by Gibby Haynes
“No, you didn’t. What camo device?”
“It’s what was on the trees at the party.”
“Leaves?”
“No, dude, the light show.”
“Oh, okay . . . I don’t want to stand in the way of you and your light show, so yeah, I’m down . . . I’m totally down. I mean, so far so good as far as I’m concerned. We’re only three or four miles from my mom’s house, man, and we already managed to shoot a cop’s foot off and get a high five from his boss . . . Who knows what we can do in a hundred miles? Not only that, the light show was really cool. I’m totally into it. But I thought your rich sister needed thirty-five thousand dollars. What do we do about that? I know, I know, that’s kind of why we would go, but . . . Hold on.”
“Hold on what?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
THE LION-TRAINER DUDES THAT GOT CREEDLED
“Hey, Cig.”
Mr. Cigar crisply stands up on all fours and chirps out a bark.
“Buddy, stay.” I reach back in my backpack, retrieving the spray can and remote control. I give Cigar a blast of the video net—or whatever you call it—and switch it to Another One, the camo setting . . . and with the exception of minor distortion around the edges, Mr. Cigar disappears into the back seat of the 2005 Tacoma.
“Holy shit,” Lytle squeaks. “That’s Carla’s invention?”
“Yep. And yep, Cig . . . go get me a Snickers bar, buddy. Lytle: watch.”
“Watch what?”
We’re parked near the front door of the 7-Eleven with cars on both sides. I crack open the door of the pickup and Cigar squeezes out.
“Oscar . . . Where is he?”
“Check this out, man. Hold on . . . I forgot how this works. Here we go, let’s see where he is.” I briefly switch the remote from C to L, and Cigar instantly appears on the hood of Lytle’s truck, looking at both of us through the windshield.
Startling enough if it was just a dog appearing out of thin air, but for a few seconds on the hood of a pickup truck parked near the front door of a 7-Eleven in Texas is a brightly glowing emerald-green dog that barks once . . . then quickly disappears.
Lytle shrieks like an old lady. I laugh out loud and the guy walking in front of us totally drops his Big Gulp on the sidewalk.
Lytle mutters in quiet amazement, “Lesley Gore Vidal Sassoon! Carla Marks is awwwesome!”
“Yep, and Simon Le Bon Scott Weiland Jennings agrees.”
“Nice one, dude,” Lytle acknowledges.
“So that’s the stuff that was on the trees at the party?”
“Uh-huh . . . and on the DJ.”
“Hah!” Lytle exclaims. “Was it on Janis Ian Curtis Mayfield too?”
A few moments later, a dull thump of metal and a slight shifting of light bouncing off the gently flexing hood alert us that Cigar has jumped up on the truck again. Then, to our amazement, two ends of a Snickers bar float in midair. I turn the remote control off, and there’s Mr. Cigar on all fours, staring at us with a Snickers bar in his mouth.
“Oh no, oh my God, he did it. I can’t believe it. I know Mr. Cigar loves Snickers bars . . .”
For years, every night after dinner me and Cigar would share a Snickers bar with a Diet Pepsi while watching TV. Finally, Mr. Cigar would burp then we could go to bed.
Lytle said in amazement, “Dude . . . he waited for somebody to open the door, snuck in, got a Snickers bar, and did the same thing to get out. He did exactly what you told him, but he knew how to do it. Man, that’s insane—he’s a human, he’s a fucking human man. Ha ha ha, either that or we’re dogs.”
“I’m fairly sure we’re people . . . anyway . . .”
“Yeah, dude.”
“I got another idea, Lytle.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s rob a bank.”
OSCAR ’ S ELEVEN
“Ah ha ha ha . . . You’re serious, right?” Lytle says.
“Yep.”
“What are we going to do . . . make Cigar invisible and wait in the getaway car?”
“No, dude.”
“No, dude, what?”
“We’re not going to make Cigar invisible. We’re going to make you invisible. I’ll wait in the getaway car.”
“Whoa, dude. Why don’t we, uh, try calling your sister again and see if she hasn’t worked this whole thing out? Whatayasay?”
