That night I dream of being lung shot. It doesn't hurt, but I cough and choke and spray a sanguine froth from my mouth and nose. So much blood. It spatters and makes Rorshachs on the pavement. They all look like butterflies that have been trod upon. There is no pain, just blood. It flows freely from my mouth, I collapse on the verge of syncope. I'm on all fours, I cannot stand, all I see is condensed into a narrow tunnel, the edges dimmed. A pool of blood gathers below me, I'm too weak to cough, I can't breathe, I can't move. I cannot save anyone now, I cannot save myself. I give in to the inevitable and gurgle my death rattle alone on the pavement.
I wake and for a few long moments I'm caught in that ethereal place between sleep and wakefulness where reality lacks certainty. My arm tingles painfully, it's like a dead limb. I cannot tell dream from memory, I am chill and soaked with my own sweat. I stumble out of bed just now realizing I am in Heath's room.
It's too bright out, I've overslept. I can hear Heath giggling down the hall, I hear the cartoon he watches. I can tell by the voices coming from the television that it's past eight in the morning. Being able to identify animated series by voice-talent is a skill of limited utility. I head for the shower.
Looking in the bathroom mirror I notice two things. One; I look like hell and two; my t-shirt is covered in blood - Ranger's blood. Now I know that wasn't a dream. I might have to throw my shirt in the garbage. God knows Kate isn't going to want anything do with it. Or me for that matter.
I blast myself with hot water, I keep turning it up until it's nearly unbearable. I have a knot in my back and my head is pounding. I'm sore in odd places, my muscles rebel from the previous evenings activities. Pine needles flush from my hair and swirl around the shower floor.
My productivity today will be entirely dependent on a steady flow of caffeine. Who am I kidding, I haven't had any real work to do for weeks. Mostly I just edit old copy out of sheer boredom.
I dress and head straight to work, pausing only long enough to kiss Heath on the head. His eyes remain glued to the television. He kind of says "Bye Daddy." But I'm not sure he even knows I am there or that I am leaving. He sounds like a little automaton.
I rush out the door, Kate is nowhere to be seen, she's still mad about last night I'm certain. I nearly run over three toys in the driveway backing out. The forth one I crush purposefully, out of spite. A fitting end for a PowerRanger, I reckon.
There is a beat up compact car ahead of me at the drive-thru - the car is worth five-hundred bucks, tops. The stereo sounds like it might cost ten times that. The pounding, thumping, vibrating dubstep emanating from the car is auditory perdition. I'm pretty sure Jake would just drive over that car, his truck could likely do it. I'm not Jake.
Work is even quieter today, arriving late I count the cars in the parking lot, it's a small number. The upside is, I can get a parking spot close to the entrance. Score one for economic disaster.
Pausing in the cafeteria, I sip my scalding hot coffee and catch a bit of the morning news. There is a lady in there as well... Mary? Marilyn? Maribeth? Christ, she's been here as long as I have and I have no idea what her name is. She's got her button nose buried in a celebrity tabloid magazine. I turn my attention back to the TV.
There is a man with a Ph.d. talking about oceanic dead-zones, the graphic illustrates a handful of possible causes which says to me, they have no idea what the problem is. The dead-zone issue has been making news for a few months now- they keep finding more. The environmental folks are going on about a toxic plume from Fukushima, every group has a theory. Whatever it is, it's devastating the sea food industry.
The ticker running across the bottom of the screen is an unrelenting soliloquy of bad economic news. All the markets are down again. The Russians have amassed troops along the Polish border, continuing their policy of expansionism. Everyone is in a panic. On Wallstreet the bears have eaten all the bulls and they're looking for dessert. Turns out bears don't shit in the woods at all, just on Wallstreet.
That's enough for me, I head to my office.
