The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Five EMILY

Chapter Five

E MILY

Life can change immediately; that’s something we often forget. If we dwelled on it, none of us would get out of bed in the morning.

The robber yanks a rubber horse head over his face and surgical mask, the kind we’ve all been wearing for a few years. We’re used to seeing masks in this postpandemic world, so it didn’t trigger my spidey sense like maybe it should have.

The robber fires one shot into the ceiling. Bits of plaster rain down, layering our table with a fine coating of grit and larger chunks. Brew and Chew is in an older building with a tin ceiling, and suddenly my mind goes to the dangers of inhaling asbestos, like that’s our biggest problem.

Everyone is screaming. The highest-pitched keening doesn’t come from Liv or that mom, or even the little girl. Its origin is the man who was so happily working at his laptop moments earlier.

Correction.

Everyone’s screaming except for me . I’m not doing anything. I don’t jump. I don’t fly into action. I’m not throwing elbows or high kicks. I just freeze. I’m sitting here like the softest of targets with no means of defense, as the memory of the worst day of my life comes careering back. It’s Brazil 2.0, except now I’m just frozen.

I’m more angry than afraid, watching the others scatter and try to conceal themselves, as my mind flashes back to that moment, running from Jeremy into the night. I gave up almost everything I loved as an insurance policy that I would never again be endangered, leaving Brazil and BlueLove for grad school.

What was it all for?

Why did I turn down the volume so far on my big life, only for it to hover in the hands of a guy in a jackass mask robbing the till at a third-rate café?

The other customers look around, all of us silently willing each other to act. Won’t someone do ... something? Is this who I’ve become? Is this who we are? We see danger and we just sit here, maybe recording video on our phones if we’re feeling bold? Shouldn’t we rise to the occasion? Shouldn’t we be the heroes who grimly agree, “Let’s roll,” as we rush the cockpit, sacrificing ourselves, steadfast in our decision to not let the terrorists win? Aren’t we better than this?

When did I become the anti-hero?

How did I get older but not wiser?

Vishnu, who was so happy a few minutes ago, cradles his head in his hands. “This is what I deserve—I lied. I called in sick so I could take this beautiful day to work on my novel. I am so sorry, universe! I am so sorry, everyone!”

The robber turns his attention to the Indian man, bemused. “You couldn’t take a personal day?”

“My boss is a difficult man and he will not allow it.”

The robber snorts from behind his mask. “You need a new job.”

This is surreal.

The robber waves his weapon toward B-Money and says, “You. Cash. Now.” Tears stream fast and free down B-Money’s face as he complies. It’s mean, but I can’t help but think, So much for your street cred, Blake. Like I have any room to talk. So much for mine.

“There’s only twenty-three dollars in here,” B-Money says. “Unless you want a few rolls of quarters?”

I need to do something. What’s stopping me? Why am I so inert? I spot the LuluMom quietly positioning her little girl behind her as she folds her stroller into something akin to a weapon, or at least a blockade. That small action spurs me on, gives me a confidence boost. If this lady is ready to fight, I should be too. Diving in headfirst and asking questions later was once second nature to me. I mean, I’ve taunted a grown man driving a big yellow bulldozer straight at me.

That was me . I was the “not on my watch” person. I was willing to stare down a bulldozer, not even to save human lives; I was doing it for some scrubby pine trees. These are people in this café, with hopes and dreams. There’s a child in here. Liv is in here. What good am I if I can’t act when it really counts? When did I deem it okay for my watch to end?

I muster my courage. I ball my fists and rise in my seat, ready to take back the hero’s cape. The robber whips around at the sound of my chair scraping the floor and aims at me, and I remember the echo of a single shot that rang out through the Brazilian night as I ran away. I’m briefly sucked under with the grief of that moment and my knees buckle. I can’t do it. My spirit is willing, but my body remembers and it won’t let me.

The robber shouts, “The rest of you, fast! I want wallets, computers, jewelry, phones. Now!”

All of us comply as quickly as we can, piling him up with electronics and wallets. Michael, the nattily dressed man, must be carrying at least $1,000 in cash, and his bills and credit cards spill out like clowns exiting a Volkswagen. The robber fumbles with his treasure, dropping twenties and Liv’s prize cameo necklace because he’s having trouble seeing through the eyeholes of the rubber mask.

Liv volunteers, “Excuse me, would it be easier if you use this mesh farmers’ market tote I keep in my—”

I pinch her, hissing, “The fuck, Liv? Stop being helpful!”

Quietly, she whispers back, “Helping may get him out of here quicker.” She grabs hold of my hand and grips it tightly. I grip hers right back. She’s not wrong. Compliance is actually the better strategy. Vishnu and B-Money have already humanized themselves. They’re doing what BlueLove taught me to do in the same kind of circumstance.

Michael has complied by giving over his wallet, but he’s reticent to hand over his phone. The robber barks, “I said phones too!”

“But I don’t know how to save to the cloud!” Michael wails. “I’ll lose all my contacts!”

This throws the gunman off his game. “Wait, you mean you can’t—ugh.” While he tries wrestling the phone out of Michael’s surprisingly viselike grip, the LuluMom stealthily pulls a jumbo forty-ounce steel Stanley handled tumbler from her bag. With the grace and strength of a panther, she springs up and clocks him in the face.

I don’t know if it’s the force of the blow or the element of surprise, but it’s enough for the guy to drop his gun. The weapon skitters across the floor to Vishnu, where he promptly pulls his legs up on his chair as though it were a rabid rodent and not the key to getting us out of here alive. The robber lunges for it, but his mask’s askew and he’s having trouble finding it on the floor.

The mom grabs the stroller’s handles and wields it like a bat, catching him across the face, bashing in the mask’s muzzle. She slams him again and again in rapid succession. The sounds of contact are ghastly, the crack of metal on flesh and bone. The robber stumbles around blindly, trips over a chair, then collapses briefly into a heap.

No one makes a move to get a hold of the guy, so he’s able to collect himself, but he seems almost too hurt to proceed. He’d be so easy to neutralize and restrain right now. Yet he staggers out the door and into a getaway car idling in the bright sunlight right at the curb, as no one else steps up. None of us even gets the plate number. Of course we don’t. We just sit in silence, waiting for someone to tell us it’s okay.

It is not okay.

Finally, Michael breaks the ice. “I can save to the cloud,” he protests. “I was keeping my phone so I could take his picture for the police!” He pronounces the last word as “ po -lease.” There are hints of the South in his accent.

Vishnu chimes in, “And I was going to turn his gun on him as soon as it cooled down.”

“Cooled down?” Liv asks, still shaken but also confused.

“Yes. Don’t they get very hot when you shoot them?” he replies. Liv shrugs.

B-Money tries to regain his street cred. “And I was gonna toss scalding coffee at him, but I didn’t get a chance to brew any.”

The LuluMom assesses us one by one, balancing her little girl on her hip. I can feel the disappointment in her fellow patrons radiating from her, but her ire can’t possibly burn as fiery as it does inside me.

She shakes her head, sadly disgusted with us. “You all were going to do a lot of things.”