The Deceit of Escape

I suppressed a sigh as I swept another card through the reader for about the thousandth time that day. I blinked away the weariness from my eyes and slid the credit card back to the woman standing across the counter from me. “Alright ma’am, these are due back in a week,” I said, trying in to suppress the apathy in my voice.

She gave me an obligatory smile of thanks, tucking the DVD cases under her arm before slipping out the door.

“That the last one for the night?”

I looked over to where Craig stood at the counter, his arms folded over his chest. Tonight the skinny nineteen year old wore his long dark hair tied in a pony tail that hung down between his shoulder blades. As usual, he wore an ample amount of black underneath his red Movie House vest, and his pale skin belied an almost unhealthy aversion to daylight hours.

“Yeah,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “Might as well lock it up for the night.” I tossed him the keys, and he moved out toward the front door.

I then turned around and started to cash out the register. “You know, I really don’t understand this whole ‘TV on DVD’ thing. That lonely woman has probably seen every freakin’ episode of Sex in the City three times over by now. She’s just wasting her money.”

“It’s escapism Jake, pure and simple,” he replied, tossing the keys back over the counter. “Hell, everything we sell is escapism.”

“Yeah, but at least the rest of it doesn’t involve watching and fantasizing about the love lives of four impossibly annoying women to try and hide the fact that your own sex life is in the shitter.”

“And playing Grand Theft Auto for four hours straight is any different?” he asked with a slight smile as he lit up a cigarette.

He had a point, but I didn’t want to let him know. “Dave is gonna have a fit if he sees you inside with that,” I said, changing the subject.

Craig made a face, “What’s that fat-ass gonna do?”

“Well, he is the manager.”

“He cut out two hours ago, dude. He doesn’t give a shit. Besides, he’s probably already rubbed one out and passed out in front of the TV by now.”

I just shrugged noncommittally and turned away to empty out the return bin. I reached in, grabbed an armload of movies, and set them down on the counter. “Help me restock these things, will ya?”

Craig nodded and took a drag off the cigarette before sauntering around to the other side of the counter as we began sorting through the titles and checking them back in.

I winced as a slight pain began to throb in my temples.

“You alright?” Craig asked

“Yeah, just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

Craig shrugged and went back to work.

After a moment, I mustered up a grinned and held up one of the movies, “Now, this is some worthwhile escapism.”

“What, Point Break? Dude, that flick was garbage.”

“Well yeah, Keanu Reaves isn’t the greatest actor out there, but just think about the premise.”

“It’s about a bunch of surfers who rob banks. It would never happen.”

“And a story about a half-vampire who hunts other vampires with a katana—even though he’s not even Japanese for Christ’s sake—along with some old guy who shoulda already croaked ten years ago—that would happen?”

“Hey, Blade was the shit. You liked it too.”

“Yeah, but the third one sucked—bad.”

Craig opened his mouth to respond but sighed and went back to sorting through the videos.

“But you know,” I said after a moment of silence, “it really does make me wonder if I’m not missing out on something—you know, like, I could be out there doing some of that stuff.”

“What, you wanna rob banks?” He laughed, “I know you Jake. You couldn’t do that. You’re too much of a pussy.”

“And you’re not?”

He took another drag off of the cigarette and gave me a wink. “Hey, I’m a rebel, remember? I don’t give a shit.”

I winced involuntarily.

“It hurts when I’m right, ‘eh?” Craig laughed

“No, smartass. My headache keeps getting worse. Lets just get this done so we can go home.”

“No argument there,” he said as he started sorting again.

I did likewise, but the throbbing headache made concentrating on anything for more than three seconds a chore. Suddenly, a sharp stabbing pain shot through the back of my head. I cringed, hands gripping the counter as I clenched my eyes shut.

“Dude, you alright?”

I forced my eyes open, watching as my vision doubled and began to spin. “Oh God . . .” I muttered. “I don’t feel so hot.”

“I think Dave’s got some advil back in his office, you want me to get you some?”

