Better Late than Never

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

I looked at my watch — 5:56 pm. I really needed to step lively if I was going to make it. I had to get to the bank before closing time at 6:00 pm because I really needed to get into my safety deposit box. The ATM can do a lot of things, but that was not one of them.

I hustled a little faster. I know. I know. Why wait ’til the last minute — again? I had every intention of going to the bank right after lunch, but I met a friend for linch, and it went longer than I expected. Then my boss called, and said she needed me to finish an assignment, ASAP. Then my mother called, and you know mothers, right?  Just try getting off the phone when you’re in a hurry. So, yeah, I waited too long, but you know, life gets in the way, like always. What’s that saying — the best laid plans?

So here I was, tearing down the street, hoping to get to the bank before six o'clock. I could see the bank, and boosted it into overdrive.  I came skidding to a stop right in front of the bank doors, and I managed to grab the door and swing it open just as the security guard was reaching to lock it.

I gave him my most dazzling smile, teeth and all.

“I’m good, right?”

He looked at his watch.  

“Yup,” he said, smiling back, “Eight seconds. Lots of time.”

I scooched by him, walking quickly into the bank. I heard the doors being locked behind me.

Phew! Made it! By the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.

I walked over to the customer service representative, a man of about forty. It looked like he was getting ready to leave for the day.

“Hi there—“ I looked at his name plate, “Mr. Sears. I need to get into my safety deposit box.”

He did not seem pleased. He looked at his watch, and then back at me.

“I’m not sure we have time for that, Ms. …”

“Robbie. Natalie Robbie.” I smiled and stuck out my hand. He stood and shook it. “I did get here before closing, so I’m hoping to get into my safety deposit box.”

I smiled, and waited.

Mr. Sears looked again at his watch, and sighed.

“Fine. Come with me.”

We took the stairs to the basement, and began the process of getting me into my safety deposit box. I signed in, showed my identification. Mr. Sears matched my face with my ID, then matched my signature with my signature card.  

Satisfied that I was, in fact, Natalie Robbie, he took out his key, and I took out my key, we both put them into the locks, turned them, and voila, I was in.

“We are closing shortly, Ms. Robbie. Please consider the time of others.”

That was a bit pompous and a bit snarky, but I smiled anyway.

“Thank you, Mr. Sears. I’ll try to make it quick.”

He turned to leave. Suddenly, there was a commotion upstairs — we could hear yelling and screaming. And were those gunshots? Mr. Sears turned to look back at me, and ran out of the room. A few seconds later, he returned.

“There are people robbing the bank! They have guns! What should we do?”

“Lock the door, so they can’t get in here,” I said immediately. This was not my fight. If there were people with guns, and they came downstairs, I wanted a big thick steel door between me and them.

Mr. Sears tuned and grabbed the door to the safety deposit room, and pulled it shut with a clang, pushed down the handle, locking the door from the inside.  

I pulled out my phone. No service. Of course not. I was locked in a giant steel box, surrounded by concrete, ten feet underground. What did I expect?

My bank was an old-time bank, and the safety deposit room was the original bank vault. Not very big, but apparently waterproof and air tight. There was a land line, though.

“Does that work?” I asked, pointing at the phone.

“Yes,” Mr. Sears said, pacing around the small room.

“Will it light up a phone line on the console on a desk upstairs.?”

“Yes,” he said, distractedly. "Every phone has access to this telephone line."

“So, we won’t be using that. Any CCTV cameras in here?” I asked, looking around. Then I looked at Mr. Sears.

He didn’t look too good. He was pale, and shaky. A thin layer of sweat covered his upper lip. 

“Yes. It points at the door from up there.” He pointed to a very small lens mounted on the opposite side of the room at the ceiling.  

“Who monitors the camera?” I asked.

“It’s monitored from the branch manager’s desk, and the security guard’s screen array.” Pacing, pacing.

“We should disable it, so that they can’t see that we are in here.”

Mr. Sears’s gaze snapped back to me. “That’s bank property! You can’t willfully destroy bank property!”

“Do you want the bad guys to find us down here?”

“No. No I don’t.” He wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead.

I looked at the camera again. Depending on how wide the angle on the camera was, anyone looking at the monitors would already know that we were down here. I went to my safety deposit box, and pulled out my ASP, a collapsible metal baton favoured by police departments everywhere.  

Mr. Sears’ eyes got wide when I flicked my wrist and the steel baton extended.

“Don’t ask.”  

I smashed the camera lens. Five times. Broken glass tinkled to the ground. I hit it again, just to make sure that I had crushed the actual lens. I was pretty sure I killed it, but we would have to wait and see. If no one came down, then I had indeed willfully destroyed bank property. 

