My alarm went off at six in the morning with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.
I fumbled around on the nightstand, knocked over something that sounded like an empty glass, then finally hit the button hard enough to silence the thing.
Quiet returned to the apartment.
Well, almost. Traffic was already rumbling several floors below, a neighbor was running their shower, and someone, somewhere in the building, had decided that six in the morning was the perfect time to move a piece of furniture.
I remained in bed for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling.
A damp stain had been spreading across it for several months. At first, it had vaguely resembled Florida. Now it looked more like an obese dog lying on its side.
I had been meaning to call the landlord.
Well, "meaning to" might have been generous. I thought about it regularly, which was almost the same thing, provided you had a flexible enough definition of responsibility.
The clock read 6:03.
I closed my eyes.
At 6:05, I opened them again and got up before another nine minutes of sleep could start sounding like a reasonable decision.
The bathroom mirror told me nothing new.
Dark circles. Two days of stubble. Hair flattened on one side. The face of a man who would rather have been anywhere else, including, most likely, his own bed five minutes earlier.
At twenty-eight, I was beginning to suspect that splashing cold water on your face did not actually repair a lack of sleep. I had been deceived by years of movies, advertisements, and advice from people who probably went to bed before ten.
I shaved, brushed my teeth, and put on my uniform.
Dark blue shirt. Matching pants. Black tie. Polished boots. The security company's patch sewn onto the shoulder.
I had ironed it the night before.
I always ironed my uniform.
Even the pants.
Even the sleeves.
And, once or twice, certain pairs of socks.
No one looked at the socks, obviously. But that wasn't the point.
There was nothing impressive about the uniform. No official badge. No gun. No particular authority beyond the right to ask someone not to block a fire exit or sleep in front of the bank's doors.
It wasn't even particularly well tailored.
Still, every time I put it on, I stood a little straighter.
It was probably ridiculous.
It worked anyway.
I started the coffee and picked up the newspaper that had been pushed beneath my door.
A shooting in Brooklyn took up half the front page. Below it was an article about a string of burglaries and a gang the police had been searching for over the past several weeks.
New York really went out of its way to make breakfast enjoyable.
I folded the paper, picked up a piece of toast, and bit into it just as the phone began to ring.
At that hour, the possibilities were limited.
Either someone was dead, or my mother had decided that normal telephone hours did not apply to her.
I answered.
"Good morning, Mom."
"Frankie, were you already awake?"
I looked at my uniform, my coffee, and the open newspaper in front of me.
"No. I answer the phone in my sleep."
"Very funny."
She did not find it funny.
My mother had a particular way of saying "very funny." It usually meant: I love you, but you can be unbearable sometimes.
"Your father wanted to know whether you've thought about his offer."
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
No one was dead. Just my career, once again.
"I've thought about it."
"And?"
"And my answer hasn't changed since the last time."
"You could at least come over and discuss it with him."
"We already discussed it."
"Not seriously."
"He made a chart."
Silence passed over the line.
My father loved charts. He thought an upward curve could solve any problem, whether it involved company profits, a family dispute, or the general disappointment represented by his only son.
"He only wanted to show you the opportunities available to you," my mother continued.
"I understood the opportunities."
"Then why are you refusing?"
I took a sip of coffee.
It was too hot. I burned my tongue, but I had already committed myself to the conversation, so I considered it deserved punishment.
"Because I don't want to work for the company."
"You would have a good position."
"Exactly."
"I don't understand."
"Assistant vice president, Mom. I don't even know what an assistant vice president is supposed to do."
"You would learn."
"That isn't particularly reassuring."
She sighed.
I could almost see her standing in the kitchen of the family home, cup in hand, already dressed even though she probably had nothing planned before nine.
My parents belonged to that category of people who considered sleeping past sunrise a sign of moral weakness.
"You have a degree," she said. "You know the company. The employees like you."
"The employees like me because I don't work with them."
"Frank."
"I'm just saying that could change."
"Your father wants to give you a chance."
"Dad wants to put me in an office and wait for me to turn into a younger version of him."