“I—“ the rest of what I was about to say never materialized as the room suddenly began spinning faster. I felt myself falling, but before I even hit the ground, the rapidly approaching darkness swallowed up my vision and I lapsed into unconsciousness.

--

The conscious world returned to me in a haze of white light. I blinked groggily as the indistinct room gradually took shape around me. The antiseptically white room practically screamed hospital, as did the paper-thin gown I found myself to be wearing. Somewhere in the background a TV was on, and I could hear a sportscaster going on about some baseball player I’d never heard of.

“It’s about damn time you woke up.”

“Huh?” I looked over to the side of my bed.

Craig was sitting in a chair, his legs propped up on an empty serving tray and a remote in his hands.

“What happened?” I asked, the words coming out as a dry croak.

He shrugged and flipped off the TV, “The Doctors won’t tell me a damn thing—at least, nothing useful. I just know one minute you were complaining a bout a headache and the next you were taking a nose dive into the floor. Anyway, you feeling better?”

“Well, I guess so. The headache’s gone. Um, did they say if it was serious?”

“Nah, but I’ll tell you what is serious—how bad the food sucks around here.”

His attempt at humor didn’t quite appeal to me at that moment. “How long have I been out?” I asked, forgoing the pretense of a polite laugh.

“Four or five hours.”

“Jesus,” I said in astonishment.

“You want me to get the doctor for you?”

“Yeah, please,” I murmured.

Craig opened the door and called out to one of the nurses. A few minutes later, a balding man wearing a white lab coat appeared in the door way. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, briefly reviewing the chart in his hands before stepping through the threshold.

“Mr. Carter?” he asked.

“Carther, actually.”

He glanced down at the chart again, “Oh my apologies. At any rate, I’m Dr. Wilson. It’s good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. What happened?”

He glanced uncomfortably toward Craig, “Perhaps we could have some privacy?”

Craig nodded and started to head for the door, but I stopped him. “No, anything you can say in front of me you can say in front of him.”

The doctor rubbed his nose nervously, “Well ok, if that’s what you want.”

“So what happened?”

“Um, you see, that’s the thing about it. You had some swelling in your brain, and—“

“That’s what was causing the headache? And I don’t feel anything now, so I’m alright?”

“Yes, well we were able to relieve the swelling, but—“

“Well, if the swelling is down, then I should be fine, right?”

“Well . . . “ he started to trail off, searching for the right words

A knot of fear began to ferment in my stomach. “So what’s wrong?”

“You see, there’s a bit of a complication with what was causing the swelling,” he said uncomfortably.”

“What?” I asked, holding my breath for the answer.

He glanced uncomfortably at Craig again, then back at me. “Mr. Carter, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but you have a brain tumor the size of a golf ball. It’s inoperable and unfortunately the process is accelerating. At most, you have one week to live.”

I was dumbstruck. For perhaps the first time in my life, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Actually, I didn’t even know what to think. I just sat there numbly, staring at the wall with unseeing eyes. It didn’t seem real.

I suppose I should have been upset. Maybe I should have been angry. Or maybe I should have been scared. I don’t know. I wanted to feel something other than disconnected apathy about the whole situation. I sat there while the doctor prattled on about survival rates and experimental treatments, and all that time, the only thing I could think about was how on earth I could feel so numb about my life coming to an end. I suppose it all seemed rather unjust, but I had learned long ago that life wasn’t fair. I didn’t expect any favors out of it, but I sure as hell didn’t expect anything like this.

“Are you alright?” Dr. Wilson asked, his voice suddenly breaking into my train of thought.

“What? Oh, Yeah,” I mumbled, hardly looking at him.

“The hospital has counseling services available if you’d care to talk to them. They—“

“That’s okay,” I said, cutting him off.

He frowned, “Well, if you aren’t interested in counseling, then I’m afraid there’s really not much we can do for you. We’ll have to discharge you in the morning.”

“Whatever.”

Dr. Wilson opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped himself, evidently realizing that his polite pretenses were lost on me. Instead, he turned and moved out the door, closing it softly behind him.

