Nine Minutes Late

My hands are covered in blood, police sirens are closing in, and it’s all Ezekiel Bower’s fault.

This wasn’t the way my morning was supposed to go.

Ordinarily, I follow a well-structured routine. Every Friday at 6:50 a.m. on the dot, I arrive at the bank and take my place in line right behind the little old lady with the giant floral purse, five people ahead the coffee-toting accountant in the back and seven people behind the insane CrossFit jogger with his stupid gleaming biceps. He likes to mark his place with one of his three strap-on water bottles while he performs various aerobic exercises around the room. I mean, seriously, can’t the guy skip leg day just once?

But today, I puff into the building nine minutes late, out of breath from the short sprint across the absurdly crowded parking lot. CrossFit breezes past on one of his high-knee laps around the lobby, flashing me a too-white smile. “Squeezing in a quick morning workout, huh, man?” he says, effortlessly jogging in place. Too late, I cringe away as his hand slaps across my back. “That’s my guy!”

CrossFit, for reasons utterly incomprehensible to me, operates under the mistaken assumption that he and I are “buds.” I have the build of raw spaghetti. Every time he tries to engage me in a lunge set or bro hug I’m afraid my bones will snap in half. He has yet to

notice.

The fake-gilded analog clock on the wall ticks to 7 a.m. as I join the back of the line, stuck behind even the groggy accountant who steps into place a mere half minute before the bank officially opens.

The only teller working this early in the morning— a sweet young woman named Tessa on whom I’ve harbored a secret crush for over a year— rattles up the gate and begins to murmur with CrossFit, who leans against the counter with one arm braced against the “window” frame, bicep noticeably flexed. I glare at his tiny white tank top, trying to bore holes in the overstretched fabric by sheer force of will. Maybe I should start waking up earlier. Then I’d be the one at the front of the line, bending my head toward Tessa’s at just the right angle, winking as she giggled at some brilliant joke that just happened to come to mind at the perfect moment...

“Well, now, fancy seeing you all the way back here, young man!”

I turn too fast and slip on the waxed floor. For a split second I can see myself crashing down in a heap of gangly limbs, glasses cracking as my cheek slams into the ground— but a man grabs my arms in a surprisingly firm grip, propping me upright even as my right leg stretches painfully out behind me. “Are you all right, son?” my savior asks, blinking in a concerned sort of way.

I gape up, still a little dazed by the rapid halt of my own personal slapstick cartoon. “Huh? Oh, yeah... I’m fine... right as rain, that’s me... not that rain is so right, I hate getting wet, but I guess we need it for plants and stuff, like crops, yeah, so it’s not all bad if you like to eat— I mean, if you like vegetables and stuff, which I do, I mean everyone does, or we should, because it’s good for you and all, a carrot a day keeps the doctor away— or no, I guess that’s apples, but tomato-tomahto, right?”

The man, who has quite a bit of white hair for someone so strong, smiles indulgently as my rambling finally comes to a close, watching me straighten my jacket and push my glasses back up my nose. “Quite right, of course.”

God, if this is what I’m like with random old guys, no wonder I can’t talk to women.

As it becomes clear that most of the other bank patrons— and, thank God, Tessa— are still too half-asleep to have noticed my slip, I take a deep breath and take my first real look at my savior.

The shock of white hair I noticed before frames a deeply lined face with bushy eyebrows and kind eyes currently fixed on mine. His slight frame (seriously, how is this guy so strong?) is clad in a gray suit that I can only describe as dapper, complete with a painfully bright bow tie.

“You like it?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring. He doesn’t seem to mind. “I confess I can’t quite keep up with how the young folks are dressing these days, but my grandbaby Letty gave this to me for Christmas last year and I rather fell in love with it! Just three years

old and already such an eye for style, can you imagine?”

He’s beaming, and I’m struggling to find a compliment that’s not a complete lie. I settle for focusing on the granddaughter. “She certainly sounds precocious.”

