car in the hotel lot. He’d drive to a bank, wait a bit in the car, watching the bank, looking for a calm moment.
After the robbery he’d switch the license plates back, then go out for a meal or round of golf.
I saw grainy gray photos of him from the security cameras of a bank. He had on a hat and glasses and a large fake moustache, but I could see his mouth and chin and I knew it was him. He looked like he does when he is certain of himself. An iron calm. He had no gun. Tellers reported that he pointed something at them from inside the pocket of his jacket, probably his finger or a toy gun. He’d wait in line, and calmly slide a withdrawal slip under the window onto which he’d written
ACT NORMAL. This is a robbery, give me all the bills in your drawer.
The tellers passed him money, and he left, acting normal, just as he wanted it to be. The customers around him went about their business, oblivious. It just looked like a withdrawal to the other customers in line.
When he was caught after the last robbery, one newspaper article reported that he said he was relieved to be caught. Would he really have said that? I doubted a lot of the facts in the flurry of articles about him; many were wrong. In his pockets were chips from Windsor Casino and betting slips from the Hazel Park Raceway, where he’d brought my mom ontheir very first date, and where he later brought my sister on weekend nights as a treat.
My sister faithfully clipped every newspaper article she could find about him and kept them in a scrapbook. At the time I honestly couldn’t tell if she was proud or disgusted. I asked her recently if she still had the clippings, but she said no, said she threw away everything of his.
I had kept one clipping, only because I thought it was funny that there were so many errors about us in it—that we were eight and nine, and it had our names wrong. I had stuck it into my scrapbook, among goofy snapshots of me and my friends in middle school. It was just there, out of place.
31
“I t’s ‘game over’ for the Super Mario Brothers Bandit, the Rochester man charged with allegedly robbing ten banks in Macomb and Oakland Counties since June 22 …”
Dad’s face hung on the TV screen over the shoulder of the newscaster. For weeks after his arrest the media followed the story, updating us on his charges—both state and federal. I wonder if they would have followed up at all if it hadn’t been for his goofy nickname.
Someone on his case at the FBI thought he looked like Mario, with the bushy fake moustache and suspenders under his jacket and the flat newsboy cap he’d sometimes wear to the robberies. Mario, from
my
game. Super Mario Bros. 3 was my favorite game at the very time he was arrested; I played it almost every day on my Nintendo after school.
I switched from the news to my Nintendo. I played it even more after his arrest. It was the best one of the Mario Bros., the one with the raccoon tail, the frog suit, the vivid blue skies, and faces on all the clouds and trees—the cheeriest installment of the series. Unlikely that I was looking for him; more likely that I simply wanted to withdraw even further from my few friends. Still, there he was, in the game, every time I turned it on.
There was the seriousness of what he did against the silliness of this detail, and how this nickname came to represent him in the media and among strangers as a clownish criminal. I wanted to join in this rousing dismissal of him too. I didn’t join in anywhere, though, not all the way. My sister remained on his side, hoping, somehow, that it would all turn out to be some kind of mistake like he said it was. Mom never was on his side, and seemed to feel comfortable with his dismissal. I just kept quiet.
Often I leave that detail about his nickname out of the story now when I tell people. Tonally, the story becomes confusing if I mention his nickname. I start to smile and laugh sometimes, and the listener feels confused in what
After the robbery he’d switch the license plates back, then go out for a meal or round of golf.
I saw grainy gray photos of him from the security cameras of a bank. He had on a hat and glasses and a large fake moustache, but I could see his mouth and chin and I knew it was him. He looked like he does when he is certain of himself. An iron calm. He had no gun. Tellers reported that he pointed something at them from inside the pocket of his jacket, probably his finger or a toy gun. He’d wait in line, and calmly slide a withdrawal slip under the window onto which he’d written
ACT NORMAL. This is a robbery, give me all the bills in your drawer.
The tellers passed him money, and he left, acting normal, just as he wanted it to be. The customers around him went about their business, oblivious. It just looked like a withdrawal to the other customers in line.
When he was caught after the last robbery, one newspaper article reported that he said he was relieved to be caught. Would he really have said that? I doubted a lot of the facts in the flurry of articles about him; many were wrong. In his pockets were chips from Windsor Casino and betting slips from the Hazel Park Raceway, where he’d brought my mom ontheir very first date, and where he later brought my sister on weekend nights as a treat.
My sister faithfully clipped every newspaper article she could find about him and kept them in a scrapbook. At the time I honestly couldn’t tell if she was proud or disgusted. I asked her recently if she still had the clippings, but she said no, said she threw away everything of his.
I had kept one clipping, only because I thought it was funny that there were so many errors about us in it—that we were eight and nine, and it had our names wrong. I had stuck it into my scrapbook, among goofy snapshots of me and my friends in middle school. It was just there, out of place.
31
“I t’s ‘game over’ for the Super Mario Brothers Bandit, the Rochester man charged with allegedly robbing ten banks in Macomb and Oakland Counties since June 22 …”
Dad’s face hung on the TV screen over the shoulder of the newscaster. For weeks after his arrest the media followed the story, updating us on his charges—both state and federal. I wonder if they would have followed up at all if it hadn’t been for his goofy nickname.
Someone on his case at the FBI thought he looked like Mario, with the bushy fake moustache and suspenders under his jacket and the flat newsboy cap he’d sometimes wear to the robberies. Mario, from
my
game. Super Mario Bros. 3 was my favorite game at the very time he was arrested; I played it almost every day on my Nintendo after school.
I switched from the news to my Nintendo. I played it even more after his arrest. It was the best one of the Mario Bros., the one with the raccoon tail, the frog suit, the vivid blue skies, and faces on all the clouds and trees—the cheeriest installment of the series. Unlikely that I was looking for him; more likely that I simply wanted to withdraw even further from my few friends. Still, there he was, in the game, every time I turned it on.
There was the seriousness of what he did against the silliness of this detail, and how this nickname came to represent him in the media and among strangers as a clownish criminal. I wanted to join in this rousing dismissal of him too. I didn’t join in anywhere, though, not all the way. My sister remained on his side, hoping, somehow, that it would all turn out to be some kind of mistake like he said it was. Mom never was on his side, and seemed to feel comfortable with his dismissal. I just kept quiet.
Often I leave that detail about his nickname out of the story now when I tell people. Tonally, the story becomes confusing if I mention his nickname. I start to smile and laugh sometimes, and the listener feels confused in what
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