GET THE MONEY
Bryan Harvey
One man peckered out the bank’s front doors. And froze. Duffle bag under his arm. Looked a bit like a kid learning how to juke with a football. He was all alone on the sidewalk until a second man joined him. Pistols out and both faces hugged by stocking caps with holes cut through them, they looked a bit like them Hell or Highwater boys if that were a movie any bystander had happened to catch, but not many people saw that movie and this was real life so what most bystanders probably thought was just Holy shit! Them two boys is robbing the bank!
And they were.
Now one of them raised the barrel of his gun to scratch at his temple. And it looked like he might be signaling something to somebody who might be looking for a gesture as such. Maybe a get away driver. After all, two cars sat front to end just outside the curb. A driver in each. One a pickup truck that had clearly seen ranch duty. The other a squat sedan. Driver in the pickup had on a cowboy hat and sunglasses. Driver in the sedan—what was a Chevy Camaro beyond payday—had on a stocking cap.
And that’s what struck me as suspicious.
Sirens were already wailing blocks away and stitching fast. I was parked across the street and didn’t have mine on. Figured that might give me away. But I also had parked there simply by dumb luck. Had wanted to lift the lid off my coffee and give it a chance to cool. I eyed that Ford and looked at the Chevy and just about went cross-eyed with calculations. Did all the deductions and ran all the inductions. I grabbed ahold of that steering wheel. Twisted it all the way one way. Then released that brake and slammed on the gas.
Coffee sloshing every which way, I t-boned the Chevy. Probably knocked the driver the eff out. But I couldn’t really see. The airbag shot through me. And nearly choked out I hadn’t thought this totally through.
Them boys hopped in the back of the pickup. I could see the action through my side window. They peeled out as I fumbled with the door. Once I opened it, I leaned out on the pavement. Palms first. Whole torso sore like I’d taken a helmet crown to the chest.
All the arriving squad cars saw me hanging by my seatbelt and struggling to do a pushup. Pavement already bubbling blisters in the morning sun.
At first they thought I had our man down for the count, but I had to tell them which way the truck drove off to—I had to tell them the getaway was still in effect. And now I’m sitting here with a blank screen in front of me and trying to get this incident report started just so with my neck feeling all like a coat hanger shaped into a tv antenna.
My staff sergeant enters the room and sits a glass of water and a bottle of Excedrin on the desk. “As requested,” he says. Then he pulls back on the laptop screen just enough to see the report is all blank. “Writer’s block?” he asks.
“I’m feeling a lot of pressure,” I say, trying to remember my lawyer’s words about how I better craft this just so because I’m being sued and whatever I say can be used against me in a court of law.
Sergeant inhales. Sucks all the air out the room. “Had the odds slightly in your favor,” he says, “but you know they just caught them two bank robbers.”
“Do I need to include that?” I ask.
“That means the boy you crashed into has eyewitnesses by the pair.” Then the sergeant laughs and before he exits, I ask where they apprehended them two boys in the ski masks.
“Casino in Oklahoma. Said they wanted to set up a Trust. Can you believe that, Jeff Bridges?”
He doesn’t get the response he’s aiming for and adds, “That’s your new nickname.” Then he hits me with a two-fingered salute before swaggering out, and I start fiddling with the childproof cap on the Excedrin bottle.
Pills clicking every which way like beads inside a baby’s rattle. I try to imagine them tough as spurs, but fuck if I didn’t choose the wrong getaway car.
Bryan Harvey has worked at K-Mart, driven diesel trucks to the dump, cleaned up after weddings, and taught high school students about books. He currently doesn't do any of that, but he can be found @bryanharvey.bsky.social or Twitter @Bryan_S_Harvey. His writing has appeared in Heavy Feather, Hobart and HAD, No Contact, Florida Review's Aquifer, Cold Mountain Review, Rejection Letters, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Links to his writing can be found at BryanHarveyWrites.com.
