Grim Judgment

by Jennifer Reinfried

1983

  I obviously survived Seth’s attack. I mean, it was a really bad beating, don’t get me wrong. Just like Jessica, I was in the hospital, but only for a couple of days. My injuries were nothing compared to hers. I don’t want to bore you with the details of how I took days to heal, though, days that stretched into months. Seth went to jail for his assault on me as well as the one on Jessica, who, after recovering, was whisked out of state by her parents, never to be seen again. The cops were even able to connect him to the liquor store robbery, so he was going to be serving quite some time.

  Due to my injuries, as well as the fact that I became slightly obsessed with perfecting my ability, I ended up quitting my job at Permanent Records, much to the disappointment of my mother. I spent my time locked in my room, ignoring the outside world, learning as much as I could about the transference, until one day, Mom pounded on my door.

  “What the fuck are you doing in there?” she yelled.

  I was snapped out of the current transfer I was in and toppled to the floor. Three weeks ago I had learned how to pull myself out of other people without the use of my alarm, which was a huge step for me. I don’t know why it took me so long to learn. All I had to do was reach out with my mind and connect with my old consciousness and give it a slight tug, and I was back in my own body. Don’t ask me how it works. I have no idea.

  “Mom!” I shouted. “What the hell?” I stood, rubbing the sore spot on my temple where it had connected with the thinning carpet of my room.

  “Open this door.”

  I twisted the lock and let her in without a word.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Nothing. Reading.”

  “Bullshit.” She stormed into my room, her eyes moving around. “You sit in here every single day with the door locked.”

  “So? I’m almost twenty-two, mom, I’d like my damn privacy.”

  “Yeah, but you live under my roof. If you’re doing fucking drugs, I have a right to know.”

  “Excuse me? Drugs?” My mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? I’m not doing drugs, Mom.”

  “Right. Sure.” She started picking stuff up, moving things around.

  “Mom, cut it out. I’m not hiding anything!”

  “Then you won’t mind me looking.” She lifted my mattress with a grunt.

  I rolled my eyes and threw up my hands. “Fine! I don’t give a shit.” I lowered myself into the chair I used for transfers and watched her go through my belongings, arms crossed.

  After ten minutes of my mother tossing my room, I sighed audibly, and she turned her attention to me.

  “If you’re not doing drugs, then why do you keep locking yourself in, hmm?”

  “Mom, I’m just chilling.”

  “Just chilling? Why don’t you go out and get a job? I’ve been working more doubles lately since you’ve quit the record store just to keep feeding you.”

  I looked at my feet. Ever since Seth had attacked Jessica, I’d avoided almost all social contact. Even though no one knew what had happened but me, even though Seth had been put away for what he did, not a day had gone by that I hadn’t blamed myself for what Jessica had gone through. This was made worse by the fact that I couldn’t talk to anyone about what had happened, couldn’t even confess to my own mother. The crushing guilt I felt kept me locked away in my room well after my physical wounds had healed.

  My mom must have noticed the look on my face. She sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on her knees, leaning forward.

  “Look,” she said, softer now. “I know the last few months have been hard.”

  I scoffed. Looking back on this, I realize I was being an asshole, a selfish asshole, but you know it’s hard to see things differently in the moment.

  “But I need your help, Bruce. I’m exhausted, okay? I love you. I love having you around, but I can’t do this by myself.”

  I looked up at her, arms still crossed. “I don’t know if I can get my job at the record store back, Mom.”

  “There’s plenty of other work out there.” She stood. “Jim is hiring at his gas station a few blocks over. You could apply there.”

  “Seriously? I’m not working at a gas station.” Yeah, I know. I told you. Selfish asshole.

  “Then find something else. I don’t care what it is.”

  “Well, I do.” I got out of the chair and glared at her. Although she’s taller than me by half a foot, she often hunched, which brought us eye to eye most of the time.

  “Get a job,” she said.

  “Oh my fucking God, okay. I will. Happy?”

  “Then find an apartment. You’re too old to be living at home.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Mom was all I had left.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you here.”

