The Colorful Mr. Beale

Mr. Lester Beale sat quietly at his desk in a rear alcove of the main floor and waited for his coffee to finish peculating. It was not yet seven AM and the day promised to be a productive one. His wife, Martha, gazed with a stern fondness at him from an eight by ten picture frame near his right elbow. A neat stack of computer printout sheets awaited his attention on his left. On Friday, there had been four more towers of neatly stacked paper on his desk. Now, Monday morning, with only one left to go, Mr. Beale congratulated himself for working through the weekend.

The final stages of a half pot of just brewed coffee filled the massive room with a good, rich, comforting smell. Mr. Beale rose stiffly, went without hurry over to the coffee maker by the front door and poured himself a cup. He added powdered creamer and some sugar and returned to his desk.

Sipping his coffee, he let his gaze follow the contours on the immense room. This was without doubt one of the most beautiful banks he had ever seen, and Mr. Beale had seen a great many. Corinthian columns rose skyward to meet the glorious painted mural on the ceiling thirty feet overhead. The marble balustrades which aligned the gentle curve of the massive staircase brought back a time before elevators and gadgetry and cheap workmanship. Mr. Beale took in a deep breath, inhaling the age old aroma of polished wood. Of finance. Of industry. He was going to miss it.

In a word, the majestic old bank really did smell like money.

He had no sooner taken his third sip of coffee, when six men suddenly appeared from the employee break-room across the floor. They began spreading out before him like spiders creating a web. Mr. B. had not the slightest clue as to how they had gained access into the premises, but apparently it was through a back door. The men moved with a silent, fluid motion, pulling down window shades, spray-painting the security cameras, disconnecting the phone lines. They kicked over chairs and climbed up on tabletops and did all sorts of assorted tasks associated with robbing banks.

Mr. Beale didn't move anything other than his eyes as he watched the men circle the room. They seemed unaware of him, and now he sincerely wished he had not completed so much paperwork over the weekend. Had the stack of printouts on his desk been higher, perhaps he could duck down lower and hide.

This was not the case. In a moment the circle of men closed on him with remarkable speed. They told Mr. Beale not to move, or utter a peep, or touch an alarm and Mr. Beale assured them he would follow their directions to the utmost degree. In actuality, Mr. Beale's only response had been to nod his head rapidly for several seconds, but the huge orbs from behind thick eye-glasses told the men all they needed to know about the little bald bank manager's willingness to abide.

The six husky bank robbers all had pantyhose pulled tightly over their faces. They looked immensely scary and evil and out of place. They spoke with hard edged street-lingo filled with one colorful f-word after another quite common to a class of people with whom Mr. Beale rarely had dealings.

He looked up at the six men looming over him with a calm and confidence he did not truly possess. Only the pencil in his right hand, which was wagging back and forth in a solid yellow blur, betrayed his true concern for his own safety.

One of the bank robbers suddenly bent down and began screaming furious and colorfully worded instructions into Mr. Beale's ear. He leaned so close into Mr. B.'s face that Mr. B. caught an overpowering stench of garlic, which in and of itself seemed rather odd at this early hour.

It appeared the man wanted Mr. Beale to open up the safe or he would in fact blow Mr. Beale's testicles-- and this part he couldn't swear to, but Mr. B. believed the man used the words-- “up your fagot-ass ass”.

Mr. Beale waved his pencil in the general direction of the front door and said, “Perhaps you gentlemen didn't see it outside, but there's a sign that says 'CLOSED'.”

Another bank robber came forward with a handgun and immediately stuck a good part of the barrel inside Mr. Beale's nose. He then proceeded to question Mr. Beale's ancestry, sexual orientation, IQ, and willingness to remain alive.

The circle of men grew tighter like in one of those ghastly slasher movies, what with the stockings and the lopsided faces all leering down at him.

“I am so sorry, truly, but I am afraid you misunderstand me,” Mr. Beale replied desperate now to communicate clearly. “I don't mean we aren't open for business yet. I mean we are absolutely, one hundred percent, completely, fucking-motherfucker, fagot-ass ass, gone out of business closed for simply ever!”

After several moments of abject silence a good deal of colorful discussion erupted as to which one of the six men was most at fault for this rather gargantuan over-sight. Fingers were pointed back and forth with some minor pushing and shoving which resulted in Mr. Beale's neatly stacked printouts to be strewn about the carpeted floor. The whole sorry state of the American monetary system was the last and final point made before the six men all departed abruptly, using, no doubt, the same method to exit as they had to gain entry. It seemed even bank robbers were suffering the down turn.

Mr. Beale sat back in his desk chair and took a deep and well deserved breath. Recounting his recent performance in the midst of this terrifying ordeal, it dawned on him that he had performed admirably. The more he thought about it the more pleased with himself he became. All his worry about the prospect of finding future employment at this late date suddenly flew by the wayside. He realized with startling clarity that he was one of those rare men who could communicate with anyone on God's green earth-- which was exactly why he had nothing to worry about! He would not take early retirement after all. A feeling of spiritual enlightenment bathed him in a warm fuzzy glow. He wished the robbers hadn't pulled out the phone lines; he'd call his bitch.

Martha was absolutely not going to believe this one.

The End-
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