“Oh, she is,” he says. “All of my grandbabies are. I’ve got seven.”

“Seven, wow,” I say, stealing a glance behind me at the front of the line. Dammit, Crossfit is still schmoozing up Tessa. 7:05... “That must be a handful.”

“Not at all,” he assures me. “I love how they keep me on my toes.” He sticks out a hand. “Ezekiel Bower, at your service.”

“Christopher Martin,” I say, and we shake, me trying unsuccessfully to replicate his firm grip. CrossFit should take lessons from this guy. “So, uh, what brings you to the bank this lovely morning?”

“I run a charity knitting group and we need cash to buy more yarn,” he says cheerfully. “I pay out of pocket for materials, but I’ve never trusted those plastic card thingamabobs. It’s a shame good old-fashioned dollar bills are becoming obsolete.”

“Tell me about it,” I jump in, flapping my hand a little too enthusiastically. A kindly old granddad who’s also a philanthropist? Maybe if Tessa sees me talking with him, she’ll think I’m one of those sensitive guys who loves puppies and kids and old people. It wouldn’t be a lie, right? “Charity knitting group, huh? What do you knit?”

“We fill an often overlooked gap in the needs of the community,” Ezekiel— Mr. Bower?— says earnestly. “There are hundreds of stray cats and dogs on the streets in this county alone. We provide them with cruelty-free hand-knit cardigans to keep their bodies warm and their hearts guilt-free.”

I blink. “Uh...”

“But enough about me.” He leans forward folding his hands in front of him in a show of polite interest. “What do you do for a living, my young friend?”

“I’m, uh— I suppose you could call me a– well, I work at an insurance firm,” I tell him, embarrassed. I sneak another look at the clock. Damn— 7:07 and CrossFit still hasn’t left the counter. “What you do, though, that’s amazing. You’re really making a difference to those, um, cats and dogs.”

He waves my compliment away. “We have a responsibility to care for all of God’s creatures, Christopher,” he says, smiling. “I’m only doing my part.”

“No, really,” I go on, gaining energy. “I would love to just quit my job and do something like that, you know? Something that would really help someone. I mean, who am I kidding? I sit in an office all day poring over the fine print to save my boss pennies and cheat good people out of their money. I’m like Bob Parr before he went back to being Mr. Incredible!”

Ezekiel looks confused— I guess his grandkids haven’t reached their superhero phase yet— but I plow on, desperate for the chance to spill my guts. “This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing with my life, you know? When I was a kid, I wanted to be an Air Force pilot. Fly through enemy territory, risk my life for my country, all that good stuff. But the Air Force wouldn’t accept me because my eyesight is shit— sorry, crap—sorry, I mean really bad— and I had to take this awful insurance job with a boss who thinks I’m an absolute loser which I guess I am but I just wish I could waltz into that office and quit.”

I’m breathing hard, my palms are sticky with sweat, and my glasses have slipped back down to the end of my nose. Ezekiel is looking at me with pity written into every line of his face. The rest of the line— including, to my abject horror, CrossFit and Tessa— are goggling my reddening cheeks.

Oops.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” I mumble, pushing my glasses back into place. “I just— sorry.”

“It’s all right, folks, nothing to see here,” Ezekiel says quickly, putting an arm around my back. “Just got a little worked up, is all. Happens to everyone. Go on, now.”

“Oh, God,” I whisper as he leads me to a corner of the room. “I can’t believe I said all that...”

“Sounds like you’re dealing with some repressed emotions, son,” he tells me, patting my arm. “You should work on releasing those in a healthy manner.”

Charitable and woke. Maybe I should flirt with this guy instead of Tessa. “Yeah, that sounds...smart.”

He chatters on about breaking down the walls surrounding expressions of masculine sentimentality and I rub my burning cheeks, glancing at the time. 7:12. Maybe I should just cut my losses and go to work. Who needs a paycheck, right?

