Misfire

by Lena Damvar https://steemitimages.com/DQmTuWaDEaWVz9wCBAxPPraz1rM5EJMA5583VaqE77ofdyu/smoking-gun.jpg

“Who called the fucking cops?” Dylan reached out and grabbed a teller by the hair, yanking her to her feet. She shrieked as he pointed his revolver at her head, and then shriveled into a blubbering mess. “Was it you?” He jostled her a little, both to scare her and to get an answer. But all she did was snivel. It was pointless now. It didn’t matter who called them, they were here. Dylan snarled and pressed the muzzle of his gun hard into her temple. “I told you, if someone calls the fucking cops, someone’s gonna fucking die.” He cocked the hammer. Dylan didn’t want to shoot anyone. In fact this morning as he loaded up the Smith and Wesson, he had considered just leaving the cylinder empty. During his first robbery all he’d had to do was wave it around and everyone practically bowed at his feet. It struck Dylan at the time that for a person to botch a bank robbery, he had to be some special kind of idiot. A little bit of research, a lot of planning, and the right stage presence--as one of his teachers would have said--was all it took. “Keep quiet, put the money in four brown envelopes, don’t call the cops or I’ll shoot.” Easy enough. That first one had been a perfect start to his savings plan. Almost all of the cash was still tucked in one of the floor vents in the trailer, and he’d been able to buy a few new toys for the kids without having to count the pennies. Combined with the money from the first bank, this second haul might have been the one to get them a new trailer, or even an apartment. And this bank was smaller than the first. It should have been easier, faster. But now Dylan wasn’t just waving the gun, he was pointing it at someone’s head. And no one was keeping quiet. Huddled in the corner, people shouted and wailed. And now the cops were amassing outside. Dylan’s face grew hot and his head throbbed. He had lost control. No, that wasn’t right. This time he’d never had it.