--

I eased into the car’s passenger seat with a sigh, my breath coming in small puffs of mist in the cold morning air. I tucked my hands under my armpits against the cold, drawing my knees up closer to my chest.

The driver’s side door opened and Craig slipped in, fumbling a moment before sliding the keys into the ignition and revving the engine to life. I didn’t really pay him any attention, but instead kept my gaze faced forward out the windshield. He popped the gear shift into reverse and started backing the car out.

“So where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Home, I guess,” I replied without emotion.

“What are you gonna do?”

I shrugged, “Does it matter?”

“Damnit Jake,” he said, angrily throwing the car back into park, “Of course it freaking matters. You’ve got one week to live. You gotta want to do something, like visit your family. Hell, if you want, I’ll drive you.”

I shook my head, “No, I don’t really want to see them. They’ll just cry and make a bid deal out of it.”

“Well, sorry for caring, but it is a big deal.”

I just shrugged.

“Ok, well how about a shot of ass? That Candace chick who works days would give it up to you in a heartbeat.”

I gave him an annoyed look, “No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“ ‘Cos she looks like someone hit her in the face with a shovel, that’s why. Dude, I’ve thought about all of this shit ten times over. None of it is going to make a damn bit of difference. In a week, I’m still going to be laying six feet under. I’ll still be the same no-name twenty year-old video clerk. I’ll still be lame old Jake Carther, except I’ll be dead and I won’t be able to do a damn thing to change any of it.”

“So what is it you want to do?” he asked slowly.

I took a moment to compose myself, then looked up at him. “You know how we’re always talking about how it’d be so cool if some of the stuff that happens in movies could happen in real life? How instead of watching it and dreaming about it, we could actually live it?”

“Yeah, I know.” He frowned, “I don’t like where this is heading.”

“Why not? It makes perfect sense. If you’re going to go out, why not go out with a bang?”

He sighed, “Ok, what is it you want to do? Jump out of a plane or something?”

“No. Better. Remember what we were talking about last night? About Point Break?”

“Oh shit. No, you can’t be serious. Please tell me you just want to learn how to surf.”

“No, just think about it. I mean, no one has to get hurt. The bank will get back it’s money from the insurance company, and we’ll get spending money to throw around for a week. Hell, the police probably won’t even catch up to us before time is up. It would probably be the first exciting thing we’ve ever done with our lives. How can you pass that up?”

“Whoa, whoa, what’s this ‘we’ and ‘us’ stuff?”

“Well, I can’t do it on my own.”

“Yeah, but I’m not dieing in a week. You are. I’m not going to jail over this shit.”

“Come on, I thought you were a rebel.”

“Not when it involves going to jail for ten years.”

“Now who’s being the pussy?”

“God damnit, no. I’m nod doing this. You’re crazy.”

“You don’t even have to go in. No one will see you. All you have to do is keep the car running and be the get away driver. We’ll use my car so they can’t trace it back to you.”

“No. No way dude. Not now, not ever. You’re nuts, freakin’ nuts.”

“Come on, you wouldn’t deny a dieing man his last wish, would you?”

Craig was quiet a moment before leveling an icy stare at me. “I hate you.”

“So you’ll do it?”

He sighed, “Yes, God damnit. Are you happy now?”

“Trust me,” I said with a grin, “you won’t regret this.”

He didn’t respond, but instead glowered at me as he finished backing out of the parking space and pulled out onto the road.

--

“Alright, you ready?”

I looked over to where Craig sat in the driver’s side seat of the parked car. He had his hands gripped tight on the steering wheel, whole body fidgeting nervously. He didn’t answer, but instead muttered beneath his breath, “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

“Serious as a heart attack,” I said, shoving my hands into the pockets of the gray hoody I wore. “Now lets go over the plan again.”

He sighed, “You go in and grab the cash while I sit tight with the engine running. I got it.”

I slipped my hand around the small revolver in my pocket and pulled it out, holding the pistol down between my legs as I popped the cylinder out to check the magazine.

Craig started, “Shit, what the hell is that?”