"That isn't fair."
"He's at least hoping I'll wear the same suits."
She remained silent for a few seconds.
"Do you still want to join the police?"
The question was simple.
So was the answer.
"Yes."
"Even after the rejections?"
That one stung a little more.
I had taken the exam twice. I had passed the written tests. Passed the physical assessments. Answered ridiculous questions during interviews that seemed to last for several days.
Then I had been rejected.
Too many applicants. Not enough openings. Better luck next time.
Polite phrases that simply meant no.
"I'll try again."
"Your father thinks you're wasting your time."
"Dad thinks anything that doesn't generate quarterly profits is a form of mental illness."
"He doesn't think that."
"No. He also likes golf."
This time, I clearly heard her smother a laugh.
Small victory.
"We worry about you, Frankie," she said. "That's all. You work hard for a salary that barely pays for your apartment."
I looked up at the stain on the ceiling.
It had probably grown since I woke up. At that rate, it would soon start paying part of the rent itself.
"My apartment has character."
"Your ceiling has mold."
"That's what gives it character."
"Frank."
"I'm fine, Mom."
It was my usual answer.
It had the advantage of being brief and not entirely untrue.
I wasn't rich. I didn't know whether I would ever manage to join the police. My bank account did not contain any amount of money likely to impress anyone.
But I had chosen this life.
Maybe it had been a bad choice. Maybe I was simply too proud to admit it.
At least it belonged to me.
"You're still coming to dinner on Sunday?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Your father is cooking."
"I'll bring medication."
"He's gotten better."
"Does he still put raisins in the stuffing?"
She did not answer.
"I'll bring plenty of medication."
She finally laughed.
"Be careful, Frankie."
"Always."
We hung up.
I finished my coffee, grabbed my jacket, and went down to the street.
The neighborhood was waking up slowly, or violently, depending on how close you were standing to the metal shutters of the stores.
Taxis were already honking as if the city might fail to start without their assistance. A bus coughed out a black cloud in the middle of the avenue. Someone shouted from a window that someone else was a son of a bitch.
New York.
The city that never slept and was apparently in a bad mood because of it.
Mr. Patel was arranging crates outside his grocery store. He raised a hand when he saw me approaching.
"Officer Frank!"
"Still not an officer, Mr. Patel."
"You wear a uniform."
"So do movie theater employees."
"They never helped me fix my lock."
The previous day, the door to his storeroom had jammed. I had pushed against it with my shoulder while he turned the key.
Since then, I had become a locksmith in his mind.
He picked up an apple and tossed it to me.
I barely caught it.
"For the road."
"I can pay for it."
"I know. But if I wait for you to voluntarily buy a piece of fruit, I'll be dead first."
I looked at the apple.
"Coffee comes from a plant."
"Go to work, Frank."
I slipped the fruit into my pocket and continued on my way.
Two teenagers were sitting on the steps of an apartment building, their schoolbags resting at their feet. One of them was hiding something in his sleeve with all the subtlety of a man attempting to conceal a fire.
I slowed down.
"You know the smoke is still visible, right?"
"We're not doing anything, Frank."
"Then you're remarkably bad at doing nothing."
The younger one pulled a cigarette from his sleeve and crushed it beneath his shoe.
"You going to tell our parents?"
"Depends. Are you planning to do it again tomorrow?"
They exchanged a look.
"No."
"Then I can't imagine what I would have to tell them."
I walked away before they noticed I was smiling.
I knew most of the people in the neighborhood.
They knew my schedule, my habits, and my mother's first name. They also knew I wanted to become a police officer, which was apparently enough reason to entrust me with their neighbor disputes, jammed locks, and, on one occasion, a cat trapped on a gutter.
I had never managed to retrieve the cat.
It had come down on its own while I searched for a ladder.
The owner had thanked me anyway, which proved that the expectations placed upon me were not especially high.
I was two blocks from the bank when an old woman entered the crosswalk with her shopping cart.
The light had just turned red.
She did not appear to have noticed.
Neither had the driver of the truck turning from the avenue.