“Ah ha ha. Relax, dude, seriously. I wouldn’t make you rob a bank. She’s my sister, and besides, with Carla’s camo unit, there’s no way we’ll get caught.”
“There’s always a way, man.”
“I know, I know, but check it out. You walk in, take a few—”
“No, you walk in.”
“Okay, okay. I walk in. I take a few stacks of Benjamins, and I walk out . . . They won’t even know they’ve been robbed. I’ll be invisible. It’ll be fun. I’ll take a little extra and we can buy a couple of bicycles.”
“Bicycles?” Lytle queries.
“Yeah, bicycles so we can ride around New York City for a bit, eat some hot dogs, play three-card monte in Central Park. It’ll be cool.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“Don’t worry, man. I’m down. I’ll do it.”
“I mean, how can we get caught? Besides, if you use an invisible hand to take something, it’s not really stealing, is it? In fact, it’s debatable if it ever even happened.”
“Definitely.”
“It’s kinda like taxes.”
“Yeah, yeah . . . taxes.”
“But we’re the government.’
“Yep, we’re the government . . . with an invisible hand.”
“With an invisible dog that steals Snickers bars.”
“Yeah, an invisible tax that Snickers at stealing dogs.”
“Ah ha ha ha.” Lytle’s down, Cigar’s down and I’m more than down.
“Okay, then . . . Let’s rob a bank.”
COUNTING FLOWERS ON THE WALL
With a full tank of gas we ease out of the parking lot north to Interstate 30 toward Little Rock, Memphis and beyond. It’s nearing midnight. I’m taking the first driving shift, and Lytle prepares the back seat for his beauty rest while singing a perverted version of a Bob Marley classic. I’m laughing, Cigar is barking and Lytle is singing, “I shot the deputy, but I did not shoot the sher-air-if,” literally until he falls asleep.
Barring any more encounters with law enforcement, we should get to Nashville around 9 a.m., rob a bank, maybe shop for a bicycle then grab some breakfast on the way out of town. The sky is clear with a full moon and stars that light up the highway on their own. There is hardly any traffic, and Lytle’s mix and the white lines of Interstate 30 provide a mantra for the quick passage of time. As the miles roll by, tomorrow’s activities come into focus and a plan is soon hatched. Simple, safe and quick.
WHY DO YOU THINK THEY CALL IT A HOTEL?
We check into a motel short of Nashville, do a practice of sorts, drive into the city and—bam.
Room 132 at the Comfort Inn near Jackson, Tennessee, is the perfect place to practice a bank robbery. The ten-foot walk from the truck to the room is totally chill.
There was no chance management would spot a dog. He’s low and quick entering the room, but just in case, I tell Cigar not to bark.
He growls, and I pull out the camo supply, shake the aerosol can and give Lytle a wicked smile. “According to Carla, we have a ton of square footage of camo in this can—if that makes any sense . . . but we got enough to experiment.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, I’m going to put my wallet over there, and I’m going to make you invisible over here and you’re going to go over there and take my wallet.”
WHITE SPORT COAT/PINK CRUSTACEAN
Clearly, it’s not about skin color, but still, just bec
ause a man has clear skin doesn’t mean he’s a thief . . . He’s socioeconomically disadvantaged from growing up in a clear neighborhood.
I’ll just stand here and see what it all doesn’t look like.
Cigar growls.
I remember Carla’s instruction and give Lytle the proper thwap. It appears wet when applied to the skin and in a delayed flash it dries or sets up or activates . . . whatever you want to call it . . . like, all at once, everywhere. I turn on the remote control and switch it to camo, and . . . only his head and hands disappear.
“Oh no,” Lytle, says, looking in the mirror. “Oh, wow, dude”—he does some weird dance—“this is pretty cool. I look like the invisible man . . . Ah ha ha.”
“Yeah, man, but a shirt and a pair of pants would get caught robbing a bank. But . . . wait a second, Lytle. Take off your shirt.”
Peeling off his shirt there was an odd-looking moment as it came off his shoulders. But now his torso was way unbelievably transparent. There was another odd moment as I leaned forward to look inside his empty pants.