“Thirty-eight special,” I said, snapping the cylinder back into place with a flick of my wrist. “You should know that.”

“Well, I know what it is, but how the hell did you get it?”

I shrugged, “Got it at a pawn shop. There’s supposed to be a ten day waiting period, but I gave the guy fifty bucks to look the other way.”

“Jesus Christ,” he swore, looking away. “Is it loaded?”

“Of course it’s loaded, dumbass. What use is an empty gun?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d use it to scare them or something. Anyway, you said you weren’t going to hurt anybody.”

“Well I’m not, but I’d feel like a moron waving around an empty gun. You’re not going to back out on me now, are you?”

“No,” he said grudgingly.

“Then wait here. I’ll be back in two minutes.” I reached around into the back seat and grabbed a pillow case, stuffing it into the pocket of my pullover along with the gun. “Wish me luck,” I said with a grin, popping open the door and sliding out before Craig could say anything else. I slammed the door and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head before shoving my hands into the front pocket. I then set off across the parking lot.

With each step toward the brick-faced bank building, my heart started to beat faster and faster. The early morning cold tightened the air in my lungs, prickling my exposed skin and reddening my cheeks with its tingling touch. My feet carried me onto the sidewalk and up to the bank’s tinted glass doors. I reached out, grabbing onto the door handle. I paused to take one last deep breath before yanking the door open and taking one plunging step inside.

The doorway opened into a short foyer before it widened into the main room. A trio of tellers stood working behind the mahogany lacquered counter while a man in a cheap business suit stood before it conducting his banking business. A pair of doors with the label “Restrooms” above them stood on the opposite end of the room. Best of all, as I looked around the room, I couldn’t see a single security guard.

A grin spread onto my face as I drew the .38 from my front pocket, leveling the pistol at the tellers, “Alright, hands up. This is a robbery!”

All three of them froze as did the businessman at the counter, timidly raising their hands as their eyes widened in shock and fright.

I stalked forward and tugged the pillow case from my pullover before tossing it to the nearest teller, “Put all the money from your drawers into the sack—and no dye packs. I’ll know.”

As the teller hurried to carry out my command, I turned toward the business man now pressed up against the wall. The adrenaline was pumping full force through my veins as I leveled the pistol at his head. “You, on the ground. Now.”

“W-What?” he stammered, not totally comprehending.

“Get on the God damn ground before I put you there,” I shouted, taking what I hoped was a menacing step forward.

“Okay, okay!” he yelled, holding his hands out protectively before him. He shakily dropped to his knees, then went onto his stomach.

“Hands on the back of your head and keep them there, asshole,” I said, turning away from the prone man.

Even without looking, I knew he would comply. The feeling of power at seeing a man who normally wouldn’t even give me a second glance obey my every word, putting his life in my hands because he had no other choice—that feeling was intoxicating. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I wouldn’t say it was better than sex, but that feeling of near invincibility came damn close. I was almost disappointed when the one of the tellers said with a quavering voice, “M-mister?.”

“What?” I growled, expecting to hear some kind of protest as I turned my gaze toward her.

She wordlessly held the pillow case, now laden with cash, over the counter.

I flashed a grin and stepped forward to grab the sack of money. With pillow case in hand, I began to back up toward the door, my weapon still trained on the tellers. I wanted to say something in parting—something cocky, something original, something like they always did in the movies, but I couldn’t think of anything else except how great this had been. I couldn’t focus on anything except the adrenaline rush of knowing that instead of watching it on TV, I was actually living it—that is, until I heard the sound of flushing toilet issue from behind me.

I whirled around to see the bathroom door swing open and a gray-clad security officer walk through, his hands still in the act of zipping up his fly.

“Oh shit!” I shouted as I brought the .38 in line and hurriedly squeezed the trigger. The hastily aimed shot tore into the door frame above the startled guard’s head. He slammed the door in front of him just in time to catch another pair of bullets as I pumped the trigger twice more. I started moving for the door as quickly as I could, hoping that I had scared him enough so that he would at least wait a few seconds before he came out shooting. My hope was for naught, however, because as soon as I started to move, I caught a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye.