  I nodded and moved around her to my bed, where I picked up the book I’d been reading off and on. Mom, who in all fairness didn’t realize she’d hurt me, gave me half a smile then moved out of my room, leaving me to sit on my mattress with my head in my hands.

  —-

  I didn’t get a job. I sat locked in my room, still blaming myself for everything for another week before I committed my first robbery.

  Look, to be fair, I ultimately did it to help my mom. I’d been a real shit lately, ignoring her, not contributing to my life at home. I know that’s not an excuse, and that there really isn’t one for stealing other people’s money, but man, what a thrill it was.

  I had sat in my room that entire week, trying and failing to come up with a way that one, provided income to my mother, and two, meant I didn’t have to work at a gas station. Yes, I did call Chris at Permanent Records to see if I could have my old job back. I’d made myself sound pathetic, dropped a bunch of hints stating that it had taken a lot longer to recover, tried to throw a guilt trip on him about me being unemployed and needing money, even though I had been the one to quit. No matter how sad my story was, though, Chris said he’d hired a replacement, and he couldn’t afford another employee at the time.

  After that, I spent some time looking through the want ads. I really did. Mom had been right when she said there were plenty of places looking for help. As I scoured the newspaper, I realized she had been right about another thing as well: I should have gone to college. I didn’t want to work at a gas station, as you know, but also didn’t want to be a deli manager, work at a video store (not after what happened), or learn a trade in a slaughterhouse. Unfortunately, without a degree, jobs like those were all I could really find.

  I had nearly given up when a small ad caught my eye. The local bank in Colorado Springs was looking to hire a teller. I figured that might be easy and would have at least some sort of pride in it, so I called the number in the advertisement. The next day, a Thursday, I had an interview with the branch manager. My mom had been thrilled to hear the news, and had helped me dig out my best clothes that weren’t a band’s shirt and some torn jeans.

  “You’re going to have to buy an entirely new wardrobe if you get this job,” she had said. Great. Bruce the businessman. Totally my style. Still, at least it was something.

  The bank was only four blocks away. It was mid-May and in the high sixties, so I decided to walk. Before I had left, she’d nearly tackled me and made sure I added a second layer of deodorant before heading out the front door. Moms.

  When I arrived, I made my way to a row of plain brown chairs and sat down. I had shown up twenty minutes early. I could smell the aroma of cheap coffee brewing somewhere in the vicinity. Employees spoke to customers and to each other in lowered voices, and the atmosphere actually reminded me of the hushed air of a library, minus the books, of course. Fingers tapped on large calculators, and the friction from bills sliding against each other made light fshhhh noises. I settled in my chair, back slouched, and fingered through the meager amount of magazines left out on a small table to my right.

  “Hey, man.”

  I glanced up to see a young man about my age
with poofy yellow hair fashioned into a short mullet. He grinned as I looked up and I noticed his two front teeth were horribly crooked.

  “Hey,” I replied. I know I knew him from somewhere; those teeth were extremely familiar.

  “Eric.” He stuck out his hand. “I come into Permanent Records like, all the time.”

  “Oh, shit, yeah. How’s it going, man?” I stood and we shook.

  “All good, all good. I heard about what happened. That guy kicking your ass, and all.”

  I figured people would have talked about the incident with Seth for a while, as everyone loves a good gossip about others’ drama, but I was still irritated.

  “Looks like you healed up good, though,” Eric was saying.

  “Yeah. It sucked, but I’m back on my feet now.” I didn’t know what else to really say. I hated small talk.

  “You still workin’ down there?”

  “Nah. Quit. Figured banking was my true calling.”

  He snorted and took in my pale yellow button down shirt and brown dress pants. “Oh, wait. Really?”

  “It’s not by choice.” I shrugged. “Took a bit to recover, so they had to replace me at the record store.”

  “That sucks, man. I love that place.”

  “Yeah, I did, too.”

  “Well, I hope you get the job here, at least. It’s a decent place to work.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You work here?”

