10 THE REVERSE STOCKHOLM SYNDROME IN PRACTICE
I was icing “Happy 50th Anniversary Alma & Lowell” onto a canvas of dark chocolate fudge when the kid stormed into Loony Scoops, hopped-up tics and hammy bluster. “Hands where I can see ’em, asshole. Up! Up! Move it! Move it!”
The streets were empty. Hurricane Jerry had been teasing since noon. Now, as Cori had warned, playtime was over. Wind scatter-bombed the rain in torrents. Hurricanes are not usually accompanied by lightning, but this night Heaven and Earth defied meteorological logic.
He stood grinning, gun leveled at my chest. “The fuckin’ cash, man. Open the fuckin’ cash.”
I’d told Cori how I’d faced my childhood battles with the expectation I would die. This was only partly true. Everyone expects to die. I expected to be murdered. I’d been sure about it since I was eleven. Not once, however, did I figure on a weenie-ass frat boy schooled on Grand Theft Auto.
“You think I won’t bust a cap up your ass?” he said. “You think I won’t?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure you will.” His eyes were black, except for the whites which were pink. I made an appeal for the ice cream cake in progress on the table before me. “I need to put this in the freezer. Their daughter is coming by tomorrow to—”
“The fuckin’ cash, man. Open the fuckin’ cash.” A raggedy red soul patch bobbed in sync with his lower lip, raising fears he’d eaten Elmo and forgotten to wash up.
It’s not that I wasn’t afraid. My heart was hopping, skipping, and jumping, while my brain was shopping for insoles at Fleet Feet. And though the gun he waved in my face was real, the rest of him reeked of wannabe.
The Skidmore hoodie, crisp, green, and Tide bright. The Knicks cap, brim flat. The GAP camo shorts. Maybe his mom had dressed him. I felt embarrassed for the dick. Who wears shorts to an armed robbery?
“You pledging? I mean, if that’s the case—”
“Fuck you! The cash, man. The cash.” He threw his arm straight out to emphasize the gun at the end of it. He lunged, pulled up short, lunged again, a spray of spittle on a cartoon cackle. I flinched to keep him happy, reassure him I recognized he was one scary dude.
That’s the trouble with amateurs: no discipline, no focus on the prize, as if the mission is to put on some idiotic song and dance for a captive audience. Armed robbery as burlesque. All threats aside, he wouldn’t mean to pull the trigger, it’d be the gun’s fault. His plea would be manslaughter. Good people would vouch for him. His mom. His pastor. His sixth-grade English teacher. His soccer coach. His dermatologist. A crappy end for me, for sure. At least I’d have the satisfaction, albeit fleeting, of being proved right. About my murder, I mean.
Outside, a car horn sounded, more burp than beep. My murderer-elect turned his head and waved his gun to silence his buddies. A Subaru. An Outback. Jesus! Then again, considering the water pooling on the streets, good traction in a getaway vehicle couldn’t hurt, despite the lack of street cred. The suicidal smart-ass in me couldn’t resist: “Borrow the car from Grandma?”
“I’m fuckin’ gonna kill you, Butcherboy.”
Butcherboy? Had I missed something? Was Butcherboy the latest catch-all alongside Bro, Dawg, Amigo, and Dude? I sensed he’d gone off-script, his threat increasingly credible. My don’t-mess-with-me look was worth a shot.
I adjusted my stance, the stationary swagger. I assumed the demeanor, smiled the smile that wasn’t a smile. And could take it no further. The thing was so damn dopey. Letting Cori in on the details had ruined it. I felt stupid, self-conscious. Worse, the punk hadn’t noticed. He had this habit of looking toward me, but not quite at me. My biggest regret in this moment was never having discussed with Cori the name to put on my headstone: Dickens, Blessing, or Dickens-Blessing. Or maybe just plain Dick, because I more than qualified.
“You’re really pushing it, fuckface.”
“Your gun, that’s a Glock, right?” I hadn’t a clue. I was looking to defuse the situation.
“How the fuck do I know?”
In the first few months of Loony Scoops, there was this Mr. Greenberg who’d show up on Tuesday afternoons and order a banana split with three scoops of vanilla. No chocolate. No strawberry. Only vanilla. Never varied. He said he preferred to keep life simple since retiring from the force; he’d been a hostage negotiator in Newark for twenty-two years. Were I ever to find myself facing death by violence, he advised, I should express interest in my would-be executioner, admire their expertise, praise their savvy choice of weapon, and empathize with the hard luck and unfair system that led them to such desperate measures. Done right, I’d pull off a reverse Stockholm and save my ass. If the guy could see me as a potential best bud rather than a victim, he’d be less inclined to blow my brains out.
“I know what you’re going through,” I said. “I’ve been there.” I set my piping bag on the table and wiped the fudge from my knuckles onto my apron. I smiled, prepared to introduce myself, shake his hand, offer to buy him a coffee.
“You think I’m some kind of retard?”
It was then I recalled why Mr. Greenberg no longer visited on Tuesdays. He had refused to co-sign a loan on a Honda CR-Z for his daughter. He was pushing for a more practical Honda Civic. She stabbed him in the heart so many times, the resulting mince would have made a good burger.
The punk-in-training raised three fingers. “You got two seconds, man.” The Outback revved in the lot. His pals were getting antsy. “Two seconds, man.”
“I got nothing to give you, I swear. If I did, I would.” I could have opened the cash drawer to prove my point, but the outcome would be the same.
He gripped the gun with both hands and shifted his aim to my head. “Wum,” he said, though I think he meant to say one.