I saw it before she did.
A large white mass moving far too quickly, driven by a man who was looking to his left when the danger was very clearly in front of him.
I dropped my apple and grabbed the woman by the arm.
I probably pulled harder than necessary.
She stumbled against me with her cart just as the truck passed in front of us in a scream of its horn. The rush of air snapped my jacket and threw my tie over my shoulder.
The truck stopped several yards farther down.
The driver stuck his head through the window and shouted something.
I did not understand the words, but his tone suggested that he possessed a creative interpretation of traffic law.
I answered him with a finger.
Not the most diplomatic response.
"You could have broken my arm," the old woman protested.
I looked down.
My hand was still gripping her coat.
I released her immediately.
"Sorry."
She looked at the truck, then at the remaining distance between herself and the road.
"You saved my life."
"Then we're even over the arm."
She stared at me for a second, then let out a small, trembling laugh.
"Thank you, young man."
"At least wait for the light to turn green before crossing this time."
I accompanied her to the other side of the street and waited until she reached the sidewalk.
When I returned, my apple had split open on the asphalt.
I was strangely upset.
Which was ridiculous. I had probably just prevented a woman from being run over, but part of my brain remained focused on the free fruit I would no longer get to eat.
Human beings truly were remarkable creatures.
I threw the apple into a trash can and checked my watch.
I was going to be late.
Well, no.
I still had seventeen minutes to walk two blocks, but I was usually twenty minutes early. In my mind, that already counted as an emergency.
First National Bank occupied the corner of the avenue in a building made of pale stone and glass. It had columns at the entrance, a marble lobby, and enough gold trim to convince customers that their money was in the hands of serious people.
I entered through the staff entrance at 6:45.
Paul, the night guard, was sitting in the security office with his feet on the desk and a cup of black coffee in his hands.
The drink looked thick enough to repair my ceiling.
He looked at the clock, then at me.
"I thought you were sick."
"I ran into a traffic problem."
"You walk here."
"That's what makes the situation particularly concerning."
He grunted as he stood and handed me the radio.
"Nothing to report. The rear alarm went off again around three."
"The same sensor?"
"The same damn sensor."
"You told maintenance?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They said they'd send someone."
We looked at each other.
"So no one is coming," I concluded.
"Probably ever."
I quickly went through the logbook.
Apart from the faulty sensor, the night had been quiet.
"Go home and sleep before you collapse."
"I already tried sleeping standing up. Bad idea."
He put on his jacket, slapped me on the shoulder, and shuffled out.
I made my rounds before opening.
Doors. Cameras. Fire exits. Extinguishers.
I checked everything twice because I always checked everything twice, even things that had no reason to change between two inspections conducted thirty seconds apart.
The rear sensor was indeed blinking.
I recorded it in the logbook, allowing management to continue ignoring it while maintaining a written record of the problem.
When I returned to the lobby, Claire had arrived.
She stood behind the reception desk, her brown hair tied into a ponytail and a pencil tucked behind one ear. She was sorting through a stack of forms beside the mug that read "WORLD'S BEST RECEPTIONIST," which I had given her for her birthday.
She had laughed for almost five minutes when she opened it.
I still had not figured out whether she found it funny or simply hideous.
She looked up.
"What happened to you?"
I stopped.
"Nothing. Why?"
"Your tie."
I looked down.
It was slightly crooked.
Slightly.
Barely.
I immediately straightened it.
"I was almost hit by a truck."
"And your tie is what concerns you?"
"The truck is gone. The tie is still here."
"Your priorities are fascinating."
"They're very well organized."
Claire shook her head.
"One day, you're going to start ironing your socks."
I did not answer.
Her smile slowly faded.
"Frank."
"What?"
"Do you iron your socks?"
"Only some of them."
She stared at me as if I had just confessed to storing corpses in my kitchen.
"What does 'only some of them' mean?"
"Dress socks."
She burst out laughing and had to put one hand on the counter. Several employees turned to look at us.
I smiled despite myself.
I liked making her laugh.