“Oh,” was his only response.

I surveyed the room. There was a phone that we couldn’t use. There was a camera that wasn’t operative anymore. And there were about sixty boxes lining all sides of the room, filled with who knew what.

All we had to do now, was sit and wait. I looked at Mr. Sears.

“Can you get into these boxes?”

He wasn’t actually paying attention. Instead he was looking worriedly at the ceiling, while pacing around the small room.

“What?” He shook his head, and mopped his forehead with his jacket cuff. “No. I would need both keys.”

“I wonder what’s in all these boxes, that’s all.” I said, generally, scanning the rows of numbered faceplates, each its own tiny vault.

Mr. Sears shook his head. “Probably the same as what you have in your box.” He nodded his head towards my box that was hanging half out of the hole. “Probably the same types of things.”

I didn’t think so, but that was a conversation for another time. 

Mr. Sears continued. “ Money, passports, important papers, jewellery, mementos — anything that people want to keep safe.  Ergo, the name ‘safety’ deposit box, Ms. Robbie.”  

And the arrogant Mr. Sears was back.

He looked back up to the ceiling. “What do you think’s happening up there,” he asked, wiping his sweaty hands on his trouser legs.

“I dunno. If the robbery went off without a hitch, then someone should be coming down for us soon. If the police got here before the robbers escaped, who knows when someone will be down for us.”

I sat down on the floor. 

“Sit down, Mr. Sears, you’re making me nervous.”

He looked down at the floor with distain.  

“Do you know the last time this floor was cleaned? I can assure you it wasn’t recently.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Your choice.”

We were quiet, trying to hear what was going on upstairs. But because we were inside the locked vault, the odds of hearing anything was on par with getting a cell phone signal.

“You know,” Mr. Sears said, “I can open the door from the inside and sneak upstairs to see what’s happening.”

I looked at him. “We're not locked in here? We can get out at anytime?” I was happily surprised.

“Yes. The failsafe was installed in all our vaults and safety deposit rooms because in 2005 a manager got himself locked in the vault on the Friday of a long weekend, and died from asphyxia. Same with the phone and camera — both redundant failsafes.”  He thought for a moment. “Do you think I should sneak out to see what’s going on?”

“And what good is that going to do if you get caught? You just said that we’re not locked in here, so why don’t we wait? Someone will come down and let us out, eventually — when it’s safe.”

“I suppose you’re right. We should wait.” He started pacing around the small room again.

I thought for a moment. “How many people have a key to this room?”

“I have a key, of course. And the Branch Manager, Mrs. Kincade.  And head office, of course.”

“Do you think Mrs. Kincade would give up the key if the bad guys threatened her?”

“She’s not in today, so it’s moot. I’m the only person with a key in the branch today.”

“So we’re safe in here and no one can get in?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

I sat there relieved. Mr. Sears continued to pace, and fidget, and mop sweat off of different parts of his body. Each of us were lost in our own thoughts. I don’t know what Mr. Sears was thinking, but I was (a) mentally kicking myself for procrastinating and not getting here until it was almost too late, and (b) thinking I should really consider the benefits of better time management.  

Suddenly the lights went out. I gasped, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Sears screamed a little. It was pitch black. I pulled out my phone, and turned on the flashlight app. As pitiful as it was, it was the only light in the room.

“Mr. Sears, you should probably come over here and sit down. I don’t want you tripping and hurting yourself.”

Reluctantly he came over to where I was sitting. He bent over and dusted off the floor before sitting down. How could one man be both officious and nervous at the same time?

“I’m guessing the police got here before the bad guys got away. I don’t think that they’d turn off the power unless that was the case. That’s standard operating procedure when negotiating with bank robbers” I said.

“It could just be a power outage,” said Mr. Sears. He was breathing heavily, and sweating — I knew he was sweating because I could smell him. 

“True. But either way, is that door electric?”

“Yes. But we have a manual release.”

I nodded my head. “Good to know.” I was thinking that we might need a way to get out if Mr. Sears lost control.

More silence. I broke it because Mr. Sears’s breath was ramping up to panting.

“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

“No. Of course not. Grown men are not claustrophobic.”

So, yes, he was claustrophobic. That explained why he’d rather face armed bank robbers than sit in a perfectly safe vault with me. Phew! For a minute there, I thought it was me.

More silence.

“So, Mr. Sears, how long have you worked at the bank? I said, making small talk to keep him occupied.

“Nine years. I worked my way up from teller to Customer Relations Officer. I’m studying to be a Portfolio Manager.”

“Cool.” I didn’t really think that it was “cool” but I just wanted to keep him talking so he wouldn’t freak out.  

