text: I used to get the sexy Hollywood types like Keanu Reeves, Brad Pitt and Kid Rock--you know, the long hair skinny types--but as I’ve gotten older and fatter (still got a head full of hair at least) my doppelgangers have gotten worse. They’ve downgraded, if you will. These days I’m lucky to get Gary Busey, Ozzy, or if the moon is in its correct orbital path--Christopher Walken. Or sometimes, Dave. I was the chef at a cozy little joint called Birdsong Bistro--best chili in Frisco if you ask me--and I played drums in a band called Rickie and the Renegades, making pretty good green. One night, me and some bandmates met up at a dive bar called The Arena, a real shithole. I don’t know why I like those kinda places, I just do. Maybe it’s the privacy--nobody gives a rat’s asshole about you at The Arena, plus they’ve got the best jukebox in town. Things got weird fast. I arrived first. The bar was lined with barstools, each one filled; a Coors Light sign was flashing on and off next to the 49ers mural behind the bar; other sports paraphernalia (mostly 49ers) hung haphazardly throughout the dimly lit bar. I spotted a vacant booth at the back. “Brett! Good to see ya.” Kimmy the Bartender said. Kimmy was a fine bartender. One of the best. She was like a hummingbird. Always moving, talking fast, never stopping. A real piece of work. “Whatcha having tonight, Brett?” “Beer and whiskey, Kimmy. Make it a double.” I was about to strike up a conversation but she’d run off to another booth, so I removed my jacket (the one your mother bought for me) and looked around the bar; a group of factory workers, still in their work clothes, were sitting at the booth adjacent to mine, yelling obscenities and throwing peanuts and at the TV, something about the Warriors--one bounced and landed on my head, so I ate it. George Thorogood came on. "Wanna tell you a story, ‘bout the house rent blues.” Yeah, I was diggin’ it. I was feeling better than I had in years. I was thinking about finally opening up my own restaurant. Be my own boss. Make your mother proud. Kimmy shot over with drinks, took my money, smiled, then flew off. I was sipping on my Jack, drumming to the music, loosening up, feeling the room, watching paychecks being spent; Kimmy catches it all and is back before you can say Long Island Iced Tea. I looked at my phone. *Where the hell* are *they?* These joints won’t smoke themselves. *Or will they?* I gave Kimmy the signal--you know, going out for a smoke. I stepped out of the booth, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. An attractive Spanish woman was sitting at the booth by the door talking on her phone, staring straight at me. She looked terrified. So did the woman next to her. They watched in utter anguish as I passed them and left the bar, forgetting them instantly. The parking lot was littered with stragglers lounging about; it was still early, the freaks come out at night. I reached for my phone--*They’re late*. I decided against texting them. No one likes a whiny texter. I sauntered behind the plaza and sparked up a joint, took a good long toke and got lost inside memories. I remembered the night you were born. I was on my way to a gig that night when your mother called me. I remembered the last time I saw you; how beautiful you looked, so small and fragile and safe--life was good then. I walked the long way around the building and finished a cigarette and then bought a fresh pack at the Circle K. When I stepped back into the Arena, Folsom Prison Blues was playing on the juke box--*I hear the train a-comin*--I spotted Erika talking up a storm with Kimmy by the bar and headed to the booth where Tyrone and Dave were having an argument. “Damn, brother. Where you been?” Tyrone says to me. He’s pimped out in his brown Stetson hat, checkered suite jacket, white collared shirt with the top four buttons down, gold cross dangling around his muscled neck. “Eat my ass, T.” “Woah bro, that’s some fightin’ words you sayin’. You lucky you a drummer. And why’d you drag me to this old folk’s bar anyway? Ain’t no dancin’ or girlies here. Just a bunch of ugly-assed old folks. Um, no offence.” His slippery smile boasted a perfect set of pearly white’s. Dave got up and left for a smoke without saying a word. Dave was tall and lanky with full beard and short brown hair. As Dave got up to leave Erika returned with drinks. “That’s my girl,” Tyrone says. Erika had blue hair, nice thighs and visible tattoos. She was just