I place my hand on the pistol grip protruding from my jeans. The jeans that are a bit too tight. The jeans that sit under my jello like belly. The jeans that bunch under my ass and ride up my crotch as I walk.
Einstein said, every moment, of every life, is doomed to duplicated repetition.
How many times I have entered this bank will forever remain a mystery.
If I have one assurance it’s that I’ve been through this before. What will be, will be. I do not know what that is yet though. I can only assume through the enigma of the universe that I have been returned to this determination time and time again.
I can only play with this idea in my head. There is nothing I can do about it. I am stuck in this loop for eternity. My one hope is I make different better choices, that this time I am somehow more competent. That I am smarter. That I am more capable. That no matter what happens it will all work out in the end.
The end: the inevitable conclusion.
Death.
This is the torturous cycle of things. The over and over again that always terminates the same way.
I decide, there is nothing I can do, but complete the circuit. It is my burden.
I jerk at the Walther PPK.
It won’t come. My heart thumps against my ribs. I feel dizzy. My hands tingle. Black splotches form around the corners of my eyes. I jerk on the pistol harder and hear a rip as the hammer snags on the waistband of my underpants. The old, badly fitting fruit of the looms that are discolored from too much use and too few washing, pull into my butt-crack as I jerk again. I try one final time and the pistol comes clear, but with a loud rip of cotton rending at the abuse.
I can feel old underwear flapping above the tight waistline of my pants.
With one hand I try to shove the fabric back inside my jeans, but only manage to make the levis slide farther down my rear-end.
I spread my legs to keep the jeans from going all the way to my ankles.
A snicker.
Blood flushes to my face. I feel hot. Sweat beads from every pore, instantly drenching my shirt.
I push past the pain in my shoulder as I slam the gun up against the bullet proof glass the bank teller sits behind. He is a bald man, skinny, in a red knit sweater. He has a black tie around a neck with a huge adams apple that bounces up and down as if he is swallowing laughter. He has a look on his face that makes me want to end him.
Smug.
I scream, “This is a fucking robbery, give me all the money,” but it comes out all garbled like I’m chewing on my tongue.
His skinny face blooms into a humored smile.
I get startled by movement to my right and squeeze the trigger to fire off a warning shot. My hand won’t work the trigger. I turn the weapon and I see the safety is red.
What’s the saying? See red you’re what?
Suddenly I don’t see anything. But I hear a room full of people laughing.
Then nothing.
Einstein said, every moment of every life is doomed to be repeated.
I’ve been here before.
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