“That’s weird, dude.”
“I know, but your pants actually look kind of empty. What does it look like to you . . . in there?”
“It looks weird, dude.”
“Ah ha ha.”
“Okay, Lytle, I think this is going to work, and yes, it is kind of like the invisible man. So . . . and I thought I’d never say this to my best friend, but . . . take off your pants and steal my wallet. I’m going to watch.”
“Freak,” Lytle says as his pants and underwear fly across the room . . . hurled by an unseen force.
“That’s so cool, man.”
“I know . . . That’s why I did it.”
Cigar growls and tracks Lytle’s movement. He apparently can see through the technology. But Lytle is convincingly not there to me. The wallet disappears as a few pieces of it briefly fly into the air—then nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s totally going to work . . .
“Where did you put my wallet?”
“It’s under my arm, man.”
“Ah ha . . . good idea . . . Don’t know why it works, but good idea. Now give me my wallet. Plus, it’s creepy that I can’t see you . . .”
“Even creepier that I can’t be seen.” Lytle is talking really close to my ear.
“Ahh, Lytle, you’re freaking me out!”
Then without thinking it through I switch the remote to the light show setting, and there before me, closer than expected, is a blindingly green-with-magenta-polka-dots version of Lytle, and I might add that in the brief moment that remote is in light show mode, every detail of Lytle was blindingly green with magenta polka dots? Every detail. I instinctively turn it off. Then there before me is actual Lytle—actual naked Lytle.
“Duuu—ude!”
“Oh, hold on.” I fumble to switch it back to camo mode. Finally . . . invisible.
“Uh . . . here,” Lytle says. “Let me put on my clothes.”
For yet another unseeable moment a pair of underwear floats up, rotating in midair, assuming the shape of a human waist area . . . this time not so much obscene weirdness but disorienting, ill-defined future weirdness. Something obviously unimaginable that will be considered commonplace sometime soon. Carla Marks . . . I wonder what she’ll come up with next.
CRUDITES
It’s a beautiful day in Nashville. Nine forty-five in the morning, not a cloud in the sky.
Carla says the application would work for about eight hours. Lytle is dead set on doing the deed, so we’ll have more than enough time to pull off the heist without reapplying the spray. As we approach City National Bank Branch & Entertainment Office, I pull over and switch Lytle to camo mode. He’s taking off his clothes as we pull into the parking lot of 54 Music Square East. It’s on Music Row, and I chose it because it had a central location and was in line with the general “music town” vibe.
It doesn’t matter what bank we choose because there will be no getaway—so anywhere on Music Row is good, I figure. Cigar and me can walk around like stupid lost tourists, and no one is going to care about the naked invisible black dude. The plan is that we’re all gonna walk in to use the ATM, then me and Cig leave while Lytle stays behind to wander around and case the joint. After deciding how to access the teller area, he’s going to come outside, tell us how he’s going to do it then return for the actual theft, or tax return, or whatever you want to call it. Heck, we’ll pay ’em back someday.
Anyway, it won’t look weird ’cause we’ll walk really slow and I’ll be holding a goofy map I bought so me and the dog would look legit.
I say it’ll take about fifteen minutes tops. Lytle will come back with money under his arm, whisper in my ear then we’ll go back to our car and go see Elvis’s house . . .
Oh yeah . . .
That’s Memphis.
EL BAILAR
Fully tested for distance and barriers, the camo is in full effect as me, Cigar and Lytle walk through the front door of City National Bank. Just me, a clairvoyant immortal dog and an invisible teenager. That’s all. As the door shuts behind us, our odd calmness gives way to a quick chuckle, then a whisper in my ear—“See you on the other side.” I can’t help chuckling again, and a lady at an ATM looks around. We exchange smiles, and I get a hundred bucks out of my account. Business accomplished.
We return to the beautiful weather. A boy with a dog and a map. Not a cloud in the Nashville sky. Loitering on the sidewalk in front of the bank, sort of looking up in the air and pointing at nothing kind of deal, and seriously, it’s way obvious when Lytle comes back to report on the plan. The front door flings open by itself, and I clearly hear his footsteps.