opening her mouth to speak when the door swung open and seven cops raced into the bar, guns drawn, heading straight toward me. The lead officer smashed my head against the table--BAM--and pointed his gun at my head. “Keep your hands where I can see them!” Immediately, I was handcuffed. I heard the cops screaming orders at me but everything sounded under water. I don’t know how many times my head was slammed against the table, but it was plenty. I remember saying something clever. Bad idea. The next thing I know I’m being hauled outside, thrown against a cop car, searched *very* thoroughly, thrown into a cop car, and asked the same questions over and over until we reached the police station, where they took my mugshot and fingerprints before throwing my sorry ass in a holding cell. Fortunately, not for long. Unbeknownst to me, Tyrone, Dave and Erika were answering their own questions and they smoothed things out in a hurry (apparently, the pretty Spanish Lady thought I was the asshole who mugged her the previous night) and I was back on the street two hours later with a heck of a story. Check that one off the bucket list. \* \* \* Turns out, that incident was just the soundcheck, the pre-show, the opening act if you will; the Birdsong Bistro was forced to shut down in March and I was out of work. Just like that. Work disappeared. Gigs were cancelled. Bills unpaid. Let’s face it, the summer of 2020 was a nightmare, especially in Cali. My car was sold, my drums were pawned, my savings depleted, I considered putting my Glock into my mouth and pulling the trigger, that’s how bad things were. But then I received that wonderful call from Rickie; he found work in Palmetto, Florida. And just like that, I’m off to the Sunshine State. Me, Tyrone, Dave and Erika hopped into Rickie’s Econoline van and hauled ass out of Frisco and drove straight to Palmetto, hardly ever stopping. Needless to say, I took to Florida like shit on shiny carpet. I made dinner right away. Rickie claims the real reason he hired an old fart like me was for my cooking. We unpacked what little we had and headed to a club called Master Gator’s, our first gig. The place was sparsely packed, the radio was playing rockabilly and everybody was lit. At some point, I glanced up at one of the TVs above the bar and did a double take, spitting my beer all over Tyrone’s black button-up shirt. “Hey, you asshole!” I pointed. There I was on the TV. I read the subtitles: **Armed Robbery Suspect Wanted Across State of Florida**. The man on the screen could have easily passed for my twin brother. Except, I was better looking. “That dude looks just like you,” Tyson said, matter-of-factly. And just like that my face was gone, replaced by a vacuum commercial which apparently sucked. By the end of the first month the honeymoon was over; the promoter stiffed us (surprise, surprise) and your mother’s lawyer was threatening me again. Things were bad. I checked my bank account; I couldn’t buy my way into church. I thought about that guy on TV, my doppelganger, maybe *h*e was my ticket. I bet I could walk into any bank in Florida wearing a mask and robbed them sonsofbitches and he would take the fall. I looked at my Glock--*whatcha think Baby? You up for it?* I searched the internet until I found the guy; his name was Axel Roberts. I found a pic of him standing beside a blue Ford pickup truck, wearing a greasy tank top with white suspenders and shit-stained overalls--a real dirtbag. I could totally pass as this dude. I went downtown to case a couple joints. *Just in case*. When I returned to the house later that afternoon Tyrone was shirtless, waiving pink panties over his head, beer bottles were scattered all over the floor and the fridge was left open and all my beer was gone. Something inside me snapped. That’s when I decided to rob the bank. Right away. Before I lost my nerve. \* \* \* That night I dreamed of the old west. I was a cowboy--Billy the Kid--and I was being chased by angry men on furious horses. I kept riding. I rode and rode toward the flickering sun; my horse kicking up clouds of warm desert sand as I squinted to see ahead. The day was as hot a pig in a frying pan. Don’t tell your friends that one. They were gaining on me. A bullet struck my shoulder and I tell you, Kat, it hurt. Even in my dream, it hurt. Next thing I know, I’m eating dirt and bleeding everywhere. Standing over me, casting a tall shadow, was the Sheriff. The Sheriff's pointed badge glistened under the hot sun; the long-rounded barrel of his Winchester rifle fit nicely under my chin. He gazed at me with hard-blue eyes--cold as blue steel--and finally spoke, “Got any last words, Pardner?” I tried to speak but my mouth was dry. “Thanks alright, Son. Now yer gonna die.” I watched as his long anxious finger twitched over the trigger. His smile was long and sharp--CLICK. \* \* \* I snapped open my eyes and screamed. A dream, I thought, relieved. I felt a warm patch on my crotch--*Jeez, did I piss myself?