I probably liked too many things about her, which explained why I had spent several months thinking about the best way to ask her out and why I had still done absolutely nothing.
Every time an opportunity presented itself, my brain immediately called an emergency meeting and voted in favor of retreat.
"What time do you finish?" I asked.
The question escaped before my usual cowardice could intervene.
"Six. Why?"
There it was.
A perfectly simple question.
All I had to do was ask whether she wanted to get a drink. Men had been doing that sort of thing since the invention of beverages and women.
It was statistically impossible for it to be as complicated as I thought it was.
"For closing," I replied. "I need to know who will still be here."
Claire tilted her head slightly.
"Of course."
"It's important for security."
"Obviously."
"Exactly."
She waited.
I said nothing.
"You're really bad at this, Frank."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't."
She returned to her forms, still smiling.
I went back to my post, wondering whether it was possible to die of embarrassment and have it classified as a workplace accident.
Tonight.
I would ask her tonight.
Not tomorrow. Not the following week. Not after creating a twelve-step plan with several contingency options.
Tonight, at six, I would ask her to get a drink with me.
She would accept or she would refuse.
Either way, the Earth would probably continue to turn.
The morning was perfectly ordinary.
A child set off the alarm on a fire exit by leaning against the bar. A man spent twenty minutes explaining to an employee that bank fees violated the Constitution. A woman asked me where the restrooms were while standing directly in front of the sign pointing toward them.
Security work consisted primarily of long stretches in which nothing happened, interrupted by very short periods in which something stupid occurred.
Around eleven, I noticed the man sitting in the waiting area.
I had already seen him, obviously.
He had entered shortly after opening and sat down on one of the benches, a dark cap pulled low over his forehead. People waited in banks. It was practically the building's primary activity.
The problem was that he had been waiting for nearly three hours.
He had not filled out a form. He had not asked for information. Two employees had offered to help him, but he claimed he was waiting for someone.
That might have been true.
Maybe his mysterious appointment was simply three hours late.
But he rarely looked at the door.
He watched the cameras.
The office corridor.
The teller stations.
Me.
His leg bounced constantly, and his hands remained in the pockets of his jacket despite the warmth of the lobby.
Something was wrong.
It was not a supernatural revelation or the legendary instinct of the police officer I was not. Just several small details that meant nothing individually but formed a picture I did not like at all.
I moved toward the entrance, raising the radio to my mouth.
"Front desk to security. Suspicious individual in the…"
The man stood.
He pulled a pistol from his jacket.
"Drop it."
His voice was calm.
Not truly calm. More like the voice of a man who had practiced that sentence several times before arriving and hoped he would not need to improvise another one.
I dropped the radio.
The doors opened behind me.
Two more men entered the lobby, their faces covered. The first carried a shotgun. The second held a pistol in one hand and a duffel bag in the other.
The man with the shotgun fired into the ceiling.
The blast filled the lobby.
The sound was deafening, far louder than in the movies. Plaster fell from the ceiling and, for half a second, everyone remained still, as if our brains needed time to accept what had just happened.
Then the screaming began.
"Everybody on the floor!" the man with the shotgun shouted. "Keep your hands where I can see them!"
Customers threw themselves down. A woman knocked over a chair. Someone began to cry.
I remained standing one second too long.
The man in the cap aimed his weapon at my chest.
"You too, guard. On the floor."
I looked at my baton.
One baton against three guns.
Even the stupidest action movies would have rejected that scenario.
I slowly lay on my stomach and placed my hands behind my head. My cheek touched the cold marble.
The man tore the radio from my belt and sent it sliding beneath a desk. Then he removed my baton and threw it out of reach.
"No stupid shit," he said. "No heroes."
There was little risk of that.
My heart pounded against my ribs so violently that I could almost feel my uniform moving with each beat.
I had imagined this kind of situation dozens of times.
Not deliberately, but when you worked in a bank while carrying a frustrated desire to join the police, your imagination was bound to produce a few scenarios.
In those scenarios, I was always calm.
I noticed everything. I found an opening. I subdued one of the robbers and bought a few seconds until the police arrived.
