Coming Upon Celeste 1

An Unfortunate Afternoon

I was berating myself over my decision to come to the bank today. This bank in particular. It was a financial institution I had never been in before, but I thought I'd pick up a money order on the way home from work for a purchase I was to make. Now, I found myself embroiled in the middle of a terrorist stand-off at a bank in the middle of Manhattan, with masked gunmen pointing automatic weapons at my head. Sirens were wailing, the red and blue lights were doing their rhythmic dance, and a metallic monologue poured out of a police bullhorn:

'Throw down your weapons!'

'You will not be harmed. Put your hands on top of your head, and exit the bank slowly.'

'Let your hostages go!'

Our captors didn't seem to be paying much attention to the instructions, and giggled amongst themselves as they smoked foul-smelling cigarettes. I believe they were French. The cigarettes, I'm speaking of.

Our "hosts" were being quite stern with us. They were patrolling around the bank with their guns in tow, speaking in Arabic or whatever it might be that Palestinians speak, and flashing angry looks at us sporadically. I really didn't exactly know if they were Palestinian or not; it's just that they had been in the news lately. It was quite apparent that they had never heard of the admonishment 'never point a loaded weapon at a living thing'. If they had, they were ignoring it. They weren't even letting any of us smoke. Sure, I know it's a disgusting and dirty habit, but somehow, a cigarette in the middle of an armed encounter with several angry Arabs seemed like the right thing to do. A bottle of good scotch might have hit the spot as well.

There was one particular aspect that was applying pressure to the whole predicament. They were going to shoot someone every two hours until they received a helicopter and a promise of freedom. They already had what looked like a couple million dollars, but I couldn't be sure, as I'm not accustomed to seeing sums of money that large. I couldn't give them a helicopter, but hell, I'd give them a promise. I couldn't say I would keep it, however.

They had killed the bank manager first, but that was mainly because he foolishly reached for one of terrorist's weapons. He was promptly shot in the back of the head. He never knew what hit him. There was an indistinct expression of astonishment on his face as the bullet exited the front of his skull. The blood splattered on several of the hostages in the bank. In fact, I felt the warmth of several drops of his blood on my arm. They hadn't begun their exercise of choosing their next victim yet. I wondered how they were going to select the next recipient of one of their bullets.

There were only four of them, but they were all brandishing automatic weapons. They might have been Uzis, but I couldn't really be sure. The guns looked to be frightfully big from my vantage point. And rather deadly. With a few gentle sweeps of their arms, I was pretty sure they could have killed us all. Or at least murdered most of us, and maimed the unfortunate few. I'm quite sure they could have trumped anything anyone in the bank had to offer.

The persons in the bank were all looking furtively at one another, each wondering who the next one would be to die in the next two hours. Actually, one hour and fifty four minutes. And counting.

They weren't even letting people go to the restroom. Several people didn't seem to care about that particular detail, however, as they had become incontinent at the first sight of irate Palestinians bearing automatic weapons. Literally scared the piss out of them. The leaky people seemed to be grouping themselves together, I guess so the acrid smell of urine would fall on 'deaf noses', in a manner of speaking. Safety in numbers and all that. I wondered if they were embarrassed. I know that I'd be if I had a large tell-tale spot in the crotch area of my pants. But that's just me. I also speculated on who would be the first one who would have to empty their bowels. 'Boy, wouldn't that be mood-elevating?' I thought to myself laconically

I started to think about the probability of me making it out of the bank alive. Hell, of *anyone* making it out of the bank alive. I did some quick arithmetic in my head. Roughly twenty five people, give or take one or two, times two hours. That would give us roughly fifty hours before we'd all be gone, and they would be out of negotiating chips. I didn't especially like being a chip much.

The women among our group were mainly keeping their eyes down, fearful of giving one of the armed robbers a reason to viciously assault and rape them. I thought they were safe, however, apart from a random execution, as I didn't think carnal desires were what motivated these men. It was more for money, political motives, and a sense of power, however evanescent. Kind of like Republicans.

Great, I thought. Of all the movies I had to walk in on, I had to pop in on the 'Dog Day Afternoon' set. Why couldn't it have been Lady Chatterley's Lover? Or at least I could have happened upon a re-enactment of '48 Hours'. I'm pretty sure Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy would have been able to handle this situation. Most likely.

The one day I chose to go into a bank to pick up a money order, it had to be this one. An insignificant $39.95 money order. Why didn't I just pay by check? Why should I care if there was a written record of me purchasing the 'Strange and Thrilling Hong Kong Sex Acts' video? Well, I would care, as it might hurt my standing as a second-year high school History teacher. Why couldn't I get over my aversion to credit cards? Besides the fact that those companies were like legitimate loan sharks, that is.

I looked at the clock. One hour and thirty one minutes before the first ritual killing. Damn, the second hand on that Bulova was deafening. Tick. Tick. Tick. The minute hand moved along silently.