* I was coming unglued. I cleaned myself up, scarfed down a bowl of cereal, drank three cups of coffee and checked for any news on Axel Roberts and found nothing. My doppelganger had been quiet lately--too quiet. But that was about to change. I wore a plain black tee-shirt, black cargo pants, black cloth mask and black shoes. Hell, I was the Man in fucking Black. I took the van and parked it two blocks south of Wells Fargo bank. I felt for my gun in my knapsack, making sure it was loaded. *Just in case*. I left the van doors unlocked. No worries. Who would be dumb enough to steal a van in broad daylight? I found myself standing outside the bank, frozen with fear, trying to remind myself why I was here in the first place. *This* *is it; last chance to turn back*. My heart was beating like a bass drum at a hip-hop concert. I slowly opened the door and stepped inside. The bank was long and straight and cluttered with bright blue signs announcing great deals on mortgages, interest rates and all that jazz. Hand sanitizer everywhere. I found the end of the line and waited, keeping social distance. The people ahead of me were either staring awkwardly at their phones or staring at their shoes, or both. Every one of them was wearing a mask. To me, they all looked like bank robbers. Nobody noticed me. I held tightly to my duffle bag, feeling the Glock pressed against my stomach, took a deep breath, waited. My left leg started vibrating profusely and my hands were shaking; I couldn’t stop them. I was starting to panic. I decided to abort. *What the hell was I doing here? There’s no way I can stick up a bank. Not in Florida. Every. Person. In. This. Bank. Is. Packing. Heat.* Everyone was staring at me--*They Knew*. “Sir--” I tried to gain control of myself. “Sir--” I looked up. “Ready to take the next customer.” At that moment I wished I’d put more thought into this. I was petrified. I gathered my nerve--*I can do this*--and walked to the counter. The teller--a string bean looking man with sandy brown hair pulled back into a manbun and glasses that kept fogging up--was looking at me with little interest. His face twitched as he adjusted his face mask for the third time. Another teller walked past him counting cash then disappeared behind a blue door. When I tried to speak, nothing came out except gibberish. “I beg your pardon?” I took out my gun and pointed it at him. His eyes popped out of his head. “Keep your mouth shut and do as I say.” The teller stood there like a fool. “Make one funny move and I’ll blow your brains through the roof. I want as much money as you can give me in sixty seconds. And it better be a lot.” The teller looked as brave as the Cowardly Lion. I almost felt sorry for him. “You got fifty seconds left. Go Now.” He grabbed some envelopes and went for cash. I was certain he sounded the alarm. I was terrified. I thought of you, Kat. How wonderful it would be to have some money to spend on you. My hands steadied. The teller reappeared with four envelopes of cash. I grabbed them greedily. I tried to think of something clever to say but couldn’t, probably a good thing, right? I stuffed my Glock and the envelopes into my knapsack and headed for the exit. I was almost home free. Everyone in the bank was avoiding eye contact, social distancing, making this much easier than it ought to be. When I reached the exit, I felt a hand grab my shoulder--*This* *is it--*I turned around slowly, reaching for my gun, and saw an elderly man wearing a MEGA mask holding out an envelope. “You dropped this, young feller.” I reached for the envelope. It was wonderfully heavy. His old eyes squinted, looked me up and down and he said “You know Son, you look a lot like my nephew David. He’s--” I left. The sirens were getting louder so I picked up the pace, finally reaching the spot where the van should have been. I called an Uber. **\*** **\*** **\*** That night I was as nervous as a Spinal Tap drummer, but I still rocked three forty-five-minute sets and did a helluva job. Erika was blowing that ‘bone, Rickie dancing on tables, Tyrone locked in tight on bass and Dave tickling his black Strat. The trouble started during set break. The Men’s restroom smelled like a dozen dirty dicks. I did a couple lines in the stall--*I* *deserve this*; halfway through my second bump I heard a couple men enter. They sounded tough. “You sure he’s down here?” One guy says. The other guy says, “Yup. Saw him come down here a minute ago.