The Telling

I saw it with my own eyes.

I don't know why I was at that spot at that time, but I saw it. It was in plain sight, and I saw all of it. I could retell the story with every detail. He didn't know I was here, but I saw him do it. But I don't know what to do about it.

My best friend.

I can't believe he would do something like this. I have known him for most of my life, and was always a great guy, but where the hell does this come from? I would never believe that he could do something like this.

Alone in the bank. The bank was empty. Almost. That's probably why he did it when he did; he thought there were no customers in the bank and that there was only the one employee that was at the window. But I was there. I was just coming out of the bathroom, and as I opened the door, I saw everything. Black ski mask, big coat, gloves on his hands, holding the gun up to the teller. I closed the door just about all the way, but kept it open just enough so that I could see what would transpire. I couldn't see the man, but I knew it was my best friend. I knew it was Stan. I could tell by the voice. I could tell by his gait. I could tell by the way he often moved his head around like a penguin. I could tell by the way he ran out of the door, his long legs lifting high in the air.

What am I supposed to do, though? True, I saw him hold the gun up to the teller's head. I saw him run out of the bank with a briefcase full of money. But he's my best friend, and if I turned him in, he would surely kill me the second he got out of jail. And he's my best friend! We've never gone more than a few days without seeing each other, other than that trip he took to Europe a few years ago. But even then, he called me almost every day.

If I wanted to, I could. I could describe every single thing about Stan to the police. He's 6'2, his legs the longest part of his body. Dark brown hair, medium length, green eyes, very skinny, and a scar on the right side of his face. I could tell them where he lived. They would find him in a second.

As Stan left, I waited in the bathroom for almost twenty minutes, trying to fathom what just happened. I thought for a while about the incident. 'It couldn't have been him', I thought at first. He's one of the shyest people I know and I could never imagine him doing something like this. I couldn't stand it anymore. I was completely lying down on the cold, damp tile of the bathroom floor, and I needed to get out of there.

As I walked out of the bathroom, the police were already there. They asked as I walked out if I had seen anything or if I knew anything about the robbery. I stood there for what seemed like another hour, thinking. Do I tell him? Or do I let him figure it out on his own?

"No. I don't know anything. Sorry, officer."

The walk home took a lot longer than I remember it usually taking. Maybe subconsciously it was longer because I needed some time to think. A bird chirped in a nearby tree. I wonder what it's still doing up here in the cold. It was a particularly cold day today. 0 degrees Celsius, maybe lower. Not an aberration for early fall in Toronto. As I looked back at the Royal Bank, and continued on my way down Bay Street towards the Air Canada Centre, next to where I lived, I thought more about what had just happened. Not so much the robbery, but the fact that I lied to a police officer. Does that make me a criminal simply for doing that? I could turn him in. But I'm not sure if I want to. Maybe I'll wait a while and be sure that they'll have solved it by then. Or maybe they'll arrest the wrong person, and I'll personally be happier because I'll still have my best friend.

I finally arrived at my apartment. Why was I even in the bank in the first place? I wasn't even making a transaction. I was on my way home from the restaurant and I had to go to the bathroom. The restaurant didn't have one, but I figured the bank would have a bathroom that I could use. I should have just waited a few minutes until I got home. I wouldn't have been in this predicament, namely the biggest one I've ever faced in my life.

Just then, the phone rang.

I looked at the caller ID. It was him. It was Stan. I paused.

It rang a second time.

I took a step towards the phone. It was within my reach, yet it felt like it was so far away.

It rang a third and final time.

I couldn't lift up my legs. I felt as heavy as Shaq after eating a triple cheeseburger.

The answering machine picked up. As the message greeter finished, I heard him talking to me. That voice, the same one I heard in the bank, tearing into my heart like a thousand rusty knives being jabbed into my chest.

"Hey, it's me. I have some great news!! Do you wanna catch up with me for dinner? Maybe catch the game as well? Call me back."

Great news? What, that you're now rich because of something illegal you just did? What else do you wanna tell me? That you wanna rob me too?