  “Not here specifically. I repair ATMs, those machines that spit out your cash. I also do their maintenance checks.”

  I nodded. Like I didn’t know what an ATM was.

  “Yeah, the one here was actin’ up so I came in and worked my magic.” Eric wiggled his eyebrows, which creeped me out. “Got four more to do service checks on by five today.”

  “Sweet.”

  “But yeah, the girls in the teller line always chat with me when I come in. They seem to like it here. I’m sure you will, too.” He clapped me on the shoulder, and I swear it was in that moment, when his hand came into contact with me, that a light clicked on above my head.

  “Eric?”

  “Yo.”

  “Are you the only ATM repair dude around here?”

  “Nah, there’s a few of us. Sometimes we have to go out of town. Why, are you interested? I don’t think we’re hiring, but I could always get you an application to fill out.”

  “No, not really,” I said quickly. “If this doesn’t work out here, I might try to get my old job back,” I lied. Yeah, I know, I already tried that, but he doesn’t know that. In all honesty, at that moment, I just wanted him to go away.

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind.” Eric grinned, flashing his weird teeth at me again.

  “Mr. Rettig?” I heard a man’s voice say. I turned to see a short, round, well-dressed man with his hand extended.

  “Yeah.” We shook.

  “If you’ll follow me, we can talk in my office.”

  I gave Eric a slight wave, then made my way to the back area of the bank, close on the heels of the manager. The interview went well, considering my mind wasn’t focused on much more than the transfer I was dying to do.

  —-

  “How did it go?” My mom almost tackled me the second I came through the door. She was in the kitchen, dressed in the white shirt and green skirt that all employees at her diner were made to wear.

  “Fine.” I hurried to my room.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Get back here.” I swear I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck. I turned, and sure enough, she stood with one hand on her hip, glaring at me. “I’m going to work a double again tonight. The least you can do is have lunch with me.”

  I almost turned her down. Because, hey, let’s say it again, I’m a selfish asshole. But I couldn’t. She worked so hard, had been through so much, the least I could do was...oh wait, shit, she was right again. I smiled and plopped down at the kitchen table.

  “Tell me how it went.” Mom turned back to the stove. The aroma of the grilled cheese she was frying intensified, and my mouth watered a little.

  “I guess it was okay. The manager is nice.”

  “Good. What kind of questions did he ask you?”

  “You know, typical stuff. My job history, education, where I see myself in five years.” I stood and pulled out two plates along with silverware and set them in our places on the table.

  “Bowls, too.” She gestured at a small pot on the back burner where tomato soup simmered.

  I returned to the cupboard and hunted for two clean bowls. As I did so, my mind wandered to Eric. Creepy Eric with his weird teeth. ATM repair, huh?

  Okay, I admit it, I’m stalling. You don’t care how my interview went, or what I had for lunch before my mother went to work. I know. To tell the truth, I’m embarrassingly worried that you’re going to learn about all the things I was about to do and think I’m an awful person. I mean, yes, I stole money, and I stole it from a lot of different places. But I’m not a bad guy, not some villain. I’m a decent person. I took care of my mother as best I could after Dad died. I was a good kid, got decent grades in school, never bullied anyone. I tried to help Jessica, and I didn’t even look at her naked. Hell, I could be using my ability to look at every hot girl in the nude, but I never did, not once. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone screws up, at some point in their lives. Thinks they’re right when they’re not, judges others for petty reasons, lies to people they love, talks bullshit behind people’s backs. I’m not trying to dampen what I’ve done. But trust me when I say, at the time, I thought I was doing something good, even though it ended up being something selfish that got way out of control.

  And I paid for it. You better believe I paid for it.

  After lunch, my mother left for work and I cleaned up the kitchen before finally getting to my room. I sat in my chair and glanced at the clock on my nightstand: 2:17 p.m. Perfect. I had a little over two and a half hours to see if my plan was going to work.

  I focused on Eric, eyes closed, and felt my mind instantly begin to drift. Told you I’d been practicing.

