Part III -Conclusion of Robber and the Crazy Lady

Epilogue

A few weeks later, the teller and I were summoned to the police station. While waiting for the line up the police detectives and our own bank investigators gathered around to ask a few more questions mentioning that they had viewed the tape.  Teller asked, “So can you ID him from the tape?” “No, the only thing we can see is you,” the detective said, pointing at me.  Oh no! It’s all on tape?  For all to see? I cover my face with my hands.

“The guys had a good time watching that tape. We should show it to you some time.  He pissed you off when he pushed you, didn’t he? We saw most of that, but you eventually moved out of camera shot. But I got a question for you.”  The detective leaned forward,  “When you were standing behind him, we could tell you were thinking about doing something. Were you?”  When I said yes, he clapped his hands together as though he won a bet or something.  “What was it?”  So I recount how Mr. S kept pestering the robber and how, if and only if (stealing a quick look at the bank’s regional manager), the robber had assaulted Mr. S, that I would be compelled to act, that I don’t think I could have helped myself. 

Being experienced detectives they could tell from my body language that I had formulated a plan.  Boy those guys are good.  “But, what were you going to do? That’s what we wanted to know.”  I told him that I was sizing him up and realized that he wasn’t that big. “Yes, we could see that.” That I felt I could easily grab both his ankles and pull them out from under him. His head would have hit the countertop with a lot of force, which should have been enough to incapacitate him, so I could sit on his back and get his arms and hands under control. If he didn’t cooperate, I would have to (don’t say, kick his ass) use more persuasive measures, like using his head like a basketball if need be, because I wasn’t going to fool around if he had an actual gun in his pocket.

Smiling the detective said, “Wished you had.  It would have been something to see. All the detectives could see it coming. We were all sort of hoping, waiting for it.  You were going to KICK HIS ASS weren’t you?  Wished you had. Yup, that would have been something to see.”

Robber and the Crazy Lady-Part II

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.)

Tomorrow: Epilogue

Robber and the Crazy Lady

PART  I

I thought I would share this story with you.  Apparently it’s a story Queen Maker likes to tell because it almost always seems to impress the guys and shows how kick ass his wife is but in reality falls into the “You don’t want to mess with this crazy bitch” category.  After Queen Maker mentions the incident, his students look for me to recount the story.  It’s a long one, so here is Part I of a three part series.

This happened on a fine summer day at our branch.

I heard an irate voice in the lobby.  A customer was yelling at a teller, “Don’t you walk away from me. Don’t you walk away from me, bitch!”  I looked back in time to see one teller leading another teller away from her window.  That’s weird.  This guy must have been really abusive. Time to step in and take the heat.  I was always willing to take the heat from angry customers; one of my more endearing qualities. I went out to the lobby, hoping to diffuse the situation by inviting the customer into my office to discuss his problem.

The young man quickly moved to another teller window and pushed 70-year-old Mr. S out of the way. Mr. S didn’t get was going on, so he just kept looking up at the man with the hoodie and dark sunglasses and saying, “I was here first. I was here already.”  The young man ignored him and said something to the teller. 

By this time I am standing directly behind the customer, so he didn’t see me at all. Before I can say, “Sir, is there something I can do to help?”  I hear, “Hey do you want someone to get hurt?” showing the teller he had something in his pocket, supposedly something that might hurt someone.  Oh… this is not an irate customer, but an irate bank robber.

The teller looked up and her eyes asked, “What should I do?” I nodded and she began pushing money at him under the glass.  I stood very still.  I didn’t want the guy to see me, because I thought it might set him off. Not like I was trying to surround him or anything.

Mr. S, still unaware of what was going on, started to talk to the man, even pushing him a little with his arm saying, “I was here first.  You pushed me out of the way. I was here first.”

Terrified that the robber might try and shut up Mr. S. I held my breath. Please Mr. S, quit pushing the robber. My mind is racing. If the robber hits or pushes him, Mr. S is too feeble and unstable on his feet. He will hit the floor hard, break a hip, crack his head, or even worse.  If he touches a hair on that old man, I don’t know what I would do. No, he better not hurt him.  If he lays one hand on Mr. S., I’ll have to move quickly. I’ll have to KICK HIS ASS.”

I look the robber up and down.  Hmm, he’s not much taller than I am. As a matter of fact, he’s isn’t very big.  What can I do to immobilize him if he touches Mr. S? He doesn’t know I’m right behind him. I could grab both his ankles and pull them out from under him. Yeah, that’s the ticket.  That would make his head hit the countertop stunning him, then I’ll jump on his back, sit my knee on that arm keeping him from getting whatever is in his pocket out and putting the other arm behind his back with a vicious wrist lock.  If he struggles too much, then I will have to KICK HIS ASS. Luckily the robber was so intent on the money that he continued to ignore Mr. S.  I was relieved but poised just in case.