I'm not there ten minutes when Sanjay from HR walks in accompanied by a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman I don't recognize at all. Apparently getting shit-canned is far less formal than I expected. Sanjay says his well-practiced monologue and leaves me with a couple banker boxes and tells me I have thirty minutes to collect what is mine and vacate the premises. The gorilla in a suit will supervise me so I don't steal anything or make a scene.
There is nothing in my office I hold too dear. I grab a couple pictures off my desk and strip the crayon drawings off my wall. I look around, someone else can clean up the mess. My brute of an escort sees me out of the building and I find myself in the parking lot again. My coffee isn't even cold yet.
It's a beautiful day, so I drive down to the lake to finish my breakfast. I sit at a rickety picnic table, the red stain is peeling everywhere. Someone carved asshole in the top of the table, along with initials and hearts and other brief missives immortalized in wood.
I stare out at the sparkling waters, a light offshore breeze blows and the seagulls wheel and squawk over the beach. I'm surprisingly relieved, not angry or upset, I'm just relieved. I see a sailboat cutting through the water a couple miles offshore. No power boats though, not now, not with the price of gas.
A child in the park behind me shrieks with delight and for a second I think it's Heath, but he wouldn't be here today. It's enough to break me out of my daydreams, I realize I have to make my way home. I pitch my trash in a nearby overflowing bin -- another sign of cutbacks at the municipal level -- and head home.
It's much easier to tell Kate than I expected, she's coolly nonplussed by the turn of events. We had talked about it weeks ago, and it was more than likely that I would be the first to lose my job in this economy. Hers is an essential service, working for the government; she has a civilian position with the federal police force. We were pretty confident that her job was secure.
I flip through my severance paper work and find the cheque. "At least there's this."
"Cash it fast." Kate advises. She is absolutely right though, at the rate that things are going at my former place of employment, bouncing a cheque was a definite possibility.
"I'll go now, I'll take Heath."
"Should we pull the money out of his account?" I think Kate had been watching the news too this morning. I can see she is worried, about more than just my job loss.
"You know, it can't hurt, it's not growing at all in there. Hey, while we're out, I'll get more stuff for the garden. I have time now, I'll see if I can turn over more of the yard."
* * * * *
Heath and I arrive at the bank, I have to wait for an elderly lady to back her enormous car ever-so-cautiously out of a parking space because the entire lot is jammed. I have never seen the bank so busy.
Once the spot is vacated, I back in and get Heath out of his car seat. The bank is as busy inside as the parking lot made it look. But it's not orderly lines and quiet voices, instead there is shouting and shoving and language I do not wish to expose my child to.
I spot Mr. Henneman, he taught me geography in high school, now we live in the same neighbourhood. I head in his direction, excusing myself through the raucous crowd with Heath in tow.
"Hey, Connor. How are you doing?" Mr. Henneman spots me as I weave through angry people. He was a stern educator, but a congenial neighbour. I have nothing but respect for the man.
"Fine Mr. Henneman."
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Mark?"
"Sorry, sir." I really have a hard time calling him Mark. "What's going on?"
"Today's news wasn't good. People are trying to pull assets - it's a run on the bank."
"Holy crap. Seriously?"
"Everyone wants their money. I think the bank likely has the assets, but just not all at this branch. I recognize a couple of these gentleman - I suspect they might have six-figures or more. If they want it all out, that is going to be a problem."
"Are you cashing out?" I ask.
"If I can, yes. I don't want to sound alarmist, but I don't know how much longer the money will be safe in the banks. With this bank being a smaller player, I think it is prudent to pull out my assets now. Better safe than sorry."
"That's not good Mr. -- uh, Mark."
"No Connor, it's not. Never in my life have I seen anything like this. My parents lived through the Great Depression and from what they told me of that - what I see happening these days scares the hell out of me. Pardon my language." He adds, patting Heath on the head.
Just then a lady screams and a voice rises about the others. I wheel about and notice a man barely an arm's length away. He is now brandishing a large black pistol.
"I want my money now!" He demands. "Quit your stalling, open up the vault, take my goddamn bank card and give me my money. What is so fucking hard about that?"
