The Knock-Off

Randy’s first robbery ended the way such things do: with vomit in a McDonald’s brown bag and a black eye. He tugged the pantyhose leg off his face. It clung to his skin, still wet with sweat. He examined his ghostly reflection in the rear-view mirror. The skin below his left eye bloomed blue and black. He poked at the flesh, wincing as he prodded the tenderness with a clumsy, glove-clad hand. He slowed his breathing, anticipating the sound of sirens, but he heard nothing.

His shirt was sticky, cold, damp and stained red with a now melting slush drink. He smelled like cherry cough syrup. It made his stomach lurch for the third time since the robbery. He felt the bile slide up his esophagus as he retched into the paper bag. Just as he finished throwing up the last of his Double Quarter Pounder with cheese, a poor choice of dinner for a novice criminal, the bag ripped, spilling the violent, half-digested contents of his stomach all over the car seat.

Randy looked at his vomit-covered lap, brick-faced. He was silent for a second before maniacal laughter bubbled up through his lips. This was just the icing on the cake. For months now, he had researched how to commit robbery. Countless episodes of CSI: and Law and Order. He read about the Knightsbridge and Dunbar robberies. He spent endless hours googling safes and vaults. He made notes about the cases: mistakes, problems, time restraints. He knew the process inside out, hypothetically of course, but he knew he could do it.

Earlier that day, he had finally decided to put all of the theory he studied into action. Randy marched to the local dollar store and bought a pair of pantyhose in navy blue and nude, a cheap pair of winter gloves, as well as a child’s police playset, which contained a plastic silver badge, a plastic set of handcuffs, and what he decided was a pretty convincing black, plastic water gun. Randy avoided eye contact with the teenaged cashier chewing a wad of gum like a cow chews cud. He pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill handing to the cashier. He grabbed his change and dashed out of the store, the plastic bag shoved into the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt.

He got home and set the bag on his bed. He consulted his notes as he decided between the navy and the nude pantyhose. He cut off one of the legs of each colour and stretched them over his head, comparing opacity in the mirror. He photographed himself in various flash settings, making sure his face wouldn’t be seen in any kind of light. Randy modelled the gun, holding it in his belt, sticking the barrel in his jeans, placing it in his back pocket, whipping it out as maliciously as he could, growling, “Give me the money and nobody gets hurt” and “This is a robbery, show me your hands”. He filled the gun up with water, feeling the weight of the plastic toy as he stuck it in the waistband of his jogging pants.  He looked confident, the way a robber should look. And he was confident. He knew what he was doing. All he had to do was do it.

He got a soda out of the refrigerator and walked out the porch. He sat in the patio chair that was directly in a ray of afternoon sun. He lived on this cul-de-sac for fifteen years after his parents moved here from the city. He was just seven then. He sighed as he popped the top of the can and took a long sip. Randy saw his father’s forgotten sports section from the Sunday newspaper sitting on the chair next to him and he smiled. It wasn’t often he got the house to himself, but his Aunt Ruth passing away provided the perfect opportunity for him to finally put his plan into action. He told his parents he wasn’t feeling well, feigning a cough and a headache, but told them to make sure to tell Aunt Ruth’s family that he sent his condolences. His father left him a list of emergency contact numbers, making sure he would call if he was feeling worse, and his mother left a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill for a week’s worth of pizza and gas. He was feeling good and his gas tank was full. The stars had aligned, and this was his moment. Randy was going to make the most of it. 

Randy went outside to his car, installed a plastic panel over his licence plate and waited until it was dark. He sat in his car, the heat on full blast, the stereo as loud as he could bear singing along to a playlist he made himself entitled “Stealing Stuff”. He felt sufficiently prepared to inhabit his role as the robber.

He decided he would start small, knocking off an unpatrolled gas station just on the outskirts of the city before the suburbs. He used to go to that place all the time after school, grabbing a king-sized soda and a hotdog from the spinning metal tray next to the cash register. He remembered that there was usually one attendant there during the week and no one ever visited there during the evening. He figured it was a good place to start out. A small hit before a bigger one. He saw this robbery as a chance to gain some experience before he could put together a team and maybe take on a small bank branch. His stomach growled loudly and he realized he forgot to eat in all of the excitement. He remembered that down the street was a small plaza with a couple fast-food joints, where the local kids gathered after baseball games and movies during the summer. He saw the Golden Arches peeking over the roofs that lined the street, and decided that a half-hour wouldn’t hurt. Randy pulled into the drive-thru, fifth in line. He propped his head against the window, running through his mental checklist. He packed the gun, the pantyhose, he wore a baggy sweatshirt and comfortable running shoes. He had the gloves and wore nothing that could identify him. He was set.

He ordered his Double Quarter Pounder with cheese, no pickles, extra ketchup, large fries and a large diet Coke. He quickly hid his pantyhose and gun in the console of the car before driving up to the window. He paid with a twenty-dollar bill, careful to keep his face in the shadows cast by the car. He wished the cashier a good night before driving into the parking lot and voraciously devouring the greasy sandwich. He opened ketchup packet after ketchup packet, making a Jackson Pollock masterpiece in the French fries sleeve. He sucked down half of his soda in one go, the anticipation making him thirsty.

