Prompt: You are a customer lying face down...

....on the floor during a bank robbery. Describe the robbery from this vantage point.

He hasn't noticed me yet. Or, if he has seen me, his mind has chosen not to register it. Or, it has and he is too committed to care.

Sal Evander. Male. Roughly 6'1". Slim build. Locksmith (which I know from his white van labeled "Sal-vation Locksmith".) Father (to Alex whose name I know because her father yells it as she jumps into her boyfriend's car.) My neighbor (in the house to the left.) And now bank robber.

Sal's in a disguise. But so am I, since the last time he saw me. His is standard-issue bank robber: heavy fake beard, dark sunglasses, dark trucker cap pulled low. Mine is standard-issue new chemo patient: hairless, port in my upper arm, brown wig pulled low and skewed right from when I hit the ground too hard shortly after Sal yelled "EVERYBODY DOWN ON THE GROUND!". Oh, but wait. I'm not completely hairless.

I have one eyebrow.

If you're going through chemo, it helps to have a resistant eyebrow. At first you may wonder who the hell this increasingly bald person before you in the mirror. You take enough chemicals in your veins, you'll end up drinking a cocktail of devastation and disbelief and uncertainy. As the chemo sessions progress as the new reality sinks in, you look for signs up hope and recovery and that your body isn't turning into something completely alien.

That was my resistant eyebrow. The coarse hairs that wouldn't fall out when all the others did. They even stayed dark brown. It is almost comical really. Like I'm some sort of cartoon or biologically confused super hero. I am single-handedly (single-browedly?) ushering in the age of the new unibrow. But that resistant eyebrow is my hope and my sign of recovery.

I noticed my eyebrow last week. The same morning I last saw Sal before this bank robbery. Sitting on my porch, bathing in the warmth of the early sun, cocking my eyebrow at the two bluejays and one grackle fighting over my bird feeder. Except the only eyebrow I can cock is my non-resistant one. But, I kept working those eyebrow muscles because one day I'll have two again.

Sal came out and sat on his porch steps, grabbing a pair of work boots along the way. He was wearing his blue Dickies pants and a short-sleeved, white work shirt. I could see a name patch sewn on the left shirt pocket with I assume reads "Sal" or "Sal-vation Locksmith". We'd had eight days straight of rain until late last night. Soggy yards meant Sal had to knock some dried mud out of this boots before heading out to work.

The birds flew away and I took to watching Sal methodically work. Rubbing a thick branch through each tred, periodically banging the boot on a step to knock out the loose mud. We had been neighbors almost ten months now but I can't say I know him. Even that morning, I stilled my rocker so he wouldn't detect the motion and feel obligated to talk. I was still getting used to being the chemo patient. The hairless wonder. And nervous about how he may react to my resistant eyebrow.

Sal and I usually did the things neighbors normally do: wave politely when we pass each other, joke about my dog's inability to keep her tennis ball in my yard, compliment each other's Christmas decorations. Amicable yet distant. And he broke that symbiosis by robbing a bank.

The boot cleaning gave it away. Watching his hands move, I was reminded of the deep, red burn scars on his right hand. I do not know the story behind them. But I know his other story. And now, my face pressed against the cool linoleum of the First Charter Bank, eyes perpendicular to the floor, resistant eyebrow grazing it, I watch Sal's right foot tap as he stuffs bills into his dufflebag, I remember it.

Mrs. Mathis, my far more elderly neighbor (house to the right), was the chatty one before they moved her to Three Oaks. When I came home from work, especially in the summers, she would often yell to me from her rocker to bring her mail from the box. She would, of course, use this as occasion to serve me lemonade from her glass pitcher into one of the two cups she conveniently had. Then, she would tell me about the Brusters' unruly children who threw slushies at their SUV (three different colors, no less), about the Masters putting in a pool even though their edible arrangements store was failing (because who would pick fruit over flowers?), and about Sal's wife passing away from injuries sustained in a car accident last spring (and sometimes we have no answers when fate causes the drunk driver to live and the innocent driver to pass.)