The anger swelled inside of me. I felt like taking a chair and smashing it through my apartment window. I held my anger back, made my way to the couch, slowly slumped down on it, and attempted to calm myself down.

I turned the TV on and Christine Bentley, that famous news anchor, is discussing breaking news that the Royal Bank in Toronto, Ontario has been robbed for over $300,000.

It's even more than I thought it was. How the hell did he fit that much into the tiny briefcase that he brought with him?

Fortunately, and surprisingly, I fell asleep with the TV on, with the story of my best friend blaring in my subconscious and dreaming ears.

I woke up the next day.

I must have slept for twenty hours.

I checked the answering machine. There was another message on it. I pushed play.

"Hey, it's me again. I haven't heard back from you, so I'm assuming you didn't get my message..."

Oh, I got it all right. I got it and I now want to burn my answering machine because your voice was on it.

"I'm gonna go get some pizza," the voice continued. "If you want to come with me at 6, that's fine, and I'm gonna head to the bar to watch the Leafs' game. You can join me for that too if you want. See you around."

I thought some more about the message. I might as well go, because if I stop hanging out with him, he's gonna suspect something. I don't have to say anything, and I can restrain myself from blaring it out. It might be fun. Maybe I can forget about this whole thing.

As I arrived at the restaurant, I knew everything was going to be alright. As long as I didn't say anything having to do with the robbery, it wouldn't be brought up. I would just have to restrain myself.

"Hey, Stan!" I yelled as I spotted him at a table in the corner of the pizza place.

"Hey, come over here, I'm ready to order, and you haven't even sat down yet," he responded.

As I sat down, I looked into his eyes, and knew that it was truly him. Those were the exact eyes I had seen in the bank earlier that afternoon. Just don't say anything about it, I told myself.

"So did you hear about that bank robbery?" he asked me.

Crap.

"Yeah, I heard all about it. Crazy isn't it?"

Neither of us spoke for a moment. I heard a fork drop onto the floor a few tables over. Or maybe it was a knife.

"Yeah, that is crazy," he continued. "Speaking of which, guess what! I got a raise today at work and a huge bonus from my boss!" he fibbed.

"Really?" I said, sounding genuinely excited. "How do you get a raise from a business that's in the red?"

"Well, my boss likes me a lot cause I'll do almost anything he needs me to do," he responded.

Like robbing a bank? I thought.

"Yeah I know," I replied.

"I want to share some of it with you, because you're my best friend, and I wouldn't want to seem cheap and stuck-up if I got this much money," he said as he reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a check with the amount $20,000 written on it.

"Take it," he said, with a devilish smile.

"Excuse me?" I said.

I was walking home, the same route I took yesterday. I felt dirty. Dirty like the sides of the street that I was walking on. This little piece of paper, which, when blank is worthless. But now it's not just worth a measly cent or two. It is $20,000, in my pocket. It's not even real to me. It's stolen, dirty, horribly tainted money. Part of me wants to take it out and look at it, but the other part doesn't even want me to touch it.

I arrived at my apartment, closed and locked the door. In the distance I heard a police siren go off. Without ever taking out the check, I threw the coat I was wearing under my bed. I wasn't planning on ever going near it again. The check is in there, no one will ever look in my coat, and I'll never have to touch it again.

I took a few steps towards the window, and looked at the bank, which I could see from my balcony. The police were still there. If they knew I had part of the stolen money, I would surely get arrested, too. But I couldn't refuse the money, or Stan would've known that I knew about the robbery.

Stan had all the money but mine. He was home now, I assumed. I felt like I should go over to his place, tell him that I knew, and insist that he give the money back. Just then, I heard my TV, which I must've left on after I went to meet Stan.

"The Toronto police say that they have a good lead as to who robbed the Royal Bank, and are asking the robber to anonymously return the money within 24 hours, or they will arrest him."

There we go. It's done now. He has to give it back, I know him too well. Stan would never be able to stand jail. He was too scared. I looked at my cell phone, wondering if I should call him. I stood there for what seemed like an hour, and then dialed his number.

"Hey, Stan, what's up," I said.

"Not much. Didn't we just see each other?"