It is almost silent now, except for the bellowing, hostile man casting a steady onslaught of vitriole at the bank staff. Everyone has their eyes trained on him and his eyes are trained on the bank manager, as is his gun. He's too focused on his money and another man steals up behind him like a shadow and deftly places a knife at his throat.
Jake.
"I think you are going to want to put the gun down. People are here with their children and you are scaring everyone." Jake is so steady and calm, it's like this were just another day at the bank.
"I just want my money." The man says, talking much quieter now.
"That's what we all want, drop the gun before this gets very messy for everyone. No one here wants to watch a man bleed out on the nice tile floor."
The gun clatters to the ground. Jake kicks it over to me without looking in my direction. I didn't even know he was here - don't know how he knew I was.
"Can this man get his money out or not?" Jake now asks the bank manager.
"There is a five-hundred dollar cap on withdrawals right now." The ashen-faced manager replies a bit sheepishly.
"Five-hundred will do just fine." Jake agrees. "Go get your money and go home. Same for everybody else." He continues louder so everyone hears. "Be courteous, get your money and go. We are all in the same boat here, like it or not."
With that, the crowd forms up in neat lines, queuing up in front of the tellers.
Jake walks over picks up the gun, ejects the magazine into his hand and pockets it, clears the chamber and tucks the pistol into the small of his back. "I should get that guy's address, get his gun back to him later."
"You want to give it back?" I balk.
"Sure. The guy is just frustrated, he needs his money. I get it. The gun was just a bad play. It might be the only thing the guy has to protect his family though."
"Don't you think the cops will want the gun?"
"Twenty bucks says they won't even show up."
I don't take the bet. Instead I get in line and find ways to entertain Heath until I can talk to a teller. Eventually I cave and hand him my phone so he can play Angry Birds. I notice the No Service warning - which is strange. By the time I get to a teller, Jake is nowhere to be seen and Heath has managed to reset my phones localization to Cantonese. It's just one of those days.
The teller is polite, but still appears a bit flustered from the earlier commotion.
"I'd like to cash out my son's account." I say, handing her the bank cards.
"Okay Mr. Killoren, just one second while I bring up the account." Her long, decoratively polished nails click against the keyboard as she types. "You will only be able to withdrawn five-hundred today."
"That would be five hundred for him and five for me, right?" I motion toward Heath.
She thinks for a moment. "Yes, we can do that."
"I also wanted to cash this cheque."
"You will have to deposit the cheque, sir."
My turn to pause and think. "Can I get it cashed out in bullion? Silver or something."
"Sorry sir, we don't do that here."
"Can I deposit it and get a bank draft for the same amount?"
"No sir, we would have to wait for the cheque to clear."
I can't just leave with a thousand bucks, I don't want to risk coming back to the bank day after day to drain my accounts five hundred bucks at a time. Hell, by tomorrow the limit could be two-fifty or less.
"How about deposit the cheque, but give me a draft for the amount I currently have in my account. I need to get some hard assets - cash or something, maybe I can get another bank to pay out."
"I don't know."
"Then get your manager." I say, more harshly than I intend, but it has the desired effect and she gets the attention of the bank manager. We talk briefly before we head back to his office. I can tell he doesn't want to discuss this openly, if others overhear then everyone will try the same tactic.
In the end I leave with a thousand in cash and a seventy-five hundred dollar cashier's cheque. Less than I wanted, but adequate under the circumstances. The next bank was a national chain and they had bullion, although limited silver and gold. I leave with a mish-mash of bars and coinage in a variety of metals and still have five hundred in cash.
We head back home, but not before lightening my wallet another hundred bucks at the gas station. I also buy two cartons of cigarettes - I haven't smoked since before I was married, but smokes are used as currency in prison, I just figure it's something I can barter.
I turn onto the street and notice a police cruiser pass by. I realize Jake was right and I was wise not to take that bet. They never did show up.
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