Copyright Richard X. Ellison, 2013
All rights reserved.
All characters, events and locations in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
Richard X. Ellison is a pseudonym.
To Pat: We don't agree a lot, but thanks for everything!
The Price Of Metal
A Short Story By Richard X. Ellison
James looked at the Roman denarii in the palm of his hand. He felt the weight of it; how the gravity of two thousand years hadn't even begun to diminish what it represented. It was frayed, discolored...mangled. He traced the edges with his thumb and forefinger and understood why countless wars had been fought for pieces of metal just like it...how chunks of minerals made one man superior to another...how numbers in a computer made one life more important than the next. But only if those numbers said you had more metal...because more metal meant more power...and some men would do anything to have more power.
He felt someone shifting close to him, one of his unfortunate guests. A stern look was all it took to reduce the man to stone.
James closed his fist tightly around the coin. It had outlasted every man who'd possessed it. Where his father had gotten it, James didn't know...but he felt the permanence of it...the immutable fact about metal...it lasted.
He looked up at the teller behind the glass panel and threatened her one more time. He didn't know what the words were that came out of his mouth. He was deaf to the world. All he felt was the metal in his hands. A coin in one, a gun in the other. She was pulling cash out of the drawers and she was crying. It wasn't her life that was in danger...it was the man that James was pointing the gun at, but she was taking too long...she was going to cost someone their life. James focused his thoughts elsewhere, to the denarii. It was the one possession his father had given to him on his deathbed...a constant reminder of the only thing that mattered to a man who'd died because he couldn't pay his medical expenses...a reminder that you're only worth the metal in your pocket.
His father had left him with his debt, leaving his son to redeem his sins...but James had children of his own...mouths that would go unfed. It wasn't long before Carla left him. She told the whole world that she'd always known he was a loser. After all, how could someone who'd come from a family like his ever be expected to make anything of himself? She took the kids away and sent the divorce papers later. Of course, she sent the bill along with them.
He put the coin into his top pocket, he was going to need both hands, his hostage was being uncooperative. The butt of his gun to the man's face solved the problem. He didn't hear him cry out in pain, he'd blocked it out...but the blood left a glaring pattern on the expensive blue suit. Men like him controlled the vaults full of metal...but today the man wasn't in charge. Today...it was James' turn.
James looked out at the bank floor, at the random citizens clutching the ground — their lives hanging in the balance — like they were worshiping at the alter of capitalism. Why couldn't they see how frail their flesh was? He almost pitied them...today they'd find out. Today they'd know that all the money in the world didn't matter. They wouldn't be able to buy the hope that they'd get through it all and make it home to a loved one. Today they'd find out exactly what they took from him. Today they'd realize that it was their fault he couldn't hug his little girl goodnight anymore...all because he didn't own enough metal...because without metal, you were nobody...you didn't deserve to be loved.
He remembered what it was like coming home after his first rotation. He'd only enlisted because they were paying more than he could have ever made at the lumberyard. Dollars more on the hour...but he knew he wouldn't be able to take care of his family if he caught a bullet in the head. His kids needed a father, not a benefit check. It didn't work out that way though. He got back to a town without jobs, a family who barely remembered him and a life that scarcely resembled the one he'd left. He'd gone off to fight the good fight, to protect the men and women who looked down upon him from their ivory towers and in the end...they'd ejected him...like another spent shell casing. He'd been just another bullet, discharged and forgotten...another piece of lead lost in a sea of desert sand.
It'd been so much simpler in the war. You did your job and you got three squares a day, a bunk and a footlocker. But this...this was the real war...it was a place where a man could take everything you are...everything you're ever going to be...all with the tip of a pen. It didn't matter that he'd put his life on the line for them...that he'd suffered so that they wouldn't have to...to them he was just a number...one on a long list of others who didn't have enough paper in their wallets.
"James," called the thirty-something man dressed in his fancy Wall street getup, "it's me, Marty. We went to school together."
"I know who you are," James said with a nod.
"Why are you doing this? You used to be a good guy, what happened?"
"You don't remember, do you?" James asked, a wry smile creeping past his lips. "I came to you five months ago and I begged you on my hands and knees. I begged you not to take my home from me—"
"That was just business!" Marty pleaded.
"It always is, you smug suit wearing son of a bitch," said James, "and so is this!" His aim was perfect. One bullet left the chamber of his gun and the lead found its way to the flesh of Marty's thigh. It didn't hit bone. He'd walk again, but he'd never forget the name, James Mitchell.
The screams didn't faze him, not in the least. He'd learned to block out the noise in the war. It was all in the periphery, pushed to the side so he could focus on what needed to be done. "Relax!" James barked, taking aim at each protester in turn. "I didn't come here to hurt any of you, but I will if I have to." He didn't know whether or not he was lying. He just knew that he didn't have it in him to kill defenseless women and children.