Bryan Harvey
One man peckered out the bank’s front doors. And froze. Duffle bag under his arm. Looked a bit like a kid learning how to juke with a football. He was all alone on the sidewalk until a second man joined him. Pistols out and both faces hugged by stocking caps with holes cut through them, they looked a bit like them Hell or Highwater boys if that were a movie any bystander had happened to catch, but not many people saw that movie and this was real life so what most bystanders probably thought was just Holy shit! Them two boys is robbing the bank!
And they were.
Now one of them raised the barrel of his gun to scratch at his temple. And it looked like he might be signaling something to somebody who might be looking for a gesture as such. Maybe a get away driver. After all, two cars sat front to end just outside the curb. A driver in each. One a pickup truck that had clearly seen ranch duty. The other a squat sedan. Driver in the pickup had on a cowboy hat and sunglasses. Driver in the sedan—what was a Chevy Camaro beyond payday—had on a stocking cap.
And that’s what struck me as suspicious.
Sirens were already wailing blocks away and stitching fast. I was parked across the street and didn’t have mine on. Figured that might give me away. But I also had parked there simply by dumb luck. Had wanted to lift the lid off my coffee and give it a chance to cool. I eyed that Ford and looked at the Chevy and just about went cross-eyed with calculations. Did all the deductions and ran all the inductions. I grabbed ahold of that steering wheel. Twisted it all the way one way. Then released that brake and slammed on the gas.
Coffee sloshing every which way, I t-boned the Chevy. Probably knocked the driver the eff out. But I couldn’t really see. The airbag shot through me. And nearly choked out I hadn’t thought this totally through.
Them boys hopped in the back of the pickup. I could see the action through my side window. They peeled out as I fumbled with the door. Once I opened it, I leaned out on the pavement. Palms first. Whole torso sore like I’d taken a helmet crown to the chest.
All the arriving squad cars saw me hanging by my seatbelt and struggling to do a pushup. Pavement already bubbling blisters in the morning sun.
At first they thought I had our man down for the count, but I had to tell them which way the truck drove off to—I had to tell them the getaway was still in effect. And now I’m sitting here with a blank screen in front of me and trying to get this incident report started just so with my neck feeling all like a coat hanger shaped into a tv antenna.
My staff sergeant enters the room and sits a glass of water and a bottle of Excedrin on the desk. “As requested,” he says. Then he pulls back on the laptop screen just enough to see the report is all blank. “Writer’s block?” he asks.
“I’m feeling a lot of pressure,” I say, trying to remember my lawyer’s words about how I better craft this just so because I’m being sued and whatever I say can be used against me in a court of law.
Sergeant inhales. Sucks all the air out the room. “Had the odds slightly in your favor,” he says, “but you know they just caught them two bank robbers.”
“Do I need to include that?” I ask.
“That means the boy you crashed into has eyewitnesses by the pair.” Then the sergeant laughs and before he exits, I ask where they apprehended them two boys in the ski masks.
“Casino in Oklahoma. Said they wanted to set up a Trust. Can you believe that, Jeff Bridges?”
He doesn’t get the response he’s aiming for and adds, “That’s your new nickname.” Then he hits me with a two-fingered salute before swaggering out, and I start fiddling with the childproof cap on the Excedrin bottle.
Pills clicking every which way like beads inside a baby’s rattle. I try to imagine them tough as spurs, but fuck if I didn’t choose the wrong getaway car.
Bryan Harvey has worked at K-Mart, driven diesel trucks to the dump, cleaned up after weddings, and taught high school students about books. He currently doesn't do any of that, but he can be found @bryanharvey.bsky.social or Twitter @Bryan_S_Harvey. His writing has appeared in Heavy Feather, Hobart and HAD, No Contact, Florida Review's Aquifer, Cold Mountain Review, Rejection Letters, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Links to his writing can be found at BryanHarveyWrites.com.