The Bank Job


On the corner of Wellington Street and Hibernia badly in need of paint that blistered under the torching sun our local bank boasting money hidden deep within its vaults a scheme was being hatched.

No one suspected that day a masked man and his fellows would attempt to clear the fat and leave it lean while they rode off thinking they would get away clean.

My dear mother with her dog-eared bank book clenched tightly in her hand knew her balance was so little but by saving every penny could be able to build a plan of saving for her family to keep food on our table.

This day she entered the hallowed den of marble sanctuary with bankers who eyed her up and down and with a shrug treated her like a beggar who’s Sunday go to church clothes very neatly pressed failed to empress their inflated egos.

Little balances meant nothing to these fellows for they relished the deeper accounts to keep their interests and their fat salaries while their children attended private schools.

A clatter and commotion shattered the place as my mother turned around to witness three men with drawn pistols, camouflage hunting jackets and masked covered balaclava faces.

One of the three men barked and jerked commands to tellers take these sacks and empty your money drawers and nobody will get hurt.

The bank manager was cuffed and told to give them the key safe code or else his life would end on the cold marble floor where he stood.

There were only a handful of customers in the bank this day and mother was one standing afraid. Out of the corner of her eye she took notice of the familiar stature of the leader of this band. A man she felt a bond with and suffered often under his hand.

No harm came to her but asked that her bank book be given and like a sleight of hand was whisked away by this man.

A teller was summoned to make an adjusted entry and the book was handed back to mother and she was told not to take a peek until she was released from the hand of this man and his band.

They disappeared as quickly as they had appeared leaving the bank slightly empty of it’s gold, with bags full, no shots fired and no blood spilled they made their getaway like Jesse James and nobody was killed.

It was my tenth birthday and my father appeared with a brand new first pedal bike that got my full attention. It was black like the heart he wore when often in our presence yet this day my love for him was overflowing.

This day would not end before the police came crashing down our hood and took my father away in handcuffs while producing the mask that he hid behind while breaking the bank in our neighborhood.
The days, weeks and years went by and till her demise my dear mother kept in a little box under her bed the dog-eared bank book that had a ten thousand dollar balance that could have fed us all but instead it claimed no withdrawal. A testimony to her honesty she passed on to stay in this son’s heart forevermore.

© Copyright 2012 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved


The Bank Job — 2 Comments

  1. Very sad, heart-stirring and well-presented story. The father surely loved his wife and son, but factors apparently beyond his control made him do the wrong things. Good to see you, Vincent!

    • So nice to have you visit dear Martie, I hope all is well with you and yours? Unfortunately it’s a true story, an account of my father holding up a bank and to his surprise my mother in it at the same time. Him and his thugs were eventually rounded up, sentenced and imprisoned. As for loving his wife and children, he never showed it. He was a hard man and did the time for his crimes. Beyond his control, well he did have a bad upbringing, a mean and drunkard father. So the apple did not fall far from the tree. I lost respect for the man from 10 years old on up until his demise in the 90’s. Good to see you too my little sista from SA. I miss you.

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