He left his garbage on the passenger seat, figuring that there might be cameras in the parking lot. He drove to the gas station, pulling up adjacent to the glass doors, scoping out the scene. There was one attendant, a young man, maybe a teenager. Lanky, curly hair, glasses. He didn’t look like much of a threat. He was leaned over the counter, reading a magazine. A large cup of slush sat next to him, a green curly straw sticking out of it. There was a television behind him, broadcasting a CCTV feed of the counter. Randy thought about the angle he would have to approach the counter, from the left. He would already be wearing the pantyhose so he wouldn’t be seen. His stomach gurgled. He ate too fast and with the adrenaline kicking in, his burger wasn’t settling. He nursed his stomach and reached into the console, deciding the nude pantyhose were authentic-looking. He did want to be taken as a serious robber, after all. He adjusted the pantyhose over his head, tucking some of his stray hair into the tube of the leg. He placed the water gun, into the waistband of his gray sweatpants and gave himself a slap on the cheek and a rub of the stomach before getting out the car and making his way to the gas station.

Randy pushed the door open, veering left as he walked in. He pulled the gun out of his pants. He dropped his voice to a lower octave as he shouted, “Give me your hands and show me the money!” Randy mentally berated himself, pointing the gun at the kid. “You heard me! Show me your hands and give me the money!”

The kid looked at him, terrified. Randy’s back straightened. Perhaps the boy didn’t hear his mistake. The boy raised his hands, his fingers splayed open as he got up from his seat.

“I said give me the money!”

The boy looked at his open hands and at the gun’s barrel. “I can’t show you my hands and give you the money!”

Randy thought about it for a second. The boy was right. Randy sighed, taking notice of the nametag on his shirt. It read, “My name is EDDIE. How can I help you?”

“Eddie, right?” Randy asked as he gestured to the boy’s shirt. He nodded weakly. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m gonna supervise as you put the money in a bag. That way I see your hands as you give me the money. Got it?”

Eddie looked as if he were on the verge of tears. He reached slowly behind him, producing a key. Randy’s eyes followed as he put the key in the closed register. Eddie turned the key, the drawer popping out with a loud bang. Eddie opened a plastic bag, shoving a few bills into it. All the while, he kept his eyes trained on Randy’s gun. Randy looked into the near-empty register as Eddie filled the bag.  “Where’s the rest of it?”

“The rest of it?”

“Yeah. Where’s the rest of the money?”

“We only keep three hundred dollars in the register!”

“Is there a safe?”

“I don’t know, man”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s my third shift!”

Randy felt bad for the kid. This was not the kind of surprise you want during your first week of a new job. He tried to smile reassuringly under the confining elastic of the hose. “Oh, well, I guess this’ll do, then.” Randy put his spare hand out for the bag, keeping the gun trained on Eddie. But as he leaned over the counter, his finger hit the trigger.

Eddie’s glasses caught the water like a window in the rain, leaving his mouth agape. “Is that a friggin’ water gun?”

Randy panicked, desperately searching for an excuse. “I, uh, was drowned earlier. My gun must still have some water in it.” But Eddy wasn’t buying it. He threw his cup of red slush at Randy, drenching him in cold water and syrup.

“Get the hell out of here, man! Just go!”

Randy reached for the bag once more with his slippery gloves, barely grasping it. He knew that if he left without the money, this whole practice run would have been for nothing. He clasped it with his fingertips before Eddie clutched the bag to his chest. Randy skidded on the puddle around him as he reached for the bag once again, sliding into the counter and hitting his face on the edge. Randy righted himself just in time to see Eddie’s hand dip below the counter and knew he must have activated the silent alarm. He ducked below the camera and rushed out the door, leaving the money in Eddie’s trembling grasp and a puddle of red slush on the floor. He ran back to his car, rolled up the pantyhose to his mouth, turned to the passenger seat and vomited into the McDonald’s bag.

Randy started the ignition and drove and fast as he could, making sure to stop at red lights and yield right of way to avoid suspicion. He thought about why he should even care. It wasn’t like he stole anything. He checked his rear-view mirror every five seconds, assuring himself that he wasn’t being followed. He saw the alley up ahead and parked the car, throwing up yet again into the bag. 

Randy sat in his car, his breath finally slowing as the vomit soaked into his pants. After all of that preparation, he really learned nothing. He couldn’t even steal three hundred dollars from a gas station. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel, wincing as his bruising face made contact with the cold plastic. He pulled the water gun out of his pants, feeling the weight of it in his hands. Maybe the water was a mistake. That had to be it. The water in the pistol gave him away. It was a factor that he never considered. He opened the reservoir chamber of the gun, the water pouring into his already wet lap. He made a mental note to add it to his list of things that go wrong during robberies. He would learn from this mistake, and it would make him a better thief. He smiled, placing the gun into his glove compartment for the next trial run. Next time, he would be ready.