I heard the shot before I really felt it, but one moment I was running, the next I was falling. A stabbing pain shot through my thigh, and as I fell to the ground, pistol still in hand, I could feel a sticky wetness beginning to soak into my jeans and pool onto the linoleum floor. I twisted painfully, bringing my line of sight back around toward the bathroom door

The guard stood there, his semi-automatic pistol brandished in a two-handed grip. “Drop the weapon, now!”

I thought about trying to raise my pistol and squeeze off another round—try to beat him on the draw. I knew he would probably blow a hole in the middle of my forehead before I even had a chance to twitch, but what did I have to lose? I was dead in a matter of days anyway. I could go out in a blaze of glory just like those guys in the North Hollywood shoot out. But as I lay there, watching the guard as my own blood began to pool around me, for some reason I couldn’t do it. Maybe it was the mind-numbing pain coursing up and down my wounded limb, or maybe it was some weird moral conviction that I didn’t even know I had. But it’s far more likely that lying there, staring death in the face down the barrel of a gun, I just didn’t have the guts. I knew that in a few days my world would cease to exist. I knew with all certainty that the end was coming—that I could do nothing about it—and even with that knowledge to aid me, I was still afraid to take the chance. I was afraid to die.

So instead I let the gun fall from my hand and flopped back down onto the blood-slicked floor as a mixture of relief and profound shame flooded my conscience.

--

“It is my duty to inform you, Mr. Carther, that you are entitled to the counsel of a lawyer during all forms of police interrogation.” The detective folded his arms over his chest, looking down on me from where he stood over my hospital bed.

I shrugged, “It’s not like I’m really going to need it.”

“Alright, suit yourself.” He sat down in a chair next to my bedside, taking up a pen and clip board. “We’ll begin as soon as the nurse is done.”

I glanced over to where the nurse had just begun to change I.V. bags, “I don’t really care if she hears. Let’s just get this over with.”

The nurse gave me a weird look but kept silent.

“Okay then, let’s start out with your accomplice.”

My immediate thoughts went to Craig. “What accomplice?” I said, doing my best to put up a stoic front.

“The one driving your get-away vehicle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I retorted.

He sighed, “Look, I’ve been through this before with dozens of people. You don’t want to sell out your ‘boy’ so you stonewall me and send yourself up the creek without a paddle. Listen kid, if you give up your partner you can shave at least five years off your sentence. You’ll probably never even see this guy again. Is he really worth protecting?”

“It doesn’t matter how long a sentence you give me. I won’t survive for more than a week of it. Hell, I probably won’t even serve a day knowing how slow the courts are.”

The detective frowned, “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t they tell you?” I looked to the nurse and then back to the detective. “I’m dying.”

His frown deepened as he too looked to the nurse, “Is that true?”

She looked around in confusion, “Um, no. Not at all.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, “I was just here two days ago. They told me I have an inoperable brain tumor or something. Go look at my chart.”

She shook her head, “No, I’m sorry. There’s nothing like that in there.”

“Then you must not have been looking at it hard enough. Dr. Wilson told me I had a week to live.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then a look of recognition crossed her pale features, “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Dr. Wilson is . . .”

“What?” I asked as that familiar sinking feeling began to reassert itself in the pit of my stomach.

She swallowed hard, “ He is treating a man with a brain tumor down the hall. He fell into a coma yesterday. His . . . his name was Jacob Carter.

That same light of recognition that had dawned upon the nurse just moments before struck me with the force of a sledge hammer. I couldn’t speak, but suddenly it made sense—he hadn’t called me Carther. He’d said Carter—Jacob Carter. My gut began to twist into knots. Suddenly I was glad I hadn’t eaten anything in a while, because if I had, I’m sure I would have emptied the contents of my stomach all over the floor.

“Oh my God,” I muttered breathlessly as the false bravado I had built my courage upon crumbled like a house of cards. I looked up at the detective, my head swimming as I said just above a whisper, “I think I’d like to talk to that lawyer now.”