“...help you realize your goals.”

I tear my gaze away from the clock and focus on Ezekiel. “Sorry, what did you say?”

He smiles. “I said, Christopher, I believe in doing as much good as one can as often as one can. So, after listening to your plight, I’ve decided to help you realize your goals.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

He pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

And then that sweet old man reaches inside of his suit jacket, fiddles around for a second, and draws out a shining black pistol. And places it in my hand.

“What...what the—”

“Just follow my lead, son,” he says calmly, folding my shaking fingers around the grip. With the other hand, he reaches inside the opposite jacket panel and produces a second pistol. “Easy as pie. Ready?”

Before I can do anything but spit out a single syllable of shocked gibberish, he raises his gun in the air and fires three shots into the ceiling. “EVERYBODY DOWN! THIS IS A ROBBERY!”

“OH MY GOD!” I yell as the bank erupts in screams and cries. “THIS IS NOT THE WAY TO BE A ROLE MODEL FOR YOUR GRANDBABIES!”

“We can talk about this later, Christopher,” Ezekiel says calmly, holding his pistol with a straight, steady arm. “All of you, move over to that wall,” he says to the other patrons. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Especially you,” he adds, motioning to CrossFit, who looks about ready to pee his pristine white Spandex shorts.

“Why are you doing this, man?” he whines, looking straight at me. “I thought we were bros!”

I suddenly remember that I’m holding a gun. I’M HOLDING A GUN.

“Ohmygod, no, no,” I blurt, shoving the pistol behind my back. “I don’t have anything to do with this. I’m just as surprised as you are!”

“Then why are you holding a gun, dude?”

“Because he forced me to take it!” I yell, waving my gun hand wildly at Ezekiel. “I hate these things! I don’t even know how to turn the safety off! Look, I probably can’t even—”

The pistol fires with a crack, and a bullet lodges itself in the wall just over Ezekiel’s ear. The little old lady with the floral bag screams.

“Please do be careful, Christopher,” Ezekiel chides, his voice gentle. “I may have a metal hip, but the rest of me retains the vulnerability of flesh and blood.”

“Just put the gun down before you kill us all!” CrossFit shouts, cowering behind the old lady.

“Don’t listen to them, son,” Ezekiel says calmly, swinging the gun around to point at me. “My good deed today is to help you achieve your dreams, and I won’t take no for an answer. It’s time to take charge of your own destiny.”

“Bank robbery is your good deed?!”

“You need money to quit your job, do you not? Sometimes good deeds require a bit of a punch.”

I think I’m hyperventilating. “But what about the stray puppies and kittens that need cruelty-free hand-knit cardigans? That sounds like enough good to last a lifetime to me!”

He chuckles and strolls over the door. “Enough stalling, Christopher.” He slides the lock into place and pulls down the metal grates meant to keep people from breaking through the windows in the middle of the night. Fat lot of good those did us. “Now, I’m going to make sure everybody stays calm out here. Why don’t you take that nice young lady into the back and ask her where they keep the money?”

He winks at me. Actually winks. Behind the counter, Tessa whimpers, and my heart drops. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” Ezekiel whispers, one side of his mouth curving up in what he probably thinks is a knowing smirk between buddies. “There’s nothing more attractive than confidence.”

Tessa squeezes her eyes shut, mouth moving as if in prayer, and oh God, I can’t imagine what she must think of me. “No. No. I won’t. I can’t do this,” I blurt, raising my hands above my head. “I can’t threaten any- one. Especially a gir— I mean, a hardworking member of our nation’s financial sector.” I look at Tessa, who opened her eyes at my words, and give her a small smile. “There are more important things in life than money and crappy jobs.”

Still smiling softly at Tessa, I bend my knees and lower the gun toward the ground. She shakes her head wildly, and I slow my movements, frowning. Does she want me to go through with the robbery? Is she into the bad boy thing?

