This is a Call

   "Hello. 911. What is your emergency?" asked the operator in that lethargic, detached I-don't-really-care voice.
   "Hi. My name is Blake Andrews and I'm standing in one of Bangor's banks. I have a gun and I'm holding up the place." Blake said in an energetic I-totally-give-a-s**t voice.
   The operator was silent for a few passing moments. Blake counted them. Exactly seven seconds.
   "Is this a joke, sir?"
   "No, ma'am," he replied with mock formality. "My gun is loaded and it's been a pretty crowded and lively day here."
   He chuckled. Lively.
   "I wanted to know," he continued. "How fast you'd get police here before I start ripping the place up."
   He paced around the bank's floor. He had ordered everyone to the ground and, so far at least, no one has had the courage to defy him. Not when a gun's in the equation. A loaded gun, at that. Blake waved it around threateningly, enforcing his order. He stood by the window, peering out at the afternoon traffic along the street. There were no lights or sirens yet.
   "I can assure you, sir, that they are on the way as we speak."
   "Good! Good. I'm dangerous, you know."
   "Uh-huh."
   "Mhm." Blake nodded in affirmation as if the operator could see. "You see, ma'am, it's occurred to me that I've been here, holding up this bank, for nearly an hour and a half. The surprising thing is that no calls have been made or no.... I don't know.... emergency signals or anything have gotten out to the police."
   "Sir--"
   "It makes me wonder if they're actually doing their job. I could've torn this place up and be halfway out of state by now." Blake chided.
   He turned his attention from the window for three seconds. Someone was wriggling around on the floor, near the wax plants in their round planters. Blake squeezed the trigger. The gun belched out a loud BANG! and the bullet lodged itself into the faux marble tile just inches away from the daring hostage's shoulder. The man looked up, wide eyed, and stared at Blake almost expectantly.
    "Sir! Was that a shot?"
    "Indeed it was, ma'am."
    "Oh my god..... why are you doing this?"
    Blake smiled. He hadn't though of that. He figured people would assume he was crazy (well, he was, to do this) or that he was disgruntled in some form or other. He never actually convinced himself that there was a reason, either. You see, Blake was a doer. He did things without thought, on impulse. Maybe that was a sickness. Maybe not. But it was the reason he was here on this sunny May afternoon in Bangor's central bank, gun in hand, cellphone in the other.
    "Just needed someone to talk to," Blake said. "Don't you move! I'll fire another one - for real this time! Sorry about that. Some people think they're ballsy by moving."
    "You didn't shoot anyone, did you?" the operator asked, a hint of trepidation edging her voice. Serrated, like a kitchen knife.
    "Not yet." Blake laughed. "That was a joke. No. I don't plan on shooting anyone but that is up to them."
    He heard a commotion outside. He faintly heard sirens. Soon, the flashing red and blue lights of police cars would sweep across the walls. He bit his lower lip. He hadn't thought about what he would do if - when - the police would show up. He looked down at himself. Slacks, a white polo shirt, moccasins. And a loaded gun. That would be a problem, now wouldn't it?
    "Sir?"
    "I'm here. And the police showed up. Thanks for calling them, ma'am."
    Blake moved back to the window. Indeed, they were! Two cars were pulled up onto the sidewalk and the officers were out, guns drawn. More police cars were pulling up. More officers with guns. A news crew or two. And a crowd of civilians watching from a distance off, staring at the scene like deer caught in headlights.
    "And ma'am?" he asked.
    "Yes?"
    "Thank you for taking my call." Blake said.
    Then the line went dead.