Red Sunset
2:17. The windows gleamed furiously, protesting against heat of the early autumn sun that oozed in from the cracks of the brick exteriors of Chase Banks. Like any other day, middle-aged Asian women flocked in and out from the double glass doors in vibrant blouses and knockoff Guccis, full torsos colliding against the fabric of each other’s clothing. I was doing my usual thing, dozing off to the manager’s rambles of overpriced American daycare, spit flying in elaborate trajectories across the still air. Staring past her thin shoulders, I adjusted my jacket and listened for the bell signaling the arrival of new customers, counting. 42, 43, 44. It was just past midday, and each swing of the door fanned in a fresh wind smelling of gas and leaves, the remnants of the summer warmth clinging to the breeze.
Different from other unsatisfied immigrants thrown into working in Flushing after getting fired from their previous occupations, my manager attends to her position fervently every day. Permed brows rising high across the forehead of her face as she grins, as if customers could tip! 45, 46, 47, 48. Then him. Around 30, lean, backpacked, stubble poking out from the side of his mask. I put on a smile and circled around the teller window, but he stood in front of me in a blink, cap low on his head. I felt cold metal against my thigh, then - Click. The distinctively metallic sound of a gun being cocked. A handed note. Don’t press the alarm or attempt anything. Armed with a loaded gun. Act normal and fetch 10,000$. My manager’s eyes bulged as she took in the scribbled words, passed from me to her across the window with shaking fingers - if anyone were to swindle money from Chase, it had to be her. The bank bustled cheerfully, inattentive to the events playing out in the corner of counter 1. The gun against my leg trembled, and I realized that the robber was shaking too. Uneasy, I looked into his eyes.
The first time I had looked into those eyes was three months ago.
Tao Ye usually wore rectangular glasses cutting into the curves of his face, sheltering the world from his eyes. For the purposes of this operation, he decided to give contacts a try. College sophomore dropout, he paid a visit to America on a Travel Visa and never left. Malnourished. Thin in frame, it seemed as if one could snap his arms and limbs in half then into quarters, like twigs. When he approached me on the fire escape of our apartment, asking if I wanted money, I had assumed that it was fraud, or at least that he was slaving away under the rule of one of the big loan sharks roaming around Chinatown. Instead, unexpectedly, he had taken off his glasses and out of his pocket a Glock G19. “干一票大的,” –Let’s do something big– he had announced to me, feet dangling below the metal cage holding us above the bustling streets of Queens. I needed money. He laid out his scheme rather elaborately, and something about those pairs of eyes led me to trust him. His gaze was intent, with pupils blackened from desperation, the same desperation that I felt charged between my veins. All was then set - Him the robber, me the hostage, the 10,000$ our mutual salvation.
It took approximately five minutes for my manager to collect the cash. Two for her to get her shit together, another three to open the vault. The welcoming bell rang continuously. 54,55. Things were looking optimistic, and for a brief moment, we bathed under the notion of success. 56, 57. In walked two bewildered looking teenagers, clutching their bags and exchanging Cantonese phrases. Tao Ye kept the gun pointed at my legs, still trembling a little. Squinting, I can make out the dried krazy glue sticking to his hands, a transparent sheet of armor that clung to his fingertips. 58. With his other hands, he counted the stacks, looking for dye packs that banks sneak in that explode upon command. 59, 60, 61. Customers continued to waltz in through the glass doors, oblivious to whatever was going on in the corner. An exchanged glance, and we swiftly made our way to the door. 61,62,63,64. Without looking back, I lunged for the door handle glistening under the afternoon sun.
Then the aerosol and tear gas.
One hidden dye pack. How did we not see? Tao Ye went down first, eyes blinded by the bright Disperse Red 9 released by the pack tucked in smugly somewhere between the one-hundred bills. I was next. Sprawled on the floor controlled by the guards that flung themselves at my torso, I realize my manager had finally taken the stupid grin off her face, nail-polished hands pushing frantic buttons in her cell. The gas continues to explode out of Tao Ye’s backpack, turning the air red and making it hard to breathe. Surrounded by cyanocarbon released from the tear gas, I registered a sense of belonging and security that I’ve never felt elsewhere in this strange land, barricaded from love, hate, and the mirage of The Dream from layers of gas and smoke that arose beside our body. In another world, Tao Ye’s family would’ve received a parcel packed with US dollars, and I an economy plane ticket back to Beijing. For now, though, we bathed in the artificial sunset we had created for ourselves in a foreign land, skin tinted red, blinking through the sting of tear gas until we couldn’t see again.