1990, Bay Area, California

By Anonymous

“Hands in the air! This is a stick-up!”

It was my first day at work, and my new boss Lynette was mimicking what a masked gunman might say before firing a round into the ceiling or scrambling across the teller window to take hostages.

In a deep monotone, Lynnette sandwiched advice on bank robbery protocol between information on the location of the lunchroom and how to request more money for one’s till and how to stay calm on the first of the month, when social security and welfare checks rolled in. I hustled to keep up as she hover-crafted around the bank and pointed out important landmarks, including the vault.

Its door slightly ajar, the vault hinted at treasure like the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb. A real vault, just like in those old-fashioned cops and robbers movies where the bank manager stands trembling, gun to temple, trying to remember the blasted combination.

“Um,” I said, struggling to interrupt the steady flow of one-way conversation. “Were you kidding about the robberies?”

“Nope,” she said, with a dry chuckle. “We’re right near a freeway. Perfect location for a quick getaway.”

Months passed, and the idea of a robbery drifted comfortably into my subconscious.

Checks were cashed. Deposits made. People hefting bulging Ziploc bags of change were given penny wrappers and gently encouraged to return later. I soon got to know the regulars: the curmudgeonly woman who snarled when I had to ask for identification, the lonely senior who dragged out a standard deposit transaction to chat, and the harried businessman who calmed down after a few soothing words. I quickly learned the diplomacy needed when dealing with people and their money.

But lingering and familiar chit-chats were soon curtailed when our bank instituted a policy that rewarded customers with cash if they waited in line longer than five minutes. We had to hustle and take frequent note of the number of customers waiting, intent to keep people moving through the line like cattle and avoid doling out cash.

One hectic Friday afternoon, I glanced up for a quick headcount and froze. Seven or more people waited in line. Several held their deposit slips out before them. One woman dug around in her cavernous purse. A man struggled to sign the back of his check on a raised knee.

In the middle of the line was a man who stood motionless, facing me. He wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, and his facial hair had skipped at least two rounds of the razor, resulting in a ten o’clock shadow. I turned to the customer at my window and looked back. I knew he was still staring at me through the dark lenses. Although four tellers were working that day, I also knew, somehow or other, I would be the lucky one.

One by one, the customers shuffled over to the other tellers’ windows. And Mr. Baseball Cap stalked up to mine. I glanced at the coworkers on either side of me to see if they had noticed. Oblivious, they chatted cheerfully with their customers. I watched the man approach like a phantom.

He stood at my window, waiting. I was too afraid to look up.

He pushed a piece of paper across the counter. Hands trembling, I reached for it and read, “Give me your money, bitch. I’ve got a friend with an Uzi in line.”

A sensitive, 20-year-old Pisces, my first thought was not, “I am being robbed,” but, incredibly, “That is really mean.” Feelings hurt, I jabbed at the police button under the counter.

I turned to my till and regarded the money nestled in the top drawer. I had just requested more money from the manager and had thousands of dollars at my disposal. I began to pull money out, certain that my coworkers would notice something amiss as I doled out the cash without counting it.

Nothing.

After I had passed off all the twenties and tens, I hesitated. Among the small bills were two two-dollar bills that I had hoped to buy at the end of my shift. I stared at them wistfully.

“Hurry,” the man urged, in a whisper.

I snapped out of my reverie and pushed the remaining bills across the counter. With an annoyed grunt, he shoved the rest of the cash into a bag and fled.

My whole body shaking, I watched him go. On either side of me, business proceeded as usual. I arose from my stool, wobbled over to the vault entrance where Leannette stood, handling paperwork, and said in a small voice, “I’ve just been robbed.”

Eyes wide, Lynnette sprung into action, ordering that the doors be locked. Police sirens sounded, louder and closer. Everyone around me – customers and employees alike – chattered excitedly.

The FBI arrived, wearing their standard-issue, dark-lensed FBI sunglasses. They interviewed me at length, determined to get enough details for a composite sketch. Again and again, I explained how terrified I had been to look up, to face the man who had threatened me with a submachine gun and called me a bitch.

Just when I thought the whole ordeal was over, the police received a phone call. They had apprehended someone who fit the description several blocks away, and asked me to come identify the man. We drove over in the cop car and parked down the street from where police officers stood with a handcuffed man.

“Please, please, don’t drive closer,” I urged the policeman, as the apprehended man turned to stare in our direction. Without the baseball hat and the glasses, I had no idea if the man was the robber or simply an unfortunate soul in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was released.

The next day, Lynette, normally stoic and gruff, was exuberant. She greeted me with a bouquet of flowers. “Congratulations!” she said. “You gave away the least amount of money in any of the robberies we’ve had here!”

I had had $10,000 in my till and managed to give away only $300.

Maybe he should have thought twice about calling me a bitch.

The writer is a native Californian who divides her time between working for a not-for-profit, volunteering for Big Brothers Big Sisters, and traveling to obscure places every chance she gets.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, February 9th, 2007 | Email This Post

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