Personal Business

You can call me Simon, but that’s not my real name.

There came a point, right around April, when I realized I hadn’t done a job in close to a year. I’d burned through most of my cash, and I got this feeling whenever I touched my gear bag like the walls were closing in. Pretty soon, just thinking about it made me feel like I was choking. There was no way I could go on like that, and I wasn’t old enough to collect Social Security.

It was time to go legit.

I’d never worked for anyone else, but I was good with my hands, so I started doing some landscaping on the side. Nothing big, just some simple lawn care and the occasional gardening. It felt good to pick flowers instead of locks, and as for the snipping and cutting and pulling the heads off dandelions, well, let’s just say that felt better, too.

By August I had myself a nice little list of clients, and I started to figure I could actually make a real business out of it, the kind with employees and equipment. I was damn close to pulling off the impossible: an honest-to-God retirement plan.

The problem was, employees and equipment are expensive, and I didn’t have the kind of up-front money it took to fund such an expansion. In the old days I would have made a late-night withdrawal from a jewelry store, but seeing as I couldn’t pick up my gear without seizing up like an engine in water, I did something I swore I’d never lower myself to.

I walked into a bank.

During operating hours.

The building was an elegant leftover from a hundred years ago, when they still knew how to make things that lasted. High ceilings, stained glass windows, and a stairway you could drive a tank down. An absolute fortress. Even in my prime, I wouldn’t have dared case the place. It took everything I had to stop myself from taking a look at the vault. My guess was that it was one of those 24-bolt Diebold beauties.

“How can I help you?” the manager asked, not bothering to get up from his chair.

I confessed my sins.

“A loan, huh?” He fixed his crisp, new tie. “Business or personal?”

I wanted to say that in my experience all business was personal, but I decided against it. I told him all about my business and how I wanted it to grow. I’m good at reading people, and let’s just say this guy was an open book with a closed mind. He had no interest in helping me, so it wasn’t a surprise when whatever he typed into his computer came back with a big, fat DENIED.

“I’m so sorry,” his mouth said, though the rest of his face didn’t get the memo.

“I can try again in six months, right?” I asked.

“Sure, if you want,” he said, the smile saying, “Don’t bother.” “By then we’ll be in our new location. It’s that nice, new building they’re working on up the block.” The way he said it, I could tell he didn’t appreciate the beauty around us. One of those people who thought old meant bad. Or maybe it was the “colorful” neighborhood that made it undesirable.

“How’d you get the loan for that?” I asked, no longer worried about making a good impression.

He scoffed. “Banks don’t need loans.”

“Interesting. I just assumed a bailout was technically a loan.”

I’d finally managed to wipe that look off his face. Instead of answering me, he slid his business card across the desk from a distance, not wanting to risk touching me.

“I’m happy I could help you today,” he said, ending the conversation.

I took it and left without another word. As I walked back up the grand stairway, I looked at the card.

His name was Mark, which was pretty funny, in my opinion.

A mark was exactly what he looked like to me.

Time passed and the days grew colder. The landscaping jobs fell off, as they do, but that was alright. I had another job to work on, more of a research project, really, and it ate up more and more of my time.

The nice, new building up the block from the old bank was yet another generic luxury apartment, built by some faceless management company. Ten floors of overpriced units for the yuppie who had everything except taste. It was the kind of place I wouldn’t live in if you paid me.

And yet, by Halloween I was one of the first idiots to move in, and all it took was all the money I had left.

Some people paid extra for the penthouses on the top floor, but not me—I was happy with the second floor, just above the future site of a bank. In fact, I insisted.

By the time I moved into my new apartment, I barely recognized the guy looking back at me in the overpriced bathroom mirror. I’d grown a beard and shaved my head, and my eyes were a few shades darker from the lenses. Even my name had changed, this time to Ed. Good old Ed Bachman, who I hadn’t seen since Detroit.

In fact, no one had.

The building was, of course, atrocious. Everything made to look pretty, nothing made to last. Nothing worked the way it was supposed to. Nothing, that was, except the doorman.