Reality was less flattering.
I was afraid.
Not a noble or controlled fear. An animal fear that dried out my mouth and made my limbs too heavy.
I wanted to disappear into the floor and let someone more competent solve the problem.
Two of the robbers grabbed the manager and dragged him toward the vault.
When he tried to explain that the opening mechanism required time, one of them struck him in the face with the stock of his weapon.
The third remained in the lobby to watch the hostages.
The man in the cap.
Up close, he looked young. Twenty, perhaps younger. His shoulders rose and fell too quickly. His hand trembled around his pistol, and his gaze constantly jumped from one hostage to another.
He was probably just as frightened as we were.
The difference was that he had a gun.
I turned my head slightly.
Claire was lying several feet away from me, behind her counter. Her hands covered the back of her neck, and her face was almost pressed against the floor.
She was breathing too quickly.
Our eyes met.
I wished I could make her understand that everything would be all right.
I had absolutely no idea whether it would.
A child began crying near the entrance. His mother held him against her and whispered something into his hair.
"Quiet!" the young robber shouted.
The crying grew softer but did not stop.
He walked between the hostages, waving his weapon. The barrel moved from one person to another without him seeming to realize it.
The more threatening he tried to appear, the more obvious his panic became.
Then he stopped in front of Claire.
Her breathing now came in small, strangled sounds. She tried to hold them back, which was probably only making the attack worse.
"Stop that," he said.
Claire raised one hand to her mouth.
She could not stop.
"I said stop!"
He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her onto her back.
She screamed.
The pistol ended up only inches from her face.
I raised my head.
"Hey."
The young man turned toward me.
"Shut up."
"She's having a panic attack. Let her breathe."
I do not know why I thought logic would work.
Maybe because I needed to do something, and talking was the only available option that did not seem likely to result in my immediate death.
"I said shut up!"
His foot struck me in the ribs.
The pain knocked the air from my lungs and rolled me onto my side. For several seconds, I could do nothing but struggle to breathe.
"Frank," Claire whispered.
The robber turned back toward her.
"You shut up too!"
She tried.
I watched her take a breath, clench her teeth, and fight against her own body. But panic attacks were not known for obeying instructions delivered at gunpoint.
Another sob escaped her.
The young man looked toward the vault.
His accomplices had still not returned.
"Fuck…"
He ran his free hand over his face.
His weapon was shaking badly enough for me to see it from the floor.
Claire inhaled sharply.
He raised his arm.
Maybe he only intended to hit her.
Maybe he was going to shoot.
There was probably an intelligent version of me who would have waited to be certain, judged the distance, observed his balance, and prepared a proper attack.
That version was not present.
I got to my feet and threw myself at him.
My shoulder struck his stomach. We crashed against Claire's counter, knocking over her mug and sending forms flying around us.
The pistol fired.
The blast erupted beside my ear.
For a moment, I could hear nothing except a high-pitched ringing.
The robber punched me in the face. My lip split against my teeth, and the taste of blood filled my mouth.
He tried to bring his weapon around toward me, but I grabbed his wrist with both hands.
He was younger.
I was heavier.
It was not a sophisticated combat technique, but gravity had always been a reliable ally.
We rolled across the floor. His elbow dug into my throat.
I slammed his wrist against the marble.
Once.
Twice.
The pistol fell.
I grabbed it before he could and backed away on my knees, aiming the weapon in his direction.
"Don't move."
My voice trembled so badly that the command might have sounded comical under different circumstances.
It was the first time I had held a gun since the few shooting-range sessions I had attended years earlier.
It was heavy.
Warm.
Far too real between my hands.
The young robber stared at me with wide eyes.
He was no longer an armed man.
Just a terrified kid lying on the floor.
"Don't move," I repeated.
For one moment, the entire lobby seemed to hold its breath.
Then the corridor doors opened.
The two other robbers returned, bulging bags of cash slung over their shoulders.
The one carrying the shotgun saw his accomplice on the floor.
Then he saw me holding the pistol.
I wanted to order him to drop his weapon.