"Yeah," I responded. I told him about what I just heard on the news. There was a long pause on the line.

"Oh, really?" he responded, sounding extremely frightened and confused. There was another long pause. "Well, that's cool. I gotta go, I'll talk to you later," and then he hung up. Just like that, without even giving me a chance to say something, he was gone. I felt like I had done it. He was going to give it back. I could tell by the sound and quiver of his voice, he was too scared to keep it. Also, I had $20,000 of his in my pocket. He was probably assuming I was going to cash it. Little did he know.

No more than twenty-five minutes later, I heard breaking news on TV, that the money had been returned anonymously, and the robber, who, according to the police is still unknown, will not be located or charged. There was silence; I could hear footsteps shuffle past my door and down the hallway.

It was done. Almost.

His door has never looked so big to me. I've been here a million times, but I feel miniscule compared to this door. I don't know what to say either. That's the problem with being a guy. We never truly think up something to say when we have to go into a big conversation or argument. I had a twenty minute walk, yet I didn't think of one word to say to him.

I finally knocked on the door, and Stan opened it, looking extremely surprised.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Why do you think I'm here, dude?" I responded.

"Don't answer my question with a question," he responded, angrily, as if he suspected why I was at his apartment. "Tell me why you're here."

How am I supposed to tell him? I know it was him, but I don't know if he knows that I know.

"You know why I'm here. I know it was you," I blurted out.

There was a long pause. He wasn't sure what to say, nor was I.

"Look, man, that dent was on your car when I got it," Stan said.

"Not the dent, I don't give a crap about the dent in my car. I care about you following laws."

"I can't imagine what you're talking about," he lied.

"The bank robbery. It was you. Don't even try denying it. I know it was you; I saw you do it. I saw you from the bathroom. You can't even get this lie past me, Stan."

There was another long pause. Stan looked as if he had a thousand emotions going through his mind at the same time. I could see the faint beads of sweat dripping down his face, almost going into his eye before he wiped it off.

"What do you want from me?" Stan asked.

"I want you to confess to me that you did it, and tell me why," I said.

"But I didn't do-"

"Stop lying to me, Stan! It's so obvious it was you, so just stop denying it! You need to fess up to me right now, or I'll call the cops!" I screamed.

There was another silence for almost ten seconds, after which Stan finally decided to say something useful.

"I-I don't know how you want me to respond to that," he started.

"I want you to explain to me what went through your mind when you decided to rob a freakin' bank!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

He started to cower, both physically and emotionally, and he looked down at the ground. I had him right where I wanted him.

"You're one of the smartest people I know, Stan," I continued, "but to rob a bank? That's absolutely ridiculous! I could never have imagined you robbing a bank, because you're just not that type of person." I got even angrier, and was on the verge of an explosion. "And then to give me part of the money that you know you got illegally, and not care?!?! I could go to jail for that, too! You're lucky as hell I knew what that money was, because otherwise I would've cashed it and you'd be broke, sitting on your ass in the streets of Toronto while I'm having a night on the town. What the hell went through your damn mind when you decided to write that check to me? I should turn you into the police! You're a criminal! A crook! And I'm ashamed to call you my best friend!"

For what seemed like the hundredth time, there was an extremely long pause. There was complete silence in the room. Outside, I could hear a dog bark. I could hear the cars rushing by. It was so quiet that I could hear Stan's tears dropping onto the wood, tiled floor in his apartment. I looked at him, and he was still staring at the ground, not sure what to say. I didn't know what else to say, either. I was so angry I was almost hyperventilating. I wanted to turn around, walk out of his apartment, and never come back. But something told me to wait.

He looked at me and explained why. He told me how he did it, why he did it and how he justified his abhorrent actions. Though I wanted to be angry, though I wanted to grab him by the throat and pin him against the wall, I simply couldn't.

Because he was right to do it.

It sounds odd. It sounds stupid. It even sounds criminal. But it's true. His rationale was perfect and, though the means were not ideal, the ends more than ever justified them. What do you think happened? What would cause someone to do something so rash and so dangerous? And, more importantly, what could possibly justify doing something like this?

Where would you draw the line?