I determined that there was nothing I could really do to dissuade my captors. I was not resigning myself to a certain death, and I reasoned to myself that the best thing I could do was to think good thoughts. You know, it's part of that 'think good thoughts, good things happen' hippie maxim that was popular in the 60s. No better time than to try it out than now, I reasoned.

I started thinking about the first thing that I would do when I got home. If I got home. It took me a few minutes to decide. First thing, I would prepare some fine Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee in the French press I rarely use. Second, I would probably put on some old Jackson Browne, probably 'Late for the Sky'. How apropos, I thought. Next, even though I wasn't that hungry, I would prepare a pastrami and Swiss on toasted pumpernickel, with a nice slice of kosher dill on the side. It's funny how the simple things became important at times like these.

And of course, I'd call my girlfriend Beth. I wouldn't say I loved her, in keeping with the phrase 'you can't love anyone until you love yourself', but I was terribly fond of her. Then again, maybe I *did* love her. It seems I did at that moment. An extremely intelligent woman, she was pre-law at NYU, and she wasn't too hard on the eyes, if I say so myself. And I just did. I'd invite her to a romantic dinner, complete with candlelight, and I'd prepare a meal of lasagna and Italian sausages, along with a good loaf of bread and a bottle of chianti. Maybe even stop by an Italian bakery earlier and pick up a few cannolis. Beth was awfully fond of those. We would talk about her scholastics, world events, politics, and....

Just then a woman crawled up beside me. I had noticed her out of the corner of my eye before, and while she wasn't far away from me, I'm not sure if our 'hosts' would approve of her joining me. Her cream-colored blouse was splattered with the blood of the unfortunate bank manager.

'I'm frightened.' She spoke softly through tear-stained eyes. 'What should we do?' Her mascara was running, and her face was more or less a mess, although I still found it appealing. In a platonic sort of way.

'The first thing to do here is to stay calm,' I spoke quietly. Easier said than done, I thought. and I slowly reached over and took her hand in my own. I looked over to see our 'hosts' preoccupied with a matter that I wasn't privy to. 'There's really no need to become frozen with fear.' I told her that knowing that I was close to being immobilized with dread myself. Very close.

'But... but... we could die here!' she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

'You're correct... but there's nothing we can really do about it. Umm, I'm sorry... I didn't get your name. Mine's Danny.'

I was thinking that a little familiarity might help calm us. A little calm would be welcome right now. At least to me.

'Hi Danny. I'm Veronica... I'm a teller here. I only started here two weeks ago. I guess I should have taken that temp accounting job in Brooklyn.' She was weeping silently as she said it.

'There are a bunch of police outside. Maybe they'll be able to talk them into some sort of equitable resolution.' I told her this while holding a sober look on my face, hoping not to betray my utter disbelief in the statement. "You live in Brooklyn?"

She went on to quietly explain that she was from Brooklyn, and had been for all of her life. She told how she had spent an inordinate amount of time at Coney Island when she was a kid, and that she was a big fan of Nathan's hot dogs.

I reflected that her life couldn't have spanned much more than twenty five years. Kind of a bad time to die. Then again, what age isn't? I went on to tell her that I was a prospering commodities broker who had migrated from Baltimore for "life in the big city". Is this the manner in how it always ends?

We continued to speak quietly, keeping a watchful eye on the clock, knowing that when it reached five o'clock, one of the persons in the room was slated to die.

'It's quarter 'til five, Danny... do you think they'll do what they said?" she whispered unsteadily.

"Umm, if I know terrorists, and I really don't, they just might," I said to her, keeping my voice down. I attempted to think of something quickly to put her at ease. "Listen, the authorities are outside the bank right now... who knows? They might agree to a compromise or something," I whispered to her while looking directly into her eyes, all the while knowing it was a long shot at best.

Veronica continued to clutch my hand tightly as our abductors casually strolled around the bank, smoking their foul-smelling French cigarettes. Rather too casually, I thought, considering the circumstances. Then again, they were the ones holding the guns. I guess they could afford to be casual. I looked at the clock, and it was a mere seven minutes to "showtime"...

I looked over at Veronica as she gripped my hand tighter, and she was softly sobbing, as were the majority of the women inside the bank. As were about half of the men. I guess the prospect of a quick and unceremonious death will do that to a person.

I clandestinely viewed our captors, and as it turned out, the tallest one seemed to be their leader. 'How cliche'.' I thought. The other gunmen seemed to approach him and confer on decisions of logistics, planning, or just how many cigarettes they might have had left. They had formed into a loose circle, and several of them started to point at an slightly overweight man with a white shirt on. The sweat stains under his arms were quite evident.

'Sheesh... even Arabs tend to discriminate against the overweight.' I thought. I had a nagging feeling that he was the one chosen to be the first of their "sacrificial lambs". Tough break, I thought. Damn tough break.

(to be continued...)