She flicks her eyes toward Ezekiel, who, apparently tired of my yapping, has begun to shepherd the bank patrons into a neater clump against the wall, counting heads. Tessa starts mouthing something at me.

Rukim? Oo-gim?

Oh, right. Shoot him.

“Ezekiel!” I cry, putting on my best I’m-so-scared-I-think-I-might-puke face. It isn’t much of a stretch. “How are we gonna get out of here? I can’t go to jail; my quarterly report is due tomorrow!”

“Stop worrying,” he tells me, giving up on corralling the others. The only one who’d really pose a threat is CrossFit, and he’s currently sobbing in the arms of the old lady, who looks like she can’t believe her luck. “If the police come a-knocking, we can just plead temporary insanity. It’s always worked for me before.”

Boy do I wish I had time to unpack that one. I risk a glance at the clock to stall for a second— 7:17 a.m. Guess it’s as good a time as any for my dignity to die cause I’m turning on the waterworks. Good thing my masculinity can withstand a few tears.

I take a shuddering breath and put my hands over my face, carefully pointing the barrel of my pistol away from me. “I just— everything’s moving so fast, and I don’t know what to do in a situation like this. I think all my repressed emotions are coming out again—”

“Oh, Chris, son, it’s all right,” he soothes, crossing the room to put an arm around my back. He keeps his gun trained on the huddled group against the wall. “Let it all out.”

I let out an ugly sob more befitting a beached whale than a grown man and collapse into his arms, forcing him to catch me. His pistol hangs awkwardly in his grip, barrel pointed at the ground.

“Gotcha,” I whisper.

“Pardon?”

I grab his wrist and knee him in the stomach as hard as I can, wincing in sympathy as he doubles over in pain. His grip loosens on the gun and I tear it from his hand to the floor. Before I can pick it up, he rams his shoulder into my torso and I let out a grunt, barely managing to kick the gun out of reach. Undeterred, Ezekiel goes straight for my pistol, and we struggle for what feels like six years but is probably more like six seconds before—

Tessa shrieks, rushing forward. A bloom of red– darker than I thought it would be— spreads at an alarming speed, and Ezekiel’s knees crumple beneath him. I catch his body just before he hits the floor, unexpected tears stinging my eyes.

“I don’t— I never meant to— I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “I was just trying to—”

He smiles benevolently up at me. “You took control and conquered your fears,” he murmurs. “I’m proud of you, son.”

Police sirens wail in the distance, and Tessa steps closer. “It’s about time,” she says tentatively. “I pressed the panic button seven minutes ago.”

Seven minutes? I check the clock. 7:20. I’m not even late for work yet.

Ezekiel coughs. “Stupid...modern...technology.”

I lower his body to the ground and press my hands into the wound, trying to stem the bleeding until the cops arrive, but he waves me away, mouthing something. “What did you say?” I ask, putting my ear above his lips. “Is there something you want me to tell your grandbabies?”

“Ask...young lady...dinner,” he wheezes.

I pull back in shock. “What?”

He smiles. “Heroism...sexy...to women.”

I swear to God, this world has never seen a more dedicated wingman. I widen my eyes at him and press my hands back on the bullet wound— clearly, this is not the time— but he scowls and rolls his eyes toward Tessa again.

I can’t believe I’m still taking this guy’s advice, but I guess a dying wish is a dying wish.

“So, uh, Tessa...” I start, and Ezekiel smiles blissfully. Good lord.

“Would you maybe want to get dinner sometime?”

She purses her lips, an apologetic look on her face. “Sorry, dude, but I’m gay.”

Figures.

Nicole Kowalewski

Sykesville, MD, USA

Nicole Kowalewski is a senior creative-writing major and history minor from Sykesville,

Maryland. She is a co-managing editor for Roger William’s literary magazine, Mount Hope,

and has been an avid reader, writer, and member of the Grammar Police for sixteen years.