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Hey! You in there, Pal?” Tap. Tap. Tap. “C’mon Pal. We ain’t got all day.” Tap. Tap. Tap. I swung the stall open, chest out, making myself seem bigger than I really was. “Yup. That’s the motherfucker.” I had a second to register the two bikers standing in front of me: the short one was wearing a greasy blue bandana, crazy long beard and neck tattoos; the taller man, shaved head and lines chiselled into his hideously weathered face, was holding a long switchblade knife. “I’m gonna carve you up good, you dirty motherfucker.” He lunged at me, knife first--I fell backwards and cracked my head on the toilet seat. I saw stars. I started swinging my fists and feet like an idiot, toilet water splashing everywhere, when I heard the shorter man say, “Woah! Woah! Woah! That ain’t him!” He looked almost as stupid and confused as I did. “Jeez, Pal--I almost carved you up good.” The taller guy reached out his hand and eventually I took it. He put away his knife--I heard the SWOOSH as the blade disappeared back into its handle. He grinned and patted me on the shoulder. “You’re lucky, Pal. Thought you was someone else.” He studied me for a moment and added, “Hey, anyone tell you, you look like what’s his name--You know--That guy from that movie?” “Fuck off.” Shorty laughed. “Wise guy. I like him. Here.” He pulled out his wallet, “Buy yourself a drink.” He dropped a fiver on the floor and the pair of goons fled. After cleaning myself up, I headed up the long dark stairwell and bought myself that drink. It tasted better than sex. Tyrone spotted me at the bar and his demeanor changed at once. “Don’t ask.” “You’re one strange cat. You know that?” He drank. “But you one helluva drummer. You also lucky Brett, you know that? *Lucky*.” He winked then pointed to the TV. Axel Roberts was being arrested. **\*** **\*** **\*** That night I sat alone in my room counting the cash in the envelopes. There was almost $20,000. Problems solved. I was expecting some green powder to spring out all over me, or the money to be counterfeit or traceable somehow, but the money was legit. Benjamin Franklin never looked so fine. I stashed the money in my gym bag and spent the rest of the night wondering how the hell I pulled it off. I took an awkward flight back to Frisco and paid your mother a pile of cash. Suddenly everything was cool again. Things couldn’t have worked out any better. Or so I thought. A week later I woke up to banging on the door--Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. *Who the hell could that be?* I put on some pants and made my way to the front door, wiping the sleep from my eyes--BANG. BANG. BANG. “Hold on, hold on.” I spied out the little hole in the door and froze. It was the cops; five of them, at least. “Open up.” I remembered the cash under my mattress. BANG. BANG. BANG. “Open up--This is the police. We see you through the spy hole--Open up now.” I opened the door and was immediately subdued--*good thing I’ve had practice at this.* They forced me to my knees and cuffed me. They weren’t gentle. They were pointing guns at my face. *Did I actually think I would get away with it?* *There were cameras everywhere*. *You can’t get away with farting in the breeze anymore, let alone robbing a bank in broad-fucking daylight.* “Are you Brett Turner?” “Yes, officer.” “Is this your residence?” “Yes, officer.” “Where were you last Tuesday night?” “Huh?” “Last Tuesday night. Where were you?” *Last Tuesday? Last Tuesday night I was watching Netflix in my boxers while eating leftover birthday cake on top a pile of stolen cash. What the hell did last Tuesday have to do with anything?* I was more confused than scared at this point. “We have video footage of you at the protest Tuesday evening, firing shots into a crowd and killing at least two civilians and an officer. We’re placing you under arrest on two counts of second-degree murder and one count of first-degree murder.