Re-do of Mr. Beale

Mr. B. sat at his desk in the rear of the ground floor of Western Bank and Trust. It was not yet seven AM and this day promised to be another productive one.

His wife, Martha, gazed with a stern fondness from an eight by ten picture frame near his right elbow. Her hair color in the picture was different from that of the woman he would go home to this afternoon. He studied Martha's picture, and although it was true that a great many things had changed about his wife, her eyes were the same lovely brown orbs he had fallen in-love with forty-one years ago.

Mr. Beale took in a deep breath and looked across his desk. A lone stack of computer printouts awaited his attention. On Friday there had been four towers of neatly stacked paper laying before him. Now, Monday morning, with only one final ream to go, Mr. Beale congratulated himself for working through the weekend.

He rose stiffly and with a well practiced brush of his hand the low-hung mahogany gate swung open. He walked without hurry across the immense floor to the coffee maker by the front door. He poured himself a cup of thick black coffee. He added powdered creamer and some sugar and returned to his desk.

Sipping his coffee, Mr. Beale let his gaze follow the contours on the grand old room. This was without doubt the most beautiful bank he had ever seen, and Mr. B. had seen a very great many. Corinthian columns rose skyward to meet the glorious painted mural on the ceiling thirty feet over his head. The marble balustrades which aligned the gentle curve of the massive staircase brought back a time before elevators and gadgetry and plastic workmanship. He inhaled the age old aroma of lemon-scented polished wood. Of old world tradition. Of unwrinkled currency.

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 these intruders 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 the thuggery of robbing banks.

Mr. Beale didn't move anything other than his eyes as he watched them circle the room. They seemed unaware of him, and he thought sadly, had he not completed so much work over the weekend, had his desk been still stacked high with printouts, perhaps he could duck down lower and somehow hide.

This was not the case.

In a moment the circle of men closed on him with remarkable speed. They told him not to move, nor utter a peep, 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 his eyes, huge behind his 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 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 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 welfare.

One of the bank robbers suddenly bent down and began screaming furious and colorful F-worded instructions into Mr. Beale's ear. The man 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 young hour.

It appeared that the man wanted Mr. Beale to open up the safe or he, the hooded bank robber, 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 pointed his pencil in the general direction of the double front doors and said, “Perhaps you gentlemen didn't see it, but there's a sign outside that says 'CLOSED'.”

Another bank robber came forward with a very large handgun and immediately stuck a good portion of the barrel inside Mr. Beale's nose. The bank robber proceeded to question Mr. Beale's 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 to suggest that we aren't open for business yet. I mean we are absolutely mother-fucking totally gone out of business for fagot-ass ass 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 sheets of printout to be strewn about the carpeted floor. The whole sorry state of the American monetary system was the last and final objection 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 downturn of the economy.

Once all the bank robbers were well and truly gone, Mr. Beale sat back in his desk chair and took a deep and greatly 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 breed of 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. He would get another job. A better job! A feeling of spiritual enlightenment bathed him in a delicious warm glow.

If the fucking robbers hadn't pulled out all the phone lines; he'd call Martha. Tell her to put on something slinky cause he was on his way home.

His bitch was gonna freak.




The End-
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