Now the ultimate goal is to get this guy out of our branch as quickly as possible. The safety of our customers and our employees is our primary concern. It is not worth anyone getting hurt over a few hundred dollars. And who would want a robber trapped in the branch with us anyways?  We prefer the police get him outside. My concern grew again because Mr. S. kept pressing the robber.  While I was focused on Mr. S, the robber spun around to leave, running into me.

Tomorrow, Part II

The Talented Ms. A.

Ms. A at five.

It’s seems rare to find others that you immediately have a connection.  They come into your life and it always seems to surprise.  It seems that many life long friends are developed in childhood when the odds of meeting lots of people are high. As long as you stay in school or work in a huge company, the percentage of meeting new friends is high merely because of the magnitude of population at your disposal.  But as you get older, some friends drift away over the years because of busy schedules and the usual rigors and demands of living a life. The odds seem against you in finding someone that might become a true lifelong friend. So when I meet someone that pleases me to the extent that friendship is immediate and zen like, it surprises me. It has only happened three times since my thirties.

What has really surprised me is that I found this connection of pure friendship with the most unlikely person.  When we look into each other’s eyes when we laugh or make jokes, or tell stories, it is an amazing feeling of camaraderie, sincerity, and friendship. The journey of our relationship got its true start when I was almost 40 years old.  At first I thought it was a fluke because she was so young. We liked each other right away.  I liked her because she always made it a point to come and talk to me. She saw me for whom I was and what I had to offer her. She would always ask me questions or direct me to her attentions. She was two years old.  

We were close throughout her young years; even if there were spans of time apart, when we came together it was always as friends.  I’m her aunt but our relationship didn’t resemble the typical aunt niece relationship.  I’m a mom of a single child, a son.  I have always wanted a girl and when my niece was born, my sister said to me that I could share her daughter, and I became her godmother.  But our relationship is not the surrogate mom or “ the daughter I never had” type of relationship.

I half expected, as she grew older, that her interest in me would surely wane and her attentions would turn elsewhere. Plus our visits have been farther and farther apart. Surely she is growing up and her slight “hero worship” may have been what kept our relationship going for so long. The talented Ms. A. is entering the tween years. She is eleven years old and I am a fifty-year-old woman (although my head and heart says I’m still 32). She may be putting aside “childish or childhood things.”  I thought I would eventually end up in that category. Our visits tell me differently.

 Beloved and his beautiful cousin, the Talented Ms. A.

 

Today I had the pleasure of her visit, while her parents went out to celebrate my sister’s birthday.  She came to spend the evening with me. She is older and doesn’t need me to shower all my attention by entertaining her, or crafting as we usually do every time she came to visit in the past. The last few visits have been just talking, no demands on each other except for time. We follow each other around the house talking and just being.  Her eleven-year-old conversations are never boring.  As good friends we are eager to hear each other’s thoughts and anecdotes.  We get each other’s jokes. The energy is so positive. We are never bored when we are together.

This visit reaffirmed that yes we truly are friends. Will she still see me as a friend when she is twenty years old or even at 30? I can only hope.

Writing a story together, Memorial Day 2009

I never thought that this relationship could have been possible.  Is it sustainable? If so and our friendship thrives into the coming decades, I will have to say that this is one of the most amazing developments in my life.  We are nearly four decades apart and I can’t get past the wonderment of it all. 

This is such a gift to discover that such a thing is possible. It is something so sweet, so pleasant, so unexpected, nothing I have ever experienced before in my life. Simply remarkable. 

Dud Dads

Most every holiday that comes down the pike is family time.  Not just my trio, but also all of my immediate family. We usually gather at Middle Sister’s house because hers is the largest and she has a fantastic back yard. That’s 24 of us.  Since everyone is out of school, all of us were in attendance for the Memorial Day barbecue.

After years of get-togethers, patterns have emerged. Young people liven up a party immediately. Great conversation, youthful exuberance, ready to have a good time.  With five of them in college, the conversations and insights are even better.  They are emerging adults and are now on equal footing with the rest of the adult family. They have the future firmly clasped in their hands and it’s exciting to be near them.

The small ones bring their own light to the party, as they always do, bringing smiles and laughs and demands for interaction. There are six of them ranging from ages 3 to 11. Family time is in full swing. 

The men (my brother is the exception)… are mostly duds. They usually plop themselves in some spot, barely speak unless spoken to, have little to no interaction, and look bored. Apparently the brother-in-laws have found over years that they really have nothing in common, they don’t really like each other much, and don’t even try anymore. Some of them stop coming to family get-togethers. Duds. Fifty-year-old duds.

But it’s my contention that there is so much more to family time.  They act like they are left out on purpose or something. Fun can be had if only they would seek it out. Come be with the silly young people. Come watch the kids play and run. Run around yourselves for a bit. Strike up a conversation with an eleven year old, or the fourteen year old, or the nineteen year old, or the twenty-two year old. Play a hand of poker with the young bucks. Play dominoes. Joke with the old folks, joke with the sisters. Bring fun with you, horse shoes, sling shots for the kids, water balloons. Make the new brother in law feel welcomed. Pick up a baby. Follow the family around. Become the family.

