The Crooked Bullet. Rotimi Ogunjobi

and couldn’t find any listing. I thought maybe you had some other jobs that haven’t been yet listed.” Frank replied, mildly annoyed.

      “Would you be willing to consider any other job?”

      Frank had a fleeting thought that having a full-time job as a disc jockey would have been so cool but he didn’t think they made jobs in that model yet; at least not in London.

       “Yes, depending on what you have available. I really must pay my bills somehow”, Frank replied. Humming gaily, she tapped some more on her computer.

       “I have got some vacancies for truck drivers. Do you have a license?”

      “No I don’t have a license to drive anything on wheels,” Frank laughed; thinking he had no desire to drive a fucking truck.

      “Door security?” She again suggested.

      “I have a problem standing for long,” Frank told her.

      “You wouldn’t consider a street cleaning job either I guess because of your disability?” Frank imagined she was mocking him, with the way she said “your disability.” Nevertheless, he just shook his head, thinking no way was he going to be scooping dog poop for anybody.

      “Traffic warden?” She asked. Again Frank laughed and shook his head. As far as he knew, nearly everyone who owned a car was looking for a traffic warden to murder.

      “Okay then, could you check back next week and we might hopefully have something along your street. In the interim would you like to sign on to receive unemployment benefits?”

      At this time a mail boy passed – probably sixteen years old or so.

      Get off that chair and go do some work like a man you lazy motherfucker; his disgusted eyes seemed to say to Frank.

      “No I don’t want to sign on for anything,” Frank told her.

      “Suit yourself then,” she said.

       Frank’s bank was only a hundred yards down the street, and it took him less than five minutes to get there. A small bus with BBC stenciled on the sides was parked outside the bank, but he didn’t really pay attention to that.

      The bank was a little crowded which didn’t make sense, not so early in the morning.

      “What’s going on?” he’d asked the door security.

      “A little bit of equipment malfunction, but I am sure all will be back to normal in a few minutes. We were alerted”, the tall happy Nigerian told him. Frank seated himself near an old West Indian granny while he waited for the queue to get moving once more.

      “Hello my dearie, I am Mrs. Williams. “, the granny told him. Frank shook her hand and told her his own name.

       “My name is Frank. I learn the computers have gone funny, that’s odd, isn’t it?” he asked.

       “Nothing odd at all dearie; the bank is full of funny business these days, aren’t they? Last year me bring me check here. You know we old citizens get some allowance for our heating equipment and stuff. Now me hand me check over to this rass teller over there you see, and next time I look back he gone. Went away with my money; old woman money. And so about an hour later he back again, and me kick a fuss and lick him on the head with me bag. Give me back me money you thief me shout at him. And his supervisor come and beg me cool doun; cool doun he say because all the man do is go for break. Cool doun, bloodclat say to me. Can you believe that, young man? Idiot boy go for break with me money”.

      Frank nodded miserably and agreed with Mrs. Williams that yes, all bank workers were thieves and must be put in prison. But she was not even halfway done yet. Mrs. Williams proceeded to recite her biography and especially the rather touching bit about her granddaughter Harriet, whose picture she carried around in her handbag and was pleased to show Frank.

      “You know Harriet, poor girl who shouldn’t have married the goat goes by the name of Winston who can’t keep a job and all he do is play trumpet in a reggae band as if he in Jamaica. This is sad because living in London is hard man; not like back-a-yard in Jamaica.”

      It made Frank guilty that this nice lonely lady Mrs. Williams actually thought she was talking to a nice young white man who had his life altogether. Nevertheless, he obediently nodded and agreed to all she said.

      In an open cubicle, a dejected Antipodean was trying to convince his personal banker that he qualified for an overdraft, but from the look on his face, he was not making any progress at all. The banker punched some keys on her computer, made some busy humming noise, and came to a final verdict, or more correctly the computer came to a final verdict. She shook her head.

      But Ozzie was not giving up easily His life depended on getting the overdraft, this being perfectly understandable since he had just lost his job, was living in a rented house with a pregnant wife, and his immigration status did not qualify him for unemployment benefit.

      “For three years I have faithfully made this particular bank home to my salary, and if not for this unfortunate incident I wouldn’t need an overdraft,” he desperately pleaded his case; but the bank computer remained merciless.

      Frank eventually had a chance to cash his check. He thought he should have just paid the check into his account, but another thought came to him to cash the check first.

      In another part of the bank, a camera crew of four from BBC had been interviewing the bank supervisor, who was happily enjoying the show and describing how the bank security system worked. The camera crew from BBC was now leaving the bank. They were leaving with a box which looked full of money – and yes it was. The supervisor grinned at the camera, enjoying the show and explaining how the security system captured this sort of situation. Out went the camera crew into a van that had pulled up in front of the bank. The supervisor waved them away. The agreement appeared to have been for the van to drive around the block for five minutes or so and come back with the box of money, and then for the camera crew to see in the bank’s security office how the whole event had been faithfully recorded.

      “Hey your bank has been robbed,” Frank told the supervisor who patiently paced the banking hall, waiting for the camera crew from BBC that failed to return.

      “Of course not, they are from BBC,” he scolded – through a mind which was clogging up with fear.

      “But you have been robbed, those blokes left with your money.”

      “I know sir, but they will be back in a minute. They are doing a documentary on bank security for BBC”.

      “I’ll be fucked if they come back,” Frank told him.

      Now very sweaty the supervisor disappeared into his office. A couple of minutes later, two police squad cars wailed to a stop in front of the bank and three officers hasted toward the supervisor”s office.

      “The bank has been robbed,” Frank told Mrs. Williams.

      “Really? Praise the Lord, serve them right for a change”, Mrs. Williams was joyful. Struck with joy, the Australian loan-seeker, proudly stood from his chair in front of the personal banker and her evil computer; his face ecstatic.

      “The bank has been robbed,” Ozzie joyfully muttered over and over as he left the bank. Finally outside he couldn’t contain his happiness anymore. He went leaping like he had experienced a profound miracle. And off he went, broadcasting the triumph of justice over greed straight into the path of a speeding Bus 242. And even as he breathed his last, a rapturous expression rested on his face.

      “The fucking bank has been robbed,” he silently shouted.

      “Who said that?” asked the supervisor who again returned to the banking hall this time in the company of the three unsmiling police.

      “I did” Frank volunteered.

      “Can you step this way for a minute please?” one of the policemen beckoned with his head. Frank found himself hustled into the supervisor’s office.