  Anyway, on Eric’s final run, I figured out how I was going to do it. I watched him using a manual where, surprisingly, a memorable string of numbers was listed after the word “passcode.” I hopped back into my body, wrote it down on my desk, then went back into Eric, who at that point had already input the code into the ATM he was working on. I made a mental note of the different options he was given and laughed inside my own head. Or my own consciousness, or whatever.

  I continued through his maintenance check until it was fully complete and he was heading toward the front door of the bank. I stayed in Eric until he got in his van and began to drive away, then popped back to my body, a grin already on my face.

  —-

  That night, after the sun had fully set, I left home in dark pants, a black sweater, and a fuzzy, nondescript black winter hat, and made my way to the ATM. My first mistake, I realized quickly, was walking. It had cooled considerably, had to be in the low forties, and my fingers and ears chilled within a few minutes. I put the hat on, but hadn’t brought gloves, so I stuffed my hands into my pockets and quickened my pace.

  I could smell the scent of fresh flora that had dampened in the cold, reminding me of the days I would wake up to my dad gardening in the spring. He had always loved planting new kinds of flowers every year, and had also kept a small patch of weird vegetables in the back. My mother and I had a tearful time trying to carry on his tradition the year after he was killed, but neither of us kept up with the plants, and they, too, died.

  Fuck. Sorry, back to happy thoughts.

  After twelve blocks, my legs were sore, and the soles of my feet ached. I need to get better shoes, I thought grudgingly, then realized that if my plan worked and I didn’t get caught, I’d be able to. My nose was cold, but my body was hot from the trek. A slight sweat broke out and chilled along my skin.

  I arrived at the bank I’d targeted, one where people were given twenty f
our hour access to the ATM by means of an unlocked side door. Okay. This is it. Now that my moment had arrived, every single one of my nerves was firing. I shifted forward involuntarily and walked on the balls of my feet, eyes darting into every visible area around me. Thankfully, no one else was using the ATM. I reached forward when I approached the glass door and, without hesitation, yanked it open.

  Warm air greeted me as I stepped inside. My heart leapt as I attempted to look nonchalant and avoid making immediate eye contact with the single security camera hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the small room, to the side of the machine. My plan required that I actually be seen for this to work, and it terrified me.

  I stood in front of the ATM, standing slightly to the side to block the camera from seeing what I was doing, and quickly mimicked Eric’s maneuvers to pull up the screen I needed. When it prompted me for the passcode, I typed it in by memory. My stomach lurched as I heard something behind me, and I froze. I waited for what felt like the longest few seconds of my life before I decided to ignore it. For all anyone could tell, I was just withdrawing some cash. Which I was. All of it.

  I eyed the screen as it changed and smiled. So far, so good. I punched in the option to change the denomination of the bills in the machine, then changed it to one dollar bills. Since there was only one denomination in the ATM - twenties - I was about to get a nice chunk of money.

  I exited the admin screen and reached behind me and pulled out my wallet, a pathetic, worn, thin excuse for a money holder. It had starved to death since I quit my job, and its sides flopped as I opened it and pulled out my ATM card. I quickly withdrew a hundred dollars from my account. I stood still, feeling like there were eyes on my back, trying to act as nonchalant as possible, until a whirring sound started up. I casually crossed my arms as if I was impatient for the transaction to finish. In reality, I was desperately trying to block the security camera from seeing the mass of twenties that began to spit out of the little slot.

  As the machine dispensed the cash into my fingers, I pulled the bills out and stuffed them into my pocket, over and over until it bulged, and I had to fill my other pocket. Once the money flow ceased, I risked a quick glance to my right, where I’d heard the noise, but no one was there. I relaxed slightly and, as quickly as possible, accessed the admin screen once more, changed the denomination back, returned the machine to its home screen, and exited the little room almost two thousand dollars richer. Should they investigate, which they would, they would see only a hundred dollars withdrawn from my account. If they questioned me, they wouldn’t be able to prove I didn’t only have five twenties. Now all I had to do was hide the money.