As I was driving my dud home, he said, “I’m not used to being so sedentary.” As though visiting family was a real strain on his arse. Sigh.

Triumphs in Adventure or When Sympathy Goes Out the Door

My friend and coworker Z  had a heart of gold.  Her grandparents raised her, so her attitudes and sensibilities were that of a generation before, which made her seem naïve and somewhat sheltered in the way she looked at things.  This made her all the more endearing.

One afternoon she spotted an elderly man sitting on the curb in front of the bank.  He sat there for a while then would walk up and down the street begging, but eventually would sit down again. As she watched him all day, she kept commenting on him. When he moved out of sight, she would look for him out the windows.  She wanted to offer him a seat in the lobby.  The manager said no.  Z became more and more agitated wondering what would become of this poor man. 

She kept saying, “We have to do something.  Can we call someone?  Maybe he’s lost.  Poor thing, he needs someone.”  Her concern started to become an obsession.  The other women in the office would comfort her or assure her that he looked in good shape and seemed content.  Besides they told her, he was begging, so he would probably get some money soon and then leave to get food or drink.

Being the sweet and caring person that she is, Z couldn’t watch the poor man outside and just sit by and do nothing.  “He reminds me of my grandfather, poor thing.  Maybe he is thirsty, he’s been out there so long.”  So Z took him water, twice.  Soon she decided he needed something to eat, so she took her lunch out to him.  He thanked her for her kindness.  Z felt better, but wanted to do more.  She asked if anyone else wanted to give up his or her lunch.  No takers or more accurately, no givers.  She went out a fourth time to ask if there was someone she could call for him, a relative or friend.  No, he told her sadly, he had no one in the world.  This just broke her heart. 

Soon she became upset, crying over the old guy’s plight.  Finally she called the police to come to his aid, to maybe take him to a shelter.  Before they came she ran out to give the man five dollars.  Z was beside herself with grief and sympathy.

When I worked downtown for a few years, beggars stopped me three or four times a day so my need to help grew less and less.  One day my husband witnessed a man in a wheelchair begging and the next instant, hail a cab, jump out of the chair to catch up to the car, and threw the wheelchair in the trunk.  To watch Z’s concern and generosity reminded me how callous I had become.

The police pulled up and talked to the old man as though they knew him and took him away.  The police officers returned to the branch to find out if there had been any problems with the old guy.  Z, full of concern, ran up to the officers hoping for information and when she returned she was livid. 

Apparently the old guy does this on a regular basis.  It’s an “adventure trip” for him.  He leaves the half way house or shelter and decides to walk in a new direction to see how far he can get, the farther the better, gathering points.  Then he waits for someone sympathetic to help him.  If he can get food and drink, he gets extra points.  If he can get a beer, even better.  He times how long it takes for the police to be called, more points.  When the police take him back, his friends are waiting for him on the porch cheering.  “He gets out of the car with his arms triumphantly in the air.  And the other guys greet him like he’s a conquering hero returning in his regal chariot.”

Z’s anger and humiliation was as intense as her worry and sympathy had been a few minutes before.  She went on and on about what a fool she had been.  “I gave him MY lunch. I gave him money. He played me.” We tried telling her it didn’t matter.  She did what she felt was right and that was the most important thing.  She was being true to herself and that she should feel proud of that.  But that did not console her.  She finally declared, “I will never help anyone ever again.” Maybe one day she can find the humor in it all. 

Small Pleasures

Reading Chris's entry about her son's letter and love of writing, reminded me of my son's passion for writing stories and drawing. I wrote the following about seven years ago. My god, has it been that long ago. It seems like yesterday.

Small Pleasures

I have learned to take pleasure in the small things, to really see them. As I hurriedly moved from room to room putting away the daily clutter, I stopped all of the sudden and didn't move.

I came up and you were on the computer writing your story as you sometimes do. Something caused me to pause and notice a few things about the scene before me.

Perhaps it was the lighting, the way the ambient glow of light from the computer landed on your face.  I noticed how beautiful you looked.

Or was it the driven pounding on the keyboard keys, that decisive, percussive hit when you are on a roll. The fast and furious pace stopped me too.

Or was it the intensity in your eyes, the need to get all you had to say out before you lost it, looking satisfied with the results. 

Or was it that you looked so grown up, just turning 14 just two days earlier and sporting a slight mustache.  How mature you looked.

Or was it the pleasurable thought that I was looking at a budding artist, a writer at work.

Or was it all those things that made me stop in my tracks.

I decided to pause and sit in my chair trying to be inconspicuous. I sat in the dark, positioning my head as to not alert you to my viewing.  I pretended I was tired and glanced at you, but not to spy, but to take in an image I wanted to remember.

All these things made me pause.  I wanted to emblazon that image in my mind forever.

My son is at home, writing, and is content.