"Please just take the money and go!" The woman behind the glass said, offering him a knapsack full of cash, "the police will be here any second, please just go!"
James looked back at her and realized what he'd become. "It's their fault," he thought to himself, "this is what they made me!" He was an instrument of fear. The lines etched in his weathered face showed a man bereft and abandoned. They still didn't understand. He pulled the coin out of his pocket. It was his talisman...the one thing that grounded him. He held it to his head, just for a moment, as though it might bless his efforts or renew his purpose. "I'm not the bad guy here!" he shouted, "I'm not the one doing this! You people are the ones doing this!"
"You're the one with the gun, James!" said Marty.
"You," James yelled, grabbing Marty by the collar, spittle dribbling down his chin, "you did this to me! I just needed a little more time, just a little bit more!"
"This is about the house?" Marty cried, desperately trying to pull away, "there are rules, James. I was just following the rules, that's the way the world works!"
"Then the world is broken!" shouted James as he threw Marty to the ground...discarding his hope along with him.
"Have you even thought any of this through?" asked the man in the blue suit, "we know your name and what you look like and the cops are probably outside right now. You're not getting out of here, you know that, right?"
"You're right," said James, shaking his head, "I didn't think any of this through. I didn't wake up this morning knowing that I was going to be coming here today. Your money can't help me now. It could've helped me eight months ago...when my little girl and her brother and my wife were still here...when there was still a chance. Back then I never thought it'd come to this. I never thought any of this would be happening."
"Th
en what's the point of all this?" asked Marty.
"You wouldn't understand," James answered absently.
Just then a voice called out on a megaphone from outside the building. They identified themselves as the police and mentioned James by name. They knew exactly who they were after and what the situation was inside the bank. The silent alarm had been tripped minutes prior and one of the tellers had most likely already been on the phone with the police.
"Well?" the man in the blue suit asked.
James didn't reply. He clutched the denarii in his hand once more; it was the only thing keeping him sane. He wondered what would happen to it if they took him. He put the coin back in his top pocket and instructed the lady behind the glass to throw the bag of money over to him. He stuck his hand inside and pulled out a brick of cash. He split open the band and spread out the currency on the table, feeling the notes in between his fingers. "I've never held so much money in all my life," he whispered to himself. He heard the voice from outside call his name once more. "And what good will it do me now!" he said, sweeping the bills to floor, his features contorted by rage and despair. He left the bag where it was; it wasn't money that he was after, not anymore.
There were no heroes inside the bank. No one moved to disarm or tackle James as he made his way to the entrance of the building. Everyone had settled in to an eerie calm, waiting patiently for the last few moments of the episode to play themselves out. He put one hand into his pocket and stepped outside. There were at least twenty guns pointed at him with five cruisers parked lengthwise for cover. "I've got hostages," James said.
"We know, let them go and we'll talk."
"I've wired them all with C4 and there's a dead man's switch in my pocket. I want to see my family," James said expectantly. It was the sole reason why he was there. It turned out that Carla had met someone while he was away fighting the war. He'd come home and found his little girl calling another man 'daddy'. Nick was a wealthy entrepreneur, a man of means. "He takes care of us," Carla said, "not like you." The custody battle was over before it had even begun. With a mountain of debt, no place to live and post traumatic stress disorder, Carla had made it clear to the courts that James was better forgotten by their children. A restraining order soon followed and James had spent several nights in jail for being drunk and disorderly as well as coming within twenty feet of his kids. All he wanted was to see his little girl. He'd seen hostage negotiations on television, they always called your family in to talk you down...they always brought the person you loved to make you see reason. It was always the person most special to you.
"We've been in contact with Tiffany inside the bank, James. We know there's no C4," boomed the lieutenant through his megaphone, "put your gun down right now and step outside so we can end this thing without anybody getting killed. It's your only move son."
"I want to see my family," James pleaded with tears in his eyes.
The lieutenant hesitated briefly before lifting the megaphone once more, "I'm sorry son. We called, they left the country early yesterday morning, no one is coming."
"No, no," James muttered quietly. It had all been for nothing. His heart began to race and he felt the sweat pouring off his brow. Even his limbs began to pulse from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was over...and all he felt was anger. They'd taken everything from him, there was nothing left. "You—"
James didn't get the next word out. He'd raised his weapon and that was provocation enough. In the next five seconds he was propped up by the lead that tore through his flesh. Twenty side arms taking at least three shots each. It sounded like the fourth of July then...and when it stopped, James fell to the ground. Somehow the denarii had avoided every bullet and rolled free when he met the floor. He had just one breath left in him and he used it to reach out for the coin...it was something to hold on to for the journey to the other side. Like so much metal...always just out of his grasp, so too was the denarii...and the light went out in his eyes before he could try again. That's the thing about life, it's not permanent...and the immutable fact about metal...it lasts.
The End
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