Baked Scribe Flashback! Issue #20

CHOICES
a fictional short by Chad A. Clark
This was not happening.

Martin had to get this check deposited. If that didn’t happen within the next five minutes, all sorts of insufficient funds related hell was going to rain down on top of him. The bank had made it pretty clear to him that they were no longer going to continue covering his bad checks and that further issues with over-drafting could cause his account to be closed. So when this unexpected refund check from the gas company had been waiting for him in the mailbox, he figured that his problems were solved; at least for this week. But then his car wouldn’t start and the time he spent trying to coax life into it had caused him to miss the bus. The cab company would no longer come to his house due to unpaid fares and all of the dispatchers knew his voice so he couldn’t even call them to a different location. Finally he had ran to the bank, driven by desperation. This was a huge swing of luck in his direction for once and he wasn’t going to lose all of this money to more bank fees.

Then, as if fate hadn’t already taken enough time to shit on him personally, it happened to be at that exact moment when he had turned to look out the window that he had seen it. Across the street, on the top of the ten story apartment building, he could just make out a woman. She was standing, having just made her way up onto the ledge and was now teetering in place, peering down to the street below.

Who knew how long she had been standing up there? No way to tell, no way to know if she was really going to jump or if something else was going on. He was making the wrong assumption, misreading the situation. He needed to deposit this check; the bank was closing in five minutes. Someone else would have to help the woman out there. Other people would have to see her. Unfortunately, the other customers didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything other than the person standing in front of them in line. Even the pedestrians outside walking past on the sidewalk were all of the “heads down, earphones in” variety. Even the cop in the squad car on the corner looked like he was having a mid-day nap.

It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t being frivolous, he needed this money. His welfare was hanging completely on this one deposit. What was he supposed to do, sacrifice his well being in order to stop something that he might even be misinterpreting? He opened his mouth to cry out but he was so parched and dry that no sound came out other than a chocked exhalation of air. Besides, if he had yelled something out, chances were the people would be more interested in rushing to the window to watch than to actually help. And of course, he had left the cell phone on the table at home.

“Son of a bitch.” Truer words had never been uttered.

Evidently he was the only one who could help. The bank would just have to understand; would have to make one more exception. At the very least, they should be willing to stay open for the few extra minutes it would take him to walk out and alert that cop to what was going on. Martin turned and stepped out of the line, his spot immediately absorbed into the swelling crowd. He had taken less than five steps towards the door when the man in the bulky green Army jacket shoved his way into the lobby and pulled out a pistol.

“Everyone hit the floor, this’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

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