“Did you always want to be in banking?” I asked.

In the faint light of my phone, he turned to look at me.  

“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I want to be in banking. Banks run the world.”

The words came out of his mouth, but I was pretty sure they weren’t heartfelt.

“Okay, but if you couldn’t be a banker, what would you want to be?”

He thought a moment. 

“Before I got into banking, I had wanted to be a Foley artist — you know, the person who makes sound effects for television and movies — high heels clacking on hardwood, the sound of a gun cocking, the sounds when someone gets slapped, a horse clip-clopping along with the saddle creaking. All those sounds are artificially created by a Foley artist.” He sighed. “But my parents insisted that I take finance at university. They had planned for me to earn my MBA, and get a high powered money job, but I just couldn’t muster the effort to continue with my education once I got my undergrad degree.”

“Wow!” I said. “A Foley artist. Interesting choice. Why don’t you do it now?”

Mr. Sears shook his head. “You have to have a degree in sound design and engineering, then you have to apprentice, then you have to get hired at a studio. I’m too old to start all over.”

“You’re never too old, Mr. Sears,” I said. “What are you, early forties?”

Even by the weak light of my phone I could see he gave me side eye. “I’m thirty-two, Ms. Robbie.”

“Really?” I said. “That just proves it, then. If I think that you’re ten years older than you really are, then banking is not where you should be. It’s sucking the life out of you.”

He said nothing.

“Do you really like banking? Seriously.”

“I enjoy my job.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Ms. Robbie, I do,” he said, while his foot bounced off the floor, nervously.

“Are you married? Have a significant other? A partner?”

“That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?” 

Yes, I thought, it is, but it’s better than you losing it because you’re claustrophobic and stuck in a small, dark place. 

“No, not really. We’re sitting here, doing nothing. I think it’s a good time to get to know each other.”  

“Well, if you must know, I’m not involved with anyone currently.”  He sighed again. “I was engaged when I was in university, but my parents didn’t approve of her.” He leaned his head against the boxes behind his head. “Her name was Amelia. She was a theatre arts major, and she wanted to become an actress.” Pause. “And she did. You may have heard of her. Her stage name is Amelia Dejardins. She has been in a few movies.”

I had heard of her, which is saying something, since I’m not much into pop culture.

“Didn’t she win an oscar, or something?”

“Yes. Best Supporting Actress for Humble Pie, two years ago.”

“Wow! I bet your parents are having a big old slice of that humble pie themselves, now that she’s famous.”

“Quite the contrary, Ms. Robbie. They believe that acting is a disreputable profession.”

“How did you and Amelia meet?”  

He stopped fidgeting and looking at the ceiling, and considered is answer.

“I went to a student production of The Tempest, and she played Miranda. She played the role flawlessly. I ran into her in the cafeteria the next week, and told her how much I liked her performance. We talked. I was smitten. We started dating not too long afterwards. That was first year. Just before we graduated, I proposed. She accepted. We went to visit my parents, and tell them the good news. On the surface they seemed happy for us. But behind the scenes, my father spoke with Amelia, unbeknownst to me. He told her that he didn’t think that she was good enough for me, and that they would never support the marriage. She broke it off when we got back to the university. I was gutted. She headed to Hollywood after graduation, and I stayed here. I had no idea that they had scared her off until my mother told me, much later.” He looked at me. I could see the hurt in his eyes. “I would have followed her to Hollywood, but she never asked.”

“You should call her, you know. Get in touch. Tell her your side of the story.”

“I could never do that. She’s famous now. Dating all kinds of other actors. She probably wouldn’t even remember me.”

‘You’ll never know unless you try,” I said.

Suddenly, the lights came back on. A smile crossed my lips.

“Looks like all the action is over.” I stood. “We should be out of here real soon.”

I walked over to my safety deposit box, put the ASP back in, and took out a big, fat white envelope, my passport, and a weighty Crown Royal bag. All went into my backpack. I shut my box, and pushed it into the opening. I inserted my key, and locked the front panel. My safety deposit box was now safe again.

Mr. Sears was watching me, with his eyebrow raised. I smiled back.

“Well, Mr. Sears, looks like we’re all done here.”

*****

About a month later, I was in Lisbon when I received a text from an unknown number. Usually I delete unknowns right away, but for some reason I didn’t. I opened it and there was a picture of Mr. Sears, his arms around a woman I recognized as Amelia Dejardins, both smiling. They were standing in front of the University of Southern California sign, and Mr. Sears was holding something out towards the camera lens — I zoomed in. It was a student card with his photo on it.  

The message read, “Thanks. I took your advice. Better late than never!”