Terminal

“Yeah. My mom threw my baseball cards out. I’m still pissed about that. Do you remember the Millers who lived on Bowman Road? They had that Doberman pinscher. What was his name?”

“Catcher,” I answered. “Jesus Christ, I hated that fucking dog.”

“Me too. Sometimes Catcher was outside and he’d tear down the driveway after us when we rode by. Remember when he bit Rich Wagaman?”

“Oh hell yeah! Took eleven stitches to sew his leg up and he couldn’t do anything the rest of the summer.”

“I was always scared of Catcher— but you, Tommy, you weren’t scared of nothing. I’ll never forget that day we were riding to the creek, and I slowed down, listening for the dog. He came running toward us and I was so scared I fell off my bike. I almost shit my pants. Then, just as he was about to bite me, you pulled out that squirt gun with the lemon juice in it and you shot him in the eyes. Right in the eyes! He yelped and ran away and after that, Catcher never fucked with us again.”

“Busted a cap in his ass.” I smiled, remembering. “And four years later he got run over by a tractor. Fucking beautiful.”

“You’ve always been there for me, Tommy. With Catcher and with everything else, you know?

You’re smarter than me and you’re not afraid of anything or anyone, and you always had my back. I— I don’t know what I’ll do without . . .” He trailed off in frustration.

“Look,” I said softly, “it’s not like you’re gonna be all alone. You’ll still have Sherm.”

“That’s not the same, Tommy. Sherm didn’t grow up with me. And besides . . .”

The door to the store opened and Sherm stepped out, balancing three jumbo coffees, a pack of cigarettes, three slices of pizza, and a two-liter bottle of soda. He flashed a grin as he walked toward us.

“Besides what?” I asked.

“Sometimes— sometimes Sherm scares me,” he whispered. “Sometimes I think he’s crazy.”

“Me too.”

Sherm opened the door and handed me the coffee holder, then slid into the backseat.

“You too what?”

“We were both saying that we needed a coffee.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Tommy.”

“Okay. In that case, we were both saying that you were an asshole.”

“Now that I believe.” He handed out the pizza and we drove away without speaking. John popped in some old school, Ice-T’s Home Invasion. We ate and drank and smoked and nodded our heads in time with the rhymes and beats. The silence and the rhythms were broken only by my occasional fit of coughing.

Finally, Sherm asked, “So you really do have cancer? You’re not just fucking with us? This isn’t a big joke?”

“It’s true, man. I wouldn’t make some shit like that up.”

“And you’re serious about this bank robbery then?”

I nodded.

“And you really think this is what’s best for Michelle and T. J.? You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I am. I can’t think of any other options, and believe me I’ve tried.”

“All right then. Here’re some things to think about.”

“Wait a minute,” John interrupted. “Who made you the expert on robbing banks?”

“Shut up and drive, John.” He turned to me again. “You got a location picked out yet?”

“Yeah, I figured my bank. I cased it today when I deposited my check.”

“Your bank. Okay, so you’ll be wearing a ski mask then?”

I paused. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Of course you hadn’t. If you had, you’d realize what a fucked-up idea that is, robbing your own goddamned bank without something to disguise your ass. You go to that bank, what, every Friday?”

I nodded. “At least. Sometimes more.”

“That’s no good, man. They’ll recognize you. Shit, none of the banks here in town are any good. What if the teller went to school with you guys or knows Michelle or something?”

“Well then the same thing goes for York or Gettysburg,” I countered. “This county is small enough that everybody knows everyone else sooner or later.”

“Six degrees of Tommy O’Brien and shit.”

“What’s that mean?” John asked.

“It’s a game,” Sherm told him, “like with the actor, Kevin Bacon.”

“That’s the guy in Flatliners, right? I don’t remember him ever robbing a bank.”

I frowned and Sherm blew smoke in his face.

“So you’ve gotta go with a ski mask,” he continued. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Couldn’t I just disguise myself some other way?”

“Yeah, but how the fuck you gonna do that?”

“I don’t know. Pull my hat down low. Get a fake beard or mustache. Maybe use a bottle of bleach and dye my hair; so I look like Eminem.”

“You already look like Eminem. It’s no good. People would still recognize you; surveillance camera footage would make the ten o’clock news. Somebody would drop dime on you.”

I thought about it and realized that he was right.

“What about a clown?” John asked. “I saw that in a movie once. Bill Murray robbed a bank dressed like a clown. That movie was funny as shit!”

I arched an eyebrow. “You know, that’s actually not a bad idea at all. If the cop asks ‘What did he look like, ma’am?’ ‘Well, Officer, he had a big red nose, curly red hair, and big floppy shoes.’

What do you think, Sherm?”