Sam was an older gentleman who looked like he’d smiled his way through some pretty rough times. He was too good for that building, though I got the feeling management felt just the opposite. A few of the renters, too. So long as he just worked there and didn’t move into the neighborhood, they wouldn’t say anything.

It was a Wednesday when I broke through the floor. The concrete was barely a few months old and made for easy cutting. After that it was just a matter of removing some panels and climbing down through the drop ceiling.

I had a look around at what passed for a bank those days. LED lights recessed into cheap walls. Mounted flat screens and fancy, uncomfortable chairs. Everything beige, everything empty.

Then I had a look at the vault.

It was just as I thought. Everything made to look pretty, nothing made to last. It was empty, of course, the door wide open. A hollow shell, quietly waiting for its purpose.

I set my bag down and got to work.

“Morning, Mister Bachman,” Sam greeted me through coffee steam. It smelled of almonds, which in my experience was either cyanide or artificial creamer.

“I told you, Sam, call me Ed,” I replied in my practiced Michigan accent.

“Sorry, Mister Bachman,” he shot back with a smile. “Construction’s started early today. Guess they’re in a hurry to finish before the grand opening.”

“I noticed. I’ve barely slept.”

He frowned. “Workers are only here during the day, I thought?”

“What can I say, I keep some weird hours,” I replied, stepping out into the late-November wind.

“I hear you, brother. You have yourself a good day now.”

Sometimes I wished I had a dog, mainly because lurking around a construction site goes a lot smoother if you’re holding a leash and baggie while patiently waiting for an ugly little pug to finish his business.

In lieu of Guy Walking Dog, then, I had to settle for Guy On Phone. So I pulled out one of my burners as I rounded the corner, preparing to pace in front of the nearly completed bank and have the same fake conversation I’d had dozens of times before.

With my focus elsewhere, I didn’t see the man standing in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the way. I bumped into him hard and dropped the burner.

Before I could reclaim it, the man I’d bumped into turned to look at me, probably to tell me off for not looking where I was going.

It was Bank Manager Mark. Mark the mark.

“Sorry about that,” I said, swooping down to grab the burner next to his pristine shoes.

“That’s alright. So long as you open an account when we open,” he quipped, pointing to the nearly finished bank.

“Believe me, I’ll be the first one inside,” I replied.

Mark grinned that grin that just begged to be punched in. A faint look of recognition passed through him, just for a moment, and I wondered if I’d ruined everything. If he identified me as the man who’d sat in his office a few months earlier, it was all over before it began.

Right then, as if driven from heaven, a beat-up armored truck pulled up to the curb.

Mark’s eyes lit up as he forgot all about the bald, bearded man in front of him.

“They could have sent a new truck,” he muttered as he walked away.

“Newer isn’t always better,” I said.

Mark looked back at me like I’d just spoken French.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to your business,” I added, and made my escape.

Night was slow to show. I packed my one suitcase and left it by the door. Then I went into the bedroom, lifted the carpet, grabbed three duffel bags, pulled on my mask, and climbed down into the bank.

The place looked different this time around. Blue-and-gold streamers hung from the teller windows, desks cluttered with free pens and mugs. The glass doors were even lined with balloons.

It was an unexpected welcome, I must say.

The cameras were also working now, which meant the alarm systems were armed. Lucky for me, the vault was already cut. All I had to do was climb on top and carefully remove the section I’d sliced free.

Then I climbed in, filled the duffel bags until they could barely zip shut, and climbed back out.

Twenty minutes later I was walking through the building’s lobby with one suitcase and three duffel bags in tow.

I was halfway across it when a voice called out.

“Leaving so soon?”

It was Sam, sitting behind the front desk.

“Business trip,” I answered.

He pointed. “Weird hours, right?”

“You know it.”

I unzipped my suitcase and handed him the gift-wrapped box I’d planned to leave in the drawer.

“For you. I won’t be back in time for Christmas.”

Sam’s eyes watered up. “Mister Bachman. You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re too good for this place, Sam,” I replied as I walked away. “And no peeking until Christmas.”

I wish I could have been there when they opened the vault. To see the look on Mark’s face when he picked up the business card I’d left.

His own card, with a handwritten note on the back.

Thanks for your help.