Hot Chicken Gelato

I attempted what my best friend, Blake, called a “risk event.” Some people would call this a ‘Life  Pivot.’ Others, specifically law enforcement and lawyers and junk, would call it a bank robbery.

My knee vibrated like a jackhammer and rattled the brochure stand for “Sullivan Bank Crypto Savings.”

DING. 

The bank filled up with the typical randos who still go to banks in real life. There was a woman  who was clearly late; the cutest old couple desperate to cash their tariff reimbursement check— which looked like it had been through a car wash—and a father watched his tween bang her head  on the counter every time she flipped the pen-on-a-string around her head.

“Everything is gonna be okay. Be confident. Don’t let them see you sweat,” Blake’s voice  echoed through my AirPods like my own personal Calm app. My rock. My best friend who was  currently stuck in morning traffic. “You remember the pitch, right?”

I insistently whispered that I had practiced this morning in the mirror.

“Dude—it’s all happening! Not us living the American Dream. Sorry I’m not there but Aunt  Dawn’s watercolor class is really helping her find her center. She’s doing washes now, Jonez.  Washes.”

I told Blake not to worry about a thing. I knew she needed him more than me. But he stayed on  the phone—he wanted to talk me through the whole thing. What a lucky guy I am to have a  friend like Blakers.

I joined the line. I needed this to work, or I’d be dragged back into the family hat business,  selling foam trucker caps to people who still think pervy irony is a clothing brand.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Blake reminded me. “‘Hot Chicks Love Chicken’ is a crazy-smart  food truck name. You’re a marketing genius. I love you.”

I responded in kind. And just as my fingers wrapped around the grip of my Walmart pistol, the  woman who was clearly running late turned around and shouted—an angel’s voice reverberating  from the heavens—

“This is a robbery. Get down and don’t move.”

Everyone hit the deck—except me. I was struck by a bolt of divine lightning. I stood frozen,  mesmerized. This blessing of a creature tossed a Trader Joe’s tote to the teller, Anne—who’d  worked at the bank since 1985 and seen it all.

As Anne began to fill it with cash, this seraph hollered at me to hit the floor and wondered if she  had stuttered.

Like, are you kidding me? She’s making conversation with me! I love her.

She chirped again, in only the way angels do, to get down or get fucked as she sexily aimed her  Glock at my face.

I beamed back at her with my own gun—my smile.

“You’re breathtaking.” My voice cracked, but all I could think of was me and her and our four  children playing on a swing set we had to order special from Walmart.

Her mouth involuntarily formed a u-shape as she tried to cover the red in her cheeks. “Shit, I  forgot to put on my mask,” this other-worldly messenger chittered, resigned.

I swung my shoulder bag over and offered her my spare. I tried to play it cool as I let her know I too was about to rob the bank. “They came in a two-pack at Walmart.”

Anne nodded as this sublime being let out a burst of laughter which was romantic but somehow  also super-heisty. She took the ski mask and put it on, as Blake’s voice blared through the  speaker. He wanted to know who I was talking to, what was happening.

I whispered our secret codeword for when things were going well with girls. “Baconator.”

The most incredible woman I’d ever met asked who I just hung up on.

Somehow I strung together the words, “My best friend in the world.”

She stepped over a customer toward me, eyes fluttering, “I overheard. Honestly? It’s hot  whenever I see MPDA.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Male Public Displays of Affection. A man who prioritizes his bros? Oof baboof.”

She wanted to know who I was. I lied—just a white lie! I was still with it enough not to give out  my real identity. Plus, what a fun story to tell our kids.

“Mom introduced herself as Trancy and I introduced myself as Jonathan,” I’ll tell them. “But your names are Mom and Dad!” they’ll shout back. 

We smile at the four of our kids—Robber, Robbie, Robert, and Felony—

Blake’s call interrupted my daydream. He encouraged me to be myself, because that’s the best  self of any selves there could ever be.

I simply replied, “Jumbo Jack,” our codeword for when we were in love, and hung up.

I looked on as the love of my life waved her handgun at a bald man on his hands and knees—and  firmly told him to get his ass back on the ground.

We reached the counter together, grabbed our totes packed with large bills from Anne, and  turned to each other.

My stomach churned with the same nerves I had freshman year when I asked Jenny Fitzsimmons  to homecoming and she ralphed all over me.

I wanted to know what she’d do with her spoils, and with the confidence of an archangel, she told me her dream of opening an artisanal gelato truck.

No upchuck this time.

I not-so-casually mentioned me and my BFF’s vision for our hot chicken truck. “Maybe we go into business together,” she flirted.

I offered to carry her bag just as my phone RANG AGAIN.  

Blake’s voice screamed through—curious what the hell was going on. Did I need help?

I cured his fears—we were mid-robbery—I rolled my eyes to Trancy as she yelled “Hello,  Blake!” into my phone.

“Are you still at the bank? Did she just say my name out loud, mid-robbery?!” “Egg McMuffin,” I cooed back—our codeword for let’s talk when we get home. I hung up on ole Blake and escorted this ethereal goddess to our escape, giddy, on cloud ni— WHACK. 

She punched me in the face, took my sack of cash, and bounced.

As I lay sprawled on the floor—blood on my lip from her glorious right hook—I couldn’t wait to  break out of jail and ask her on a second date.