mommy, what does Mother F. and F. you mean?”
“Where did you hear that Timmy?”
“The lady at the bank kept saying it when she was hitting that man.”
“The lady at the bank?”
“Yeah, she yelled at him to get out and if he didn’t she was going to kill him too.”
“JIM, what happened at the bank?”
I was mortified. Only a select number of people have ever seen my Crazy, although, Queen Maker has seen more than his fair share, feel sorry for him. Many years later, I came to terms with my “episode” and hope that the stories told about that day and the crazy bank lady would include my masterful use of expletives making even a grown man blush, and how each precision strike landed with such power rendering the assailant into submission and reducing him into a man-child running from his mama’s whoop ass. (Yeah, I opened that can, industrial size.)