“Dude, it’s going to be simple. Two rules. Stay out of people’s way and open doors when they aren’t looking.”
“Sounds like a good plan . . .”
“What’s it look like in there?”
“Lots of windows, plenty of room, a hallway with a few meeting rooms then a room full of cubicles and only one door to get to the teller room. You can see inside where the tellers are. There’s a big metal rolling thing with stacks of cash on it behind them. It’s crazy . . . All I have to do is walk past a few folks then wait until everyone’s busy. One, two, three, star on a keypad, then walk in for the old cash-o-reenie.”
“Yep.”
I stand near the door and watching this lady go in and out a few times. It’s easy . . . The windows make it so everyone can see everything—except anything invisible. No doubt some weird ’90s security concept. I’m walking back in . . .
“Should take about ten to fifteen minutes. I’ll come back out here with twenty grand under each arm, tap you on the shoulder and we’ll all walk back to the truck together then go to Graceland.”
“That’s Memphis.”
“I know, I was just making—”
“I got it . . . Be careful . . . Haul ass but take your time.”
“Yep.”
“I love you, man, Lytle!”
“What?”
“When you come back with the Benjis, we’ll make love.”
“Ah ha.”
Lytle’s footsteps disappear toward the bank door.
SEND A SALAMI TO YOUR BOY IN THE ARMY
After a few seconds the door mysteriously flies open, apparently from the wind. Heh heh heh, jeez . . . I should have opened the door for him, but that might have looked sketchy, what with the map and the dog and everything. Much cooler to have the door just magically fly open. Weird, and somehow infinitely easier to explain . . . but Lytle is in the bank . . . undetected.
Then a few minutes later, seemingly out of nowhere, beep beep beep beep—an electronic sound my dumb phone has never made. I guess I’m just hoping, but the remote control for the camo system is blinking green, meaning the battery is going dead, which means I have about three minutes before
it starts blinking red, which means in thirty seconds a naked teenager will appear in the lobby of a bank or somewhere thereabouts.
Oh, shit. What do I do? Do I just walk into the bank and yell out, “Go back to the truck; the batteries are dying”? I was sort of prepared for this. I have a spare battery. It just never occurred to me that changing the battery while in use would necessitate at least a few seconds of unintended nudity . . . Oh, shit. Then it starts blinking red. Double shit.
Pretty soon, according to Carla, the entire system will go into a blinking mode to warn of the impending blackout—or black-in, per our situation.
THE BATTLE OF THE LOCUSTS
BAM! The front door of the bank flies open, and a second later a security guard comes running out, then for a moment naked Lytle runs maybe thirty feet in front of the rent-a-cop . . . who slows to a brisk jog as he passes me, yelling every time the “naked guy” disappears, “What the fuck?” Naked Lytle reappears for three or four seconds; the guard reorients and repeats, “What the fuck?” Lytle disappears, the guard pauses, says, “What the fuck?” The cycle repeats through the parking lot. It’s amazing. The spectacle of the blinking-naked cop chase is so captivating I forget for a second that I should maybe change the battery. It probably takes all of three seconds to get the fresh battery in, power switch on . . . The system takes about that long to boot up, then it flashes once and it’s good to go.
I look up and at the end of the parking lot I see the totally dumbfounded mall-cop-lookin’ dude oddly chasing an occasionally invisible naked dude who flashes brightly once . . . then—poof. Nothing. Totally bitchin’ . . . I can’t believe it . . . He made it . . . Ah ha ha . . . I wonder if he got the money. It all happened so fast. Mr. Cigar was strangely just standing there wagging and gazing toward the action, I guess just acting like a dog.
We begin making our way toward the truck near the end of the parking lot as the wide-eyed Pinkerton dude approaches us, returning to the bank. His mouth is completely agape, repeating, “What the fuck?” into the microphone of a walkie-talkie. As he passes us, staring into the void, I hear a voice on the other end of the transmission going, “Hello Dave? Come in, Dave. Hello? Hello?”