Banking on Saturday

With a soft wusssh the sliding doors opened and August walked in. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt that said thirteen going on thirty in bold, black lettering on the front and a ski mask covered his long face but I could see his nervous, narrow eyes jutting from person to person. He dipped a hand into his pocket and pulled a small, black pistol out like a man dipping a ladle into a bowl of soup as he made his way to the teller. It was a tremor in his hand and with a crash he let loose a horrible yell and brought his hand down upon the window of the teller. He was demanding money, large sums of money. The teller was a small, middle aged woman with glasses that hung on the edge of her nose. I could tell she was scared as she gazed back through the glass at August and at his black pistol that shook like a wounded animal at her. With his free hand August motioned for me to get the car ready and as I walked back through the wussshing sliding doors I heard a gunshot and the splintering of glass and a muffled yell. With a shudder, I set the car in drive and August, resembling a faint blur as he ran through the sliding doors, yanked the passenger door open. He was as pale as white bed sheets as he jumped in and quickly he tossed a bag into the back and then, with his eyes big and intense, shouted, “I messed up Nathan, I really messed up man, floor it” and the two of us lurched forward just before the cry of sirens arrived.

-JW