“Miracle Man. Miracle Man. Charles, you’re the Miracle Man. You make it happen, man. Whenever you can. Miracle Man. Miracle Man.”
Charles stared into the mirror, smoothing out his thin black mustache with the last of 26 daily strokes of the small brush he picked up at the airport in Boise. Thirteen times on each side. No reason, just routine. The two small gold stud earrings he wore since high school slid into place. A comb finished off his hair just so.
He practiced an enthusiastic smile in anticipation of meeting today’s clients. The goal was to charm, or as Charles always thought, “overwhelm with charm.” Some people thought there was such a thing as a creepy smile, the kind with too much teeth, eyes too bugged out, a flare of the nostrils that suggested an insane hyena on the prowl. In his experience, there was no such thing.
“Miracle Man. Miracle Man.”
That’s not what the blue script stitching on his white polo shirt said. According to it his name was William and he worked at a place called Williamson Pools. “Are you the owner of the company?!” people would ask. Charles would laugh. Silly mistake. Happens all the time. No no, I’m not. He loved when that happened.
His white pickup truck was non-descript, the kind that would fit in at any Home Depot parking lot. He began his day by picking a local community, not his own, but one within 20 minutes or so. That gave him time to get his day going and feel like he was ready to attack it.
“Miracle Man. Miracle man.”
The mantra continued at every stoplight. He had the visors in the truck flipped around so that at any moment, he could catch his reflection from either the one on his side or the passenger’s side, as well as the rear view mirror. He liked to go with the sneak attack, staring straight forward and then quickly shifting his glance far to the right. Then came that big grin. “Miracle Man haHA.”
Charles pulled the truck into the first strip mall he came across in Tensington, a more upscale suburb than the one he lived in. There was a coffee shop, an organic grocer and a line of everyday essentials from a barber to a dry cleaner. On the end was his target, the shiny beacon that drew him in. First National Bank.
The shotgun fit nicely behind the seat of the truck in almost a crawl space that also held things like his jumper cables. He never kept extra bullets around, relying solely on the two shells that were always loaded inside. His fingers danced along the stock as the guy in the mirror took in one more breath. “Miracle man.”
The three customers inside were oblivious. They always were. People these days are so wrapped up in their own lives they can’t even recognize a grave threat when it literally walks in the door. Charles couldn’t help but chuckle. In the movies, someone yells, “It’s a stickup!” or fires off a few rounds to get attention. He had a different tactic.
Charles calmly wrote out a note on a deposit slip identifying himself as “THE MIRACLE MAN HERE WITH THE PLAN (the plan is to get your money, all of it, in a bag, NOW).” Teller #3 was open. He passed the note and stared into her almond eyes, waiting for her to look up and see the catbird grin from his bathroom practice.
“Oh,” she gasped. Charles started laughing.
“The best day of your life is here, little lady. The Miracle Man gracing your presence.”
She smiled back.
“The ‘Miracle Man’ better run. He probably has about a minute before the cops get here.”
Charles looked down at her nametag. His grin remained.
“Now Becky, did you do something stupid like press the alert button?”
“Of course I did. You’re robbing a bank, Miracle Man.”
The smile disappeared. He felt like she was making fun of him. Nobody made fun of him.
“I AM THE MIRACLE MAN. I DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS.”
He didn’t notice the officers pile in through the door and fan out, signaling the customers and other employees to hit the ground. Becky saw them.
“What’s tall and dumb and in a real fucking mess right now?” she riddled.
“Huh?”
“It’s you, Miracle Man.”
She barely got the last word out before an officer slammed into Charles and took him to the ground.
“Miracle Man. Miracle Man. Miracle Man. Miracle Man.”
Charles muttered all the way to the precinct and for an hour in the interrogation room while he waited for a detective. When the detective finally arrived, he glanced first at the polo shirt.
“Pool company, eh? How’s business?”
Charles smiled.