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Friday, November 22, 2019

Cursives! Foiled Again!



The adrenalin boiled and roiled through his body.  Finally, the big day!  Bellingham’s Mime Fest!  

PILAR MORIN    1895

He looked in the mirror.  “Perfect!”   He would be indistinguishable from any of the hundreds of others signed up to don traditional top hat, red kerchief, black and white striped shirt, white gloves and suspendered trousers, all strolling downtown’s sidewalks, running into imaginary glass walls, walking imaginary dogs, or pulling on imaginary ropes.

He examined the note; “THIRTY SECONDS, I’VE GOT A GUN, ALL THE MONEY IN YOUR TILL. NO ALARMS, NO DYE PACKS, NO FOOLISHNESS AND NO ONE GETS HURT! ”

“Perfect.”

He walked into the bank.  The other “customers” smiled.  He glanced at the overhead camera, wordlessly pointed his thumb and index finger in the timeless little boy’s gesture for an imaginary gun, winked, and pantomimed the traditional trigger pull representing a shot.

Wordlessly he handed the note to the smiling teller.  The smile faded, replaced by a quizzical glance.  “What can I do for you sir?”

Impatient, he pointed to the note.

“Sir?”

This time he emphatically hammered on the note with his finger.

“I can’t read this sir. I’m sorry, you’ll just have to tell me what you want.”

Customers were beginning to pay attention.  No more smiles. 

Resolve broken, he turned and fled.

The bank manager suppressed inappropriate laughter as he read.  “Miss Jenkins, are you telling me you really can’t read this note?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn’t you learn to read cursive as a school child Miss Jenkins?”    

“Cursive, Sir?” 

 










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