* The First National Bank of Sunset City was in a quiet little suburb, about twenty minutes south of downtown. Neighborhoods, schools, chain restaurants, Wal-marts. Dylan hated Wal-mart. Forced to shop there out of financial necessity, every trip would darken his mood for the rest of whatever day he had left. The smell of the place--stale cleaning products, cracked rubber, moldy carpeting, layer upon crusty layer of human body odor--made his stomach seize. But that morning, he had to go in. This particular Wal-mart was one street down from his target bank, and Dylan had spent the past two hours doing surveillance and building courage. And just as he’d decided to pull his gun and storm inside the bank, his mouth went dry--so dry he couldn’t swallow. He shook his head. Perfect timing. His voice was his control, and if he sounded weak, they wouldn’t obey. So much for planning. He had to get some water. * The smell had hit him as soon as he walked through the sliding doors and the inevitable rush of air blasted him from above, tousling his hair. Raking his fingers through the strands and wrinkling his nose, Dylan tried to avoid eye contact with the “greeter” and bee-lined it to the coolers, bypassing the rusted water fountain. But the coolers were just as disheartening. They were stocked with more sodas than water. He grimaced at the ever-growing amount of shit people were willing to put into their bodies, grabbed an Aquafina, and took his place at the back of a six-person line. How could there be so many people? There were always lines at Wal-mart, even at night, but it was much worse during the day. Masses of people milled around like ants without a queen. Every aisle, every register, there were people everywhere. Why weren’t they at work? Dylan was skipping his morning classes to do this job, but he’d be right on time for his dishwashing shift, and his pizza delivery shift after that. In fact, this would probably be the year he’d have to drop out of school entirely. He only made a few classes a week anymore and that wouldn’t be tolerated for long. But two part-time jobs just weren’t enough. There were the trailer payments, the bills, car payments, food costs, gas, clothes for the kids. As much as he wanted to finish school, his family needed money more than he needed advanced education. Already he’d looked into cheap online classes and thought he could take a few at the library while Jack and Cici busied themselves with picture books. But what about these people? They’re healthy enough to shop, to buy cigarettes and beer and frozen pizza. They’re happy to lounge at the in-store McDonalds and chatter into cell phones. How did they support themselves? How did they take care of their families? Dylan steamed as he took two steps forward in the line. It’s simple. They didn’t. They accepted this banal existence as the best and only option, resigning themselves to reality shows and junk food and standing in lines at Wal-mart. I’m standing in a line at Wal-mart. The thought made him furious and morose. I am one of these people. But the bank was just a street over. And Jack and Cici were at home, waiting for him. He had to get them away from all this. I will get us out. That line echoed in his head until he left the store. Once outside the doors, Dylan let the muscles of his shoulders slacken and chugged the Aquafina, putting the empty bottle in his pocket. He would recycle it later. Dylan stared up at the sky and saw a single wisp of a cloud hanging in the air as if it didn’t have the energy to float away. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. I’m someone. I’m different. He pictured it, and he believed it. I’m someone.. * “I’m gonna fucking shoot someone!” Dylan boiled. His face throbbed behind his woolen ski mask. Sweat had already soaked through the fabric and now dripped into his eyes, but he didn’t have a free hand to wipe it away. One still gripped the clerk’s blonde hair and the other was doing its best to crush the hilt of his pistol. It was clamped so tightly it trembled. His whole arm trembled. “No, mister, wait!” A man in a suit--a manager--stood up from the huddle of people hunched against the wall. Dylan kept hold of the teller’s hair and swung his gun around to face the man. “Why the fuck are you talking? Sit down!” The man remained standing, his open palms level with his shoulders as if a gesture of submission might negate his rash behavior. “Look, no one called the cops, okay? It’s a remote system. It activates on its own.” “That’s fucking bullshit.” Spit flew from his mouth when he yelled. “Sit the fuck down or I--” A squeal from outside interrupted him. “This is the Sun City police department. You have no where to go. Let everyone out of the building or we will be required to use force against you.” Shit. How had it all gone wrong so quickly? He couldn’t go to jail. The kids needed him to make lunch. The man took a step forward. Dylan jumped back and slammed the muzzle of his gun against the teller’s head, dragging her backward as she screamed. The muscles in his body burned and his knuckles were white. He shook the woman’s head so fiercely she stopped crying. “You want her to die?” Dylan roared. The man stopped in his tracks. “Okay, I’m sorry, I just--” “Don’t tell me you’re fucking sorry!” Ferocity charged through Dylan like an electric current. His body buzzed and felt ready to explode. Still maintaining his iron grasp of the woman’s hair, Dylan jerked the gun away from her head and waved it toward the crowd. They shrieked and ducked their heads. He took a step forward and bellowed at his hostages. Not people, hostages. He was a monster. “You think I want to be here?” The revolver jerked with the force of his words, skipping its aim from face to face. “I don't want to fucking be here. I want to to save my children! That's what I want.” Dylan thought of his siblings--his “kids”--twin firebrands barely old enough to reach the doorknobs. They had so much energy, so much potential, yet were forced to endure hours stuck in a decrepit trailer while Dylan was at work. Dylan was the only father they’d ever been able to trust. Right now they were at home, alone aside from their drug-addled mother, waiting for him to whisk them away on his delivery shift when he would sneak them garlic sticks and pizza toppings. Cici loved the pepperonis. Dylan swiveled the gun back and forth among the crowd, snarling as they cowered away. “None of you knows what it’s like to suffer for your family.” “What? I have two--” The man took another step forward. Too much. The electricity trapped inside Dylan’s body ignited into millions of pinprick sparks. His ears rang and his eyes stopped seeing the scene before him. Images flashed at his face like the barrage of a strobe light. Mom. On the couch. Reeking of cigarettes and beer. Remote control dangling from her hand, snoring, rotten teeth jutting out at odd angles. Bruised legs like twigs. Mildew on her shirt. Little Jack in the corner, on a cigarette-burned carpet. The Legos Dylan bought him for his birthday. Bright bricks of green, yellow, red, and blue against a colorless backdrop. A new bruise on his arm. A toothless grin for his Big Brother. Cici’s bedroom, crayon drawings covering water-stained walls. Mattress on the floor, blanket kicked off. Her pink princess nightgown. Clutching a stained teddy bear. Dylan’s own bedroom. Pizza boxes and dirty laundry. Unloading books from a torn and patched backpack--Advanced English Literature, High School Calculus, American History. “What? I have two--” Bang! The air shattered with screams. Dylan’s hands slackened and the clerk ripped her hair free and darted toward the door. The others, seeing Dylan’s expression, tried to follow suit. They scrambled over each other to get to their feet and run. Some crawled. A few slipped in blood as they trampled past the manager’s body. Dylan allowed them to pass out of his frame of sight. They only slightly registered in his mind. Whatever electric charge had been coursing through his body snapped off and died, along with his thoughts, and all his rage. Suddenly Dylan was cold. What did I do? He saw Jack and Cici, smiling at him from the back seat, Jack still missing two teeth, Cici with a pepperoni sticking out of her mouth. Dylan swung the gun around to the person closest to the door. “Don’t fucking move.” The woman froze and turned around. “Get over here.” Dylan’s voice was quiet. He didn’t need to yell anymore. They obeyed. They sat back down. From the corner of his eye, Dylan could see dark figures gathering several yards away from the glass doors. Police. Or SWAT maybe. It didn’t matter. Fragmented red and blue lights reflected in numerous windows, but the sirens were all off. The remaining few hostages were also silent. The world hushed. In the quiet, Dylan studied his Smith and Wesson--such a little thing--and then let his eyes drift to the body. The manager lay face down in a pool of blood. His hands were at the level of his shoulders, the same way they’d been when he was alive. Only now his palms touched the ground. A gold ring encircled one finger of his left hand. “I have two--” What was he going to say? It wasn’t a question. Dylan knew. I have two kids. He couldn’t look anymore. Gazing at a space between the dead manager and the hostages, he asked the air, “How many of you have kids?” One by one, all the hands went up. Dylan nodded, shutting his eyes. Kids. Like Jack and Cici. Waiting for their daddy to come home. What would they do without him? When Dylan opened his eyes, tears muddled his vision. A glance outside showed a blurry cascade of red and blue, with black shadows darting in and out of focus. I killed someone. I killed someone’s dad. It’s over. Jack and Cici. They’ll be alone. Dylan pulled off his mask. Gasps of shock came from the handful of hostages when they saw his face. Dylan was fifteen but small for his age and had always been told he looked younger. His facial hair had yet to emerge and acne dotted his forehead. When he spoke, his intention was deliberate, but his voice cracked. “Find Jack and Cici. They’re my kids. Tell the cops, make sure someone goes to get them. Okay?” One of the women nodded. Then another one. Neither spoke. “Jack and Cici. It’s almost time for their lunch.” They nodded again. He gazed at one of the women and pictured her with her own children at home--maybe a boy missing a few teeth and a girl with princess pajamas. “I’m sorry I did this to you.” Exhausted and quaking, Dylan let the tears drop from his eyes. Then he sat down next to the manager and the pool of blood and crossed his legs beneath him. The water bottle in his pocket pressed against his stomach and he pulled it out. Dylan smirked. This won’t get recycled. He set the bottle upright on the floor. Next to it, he lay the gun. Then he lifted his hands, laced his fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes.

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