I did not even have time to open my mouth.
The first shot struck my shoulder.
I spun beneath the impact.
The pain did not come immediately. There was only an enormous force that threw me sideways.
The second shot entered beneath my ribs.
This time, I felt something.
Not exactly pain.
More like a brutal heat tearing through my body and taking my legs with it.
I fell onto my back.
The ceiling appeared above me, with the hole left by the first gunshot.
White dust still floated through the light like a particularly unwelcome snowfall.
People were screaming.
The robbers were screaming too.
They pulled their accomplice to his feet and ran toward the exit. One of them passed close enough for me to see the sole of his shoe.
No one fired again.
The door slammed shut behind them.
Then the lobby exploded into movement.
Customers climbed to their feet. Someone was calling the police. A woman screamed that they needed an ambulance.
I tried to breathe.
That was a mistake.
The pain arrived all at once, deep and burning. Something warm was spreading beneath my shirt and running down my side.
My beautiful, perfectly ironed uniform.
Ruined.
I found that strangely insulting.
Claire appeared above me and dropped to her knees.
Her hands pressed against my chest.
"Frank."
Her voice broke around my name.
"Frank, look at me."
I was already looking at her.
She pressed harder against the wound, and the pain became so intense that my vision turned white for a moment.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, but I have to keep pressure on it. Did someone call an ambulance?"
Several people answered at once.
I understood none of them.
Claire had blood on her hands.
My blood.
Which was probably the worst possible way to finally manage to hold her hand.
"You're going to be okay," she said. "Do you hear me? They're coming. Stay with me."
People always said that sort of thing in movies.
The wounded person nodded. The ambulance arrived. After a sufficiently emotional hospital scene, everyone went home with an impressive scar.
I did not think things were going to happen that way.
I tried to speak.
Only a breath escaped my mouth.
"Don't talk," Claire said.
The one time I had something important to say, she chose that exact moment to become authoritative.
"Claire…"
She leaned closer to me.
"I'm here."
"I wanted…"
My breathing stopped.
I had to wait several seconds before I managed to draw in a little air.
"You can tell me later."
"Tonight…"
Her face was starting to blur.
I blinked and managed to bring it back into focus.
"I wanted to ask if…"
I could not finish.
Claire stared at me.
Then she understood.
I saw it in her eyes and in the way her mouth trembled before she managed to smile.
"Yes, Frank."
I did not know whether she was telling the truth.
Maybe she would have accepted.
Maybe she would have gently refused before spending the following weeks pretending it had not made our conversations awkward.
Maybe she was only saying yes because I was dying on the floor in front of her.
It did not seem particularly important anymore.
"Yes," she repeated. "We'll go out. Anywhere you want. But you have to stay with me, okay?"
I tried to smile.
I did not know whether my face still obeyed me.
A siren sounded in the distance.
I thought about my mother.
Of course I thought about her.
She had told me to be careful less than five hours earlier, which was going to prove her right in a way neither of us would appreciate.
I thought about my father too.
His company.
Sunday dinner.
The raisin stuffing I would no longer get to complain about.
The apartment, the moldy ceiling, and the landlord I had never called.
All those insignificant things that suddenly became incredibly precious because I would never have to endure them again.
My gaze dropped toward my uniform.
The blue fabric had turned almost black around the wound.
I had spent years wanting to become a police officer.
Imagining myself wearing a real uniform.
Doing something that mattered.
Becoming the kind of man who ran toward danger while everyone else ran away.
I had never earned the badge.
I had never arrested a criminal.
I had not saved the city.
The robbers had even escaped with the money.
But Claire was alive.
It was not much.
It was enough.
She removed one hand from my chest and placed it against my cheek.
"Stay with me, Frank."
I wanted to promise her.
I had always been fairly good at making promises I believed I could keep.
This one would have been a lie.
The siren drew closer, but Claire's voice seemed to grow farther away. The ceiling lights lost their edges, and her face became the only thing still clear within my field of vision.
My final thought was neither heroic nor particularly profound.
I really should have asked her out sooner.
Then everything went dark.