I remember Sal's wife. Well, her passing. She had already spent her last night in her house by the time I moved into mine. Only a few days after I moved in, I saw the cars pull up shortly after noon on a Saturday. The family members and friends entering and exiting that house, clothed in black. I saw him start coming home from work early to be there when Alex got off the bus and then resuming normal hours when the boyfriend came on the scene another two weeks later. I saw the grass get long, the mailbox overflow, the way he stopped shaving. That's when Mrs. Mathis told me. I guess I glanced too long as his failing house and she took the opportunity to tell the story.

Sal's life had picked up in recent months, though. The grass mowed, the mailbox emptied, his face looking clean-shaven again (until today's fake beard.) I even saw some friends come over recently carrying a few 12-packs and a board game. But, hearing Sal yell "OPEN YOUR DRAWER!" to the second teller tells a different story. And his red, scarred hand, pointing the gun confirms it.

You could say that there are others in this city with similar red, scarred hands. But, I've watched his walk from the "Sal-vation Locksmith" van to his door too many times to not notice it is the same in here. I've heard that voice yelling "ALEX!" too often to not realize it's the same one yelling, "DO AS I SAY AND NO ONE GETS HURT!".  And I know that "DeWoorts Plumbing" printed on the trucker hat is the company his wife's parents own.

I also know the second teller had pushed the panic button before Sal got to her. I saw the barely detectable motion. Chemo may have attacked by eyebrows but not my eyes. So, I know the police will be here soon. I know Sal won't harm any of us before then. He is broken, but not malicious. Haunted, but not evil. He is still too familiar with the death of the innocent to dole out death to those who were equally innocent.

Sal is stuffing the last of the money is his dufflebag. I turn my gaze to the security guard laying to my right. The one Sal tazed upon entering. His nametag says "Alex". Alex. Sal's Alex. What will happen to her if Sal goes to prison? Will her grandparents take her in? An aunt and uncle? Who will care now and yell after her when she jumps into that boyfriend's car? Alex.

He is out the door. My neighbor. The bank robber. I hear the sirens in front of the building. But, I don't get up right away when the officers move in. I've gone into my thoughts. Alex. Sal. Mrs. Mathis. Dr. Reiser, who's grandmother was my babysitter, gently telling me I have lung cancer. With swift treatment, I should have at least three years left. My ex-husband, Louis (oh, how he could dance. And his hands. His hands) finding the cigarette stash I had hidden from him for twenty-three years. His subsequent rage that bled into torturing silence two days before he moved out forever, leaving me wondering who would watch out for me. Now who would yell my name in love and fear as I began walking down a path that terrified me?

One of the officers is squatting down by me. "Ma'am? Ma'am?" he is asking. I look up at him and see the slightest hesitation as he takes in my resistant eyebrow.

"Ma'am, are you ok?" I nod.

I share today's banking experience with him, from the moment I took my checks to deposit out of my purse, to seeing the man walk into the bank brandishing a gun, to watching him take the money from two tellers, to hearing him exit the same way he came in. No, there isn't anything distinguishing about him. No, nothing in particular that stands out about him. I'm sorry, my mind is clouded by chemo and I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. I think maybe I should go rest. Yes, I will certainly call you, Detective, if I remember anything else.

I sit down in the driver's seat of my car. It's the same model as the boyfriend's. Though silver instead of black and driven less recklessly. My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel as I look back at the bank where I was momentarily held hostage and then set free. In this life, in which I've been held hostage by too many things and set free too easily by too many others.

I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror and pause. And glance a little closer. Leaning in even more, I see them. The fewest of hairs growing where my non-resistant eyebrow has been. Sparse but present. Returning. And thankfully, the same dark brown that they have always been.

Hope. Recovery. Second chances.

Intentions

I love to write and frankly the only reason I don't write more is that I am too lazy. I could find the time by getting up earlier or staying up later. That may mean, I am foggy-headed and cranky the next day or that my caffeine addiction increases, but the stories would be there.

I decided to use the book "642 Things to Write About" to guide me. Mostly because the title ends with a preposition. Here we go....