Joseph Eddy stood in line at First Liberty Bank wearing his thick-bearded latex mask — itching like hell, sweating like a sinner in July, but perfect for anonymity. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets, and the indoor plants were those ugly dusty silk ones every building in 1986 insisted on owning.
He watched the wall clock — a big beige thing with red hands — waiting for the moment he always knew instinctively: the exact minute a bank was easiest to rob.
Aunt Loretta’s ghostly face appeared inches from his.
Loretta: “Joey. We gotta talk.”
Joseph jumped slightly. Not because she startled him — but because she never stopped showing up.
Joseph: “Not. Now.”
Loretta drifted along beside him with that irritated pre-aerobics-class energy all Philly women mastered in the 80s.
Loretta: “Oh yes, right now. Sasha needs to know something important.”
Joseph: “I’m working.”
Loretta: “Oh excuse me, Mister Bank Robber of the Year, but your mascara-flapping teller here is about to make the worst mistake of her life.”
Joseph clenched his jaw.
It wasn’t just Loretta. He saw people all the time. The dead. The recently dead. The long-dead. The should’ve-been-dead-years-ago. Voices from trolley accidents. Guys who froze in ‘77. Ladies who died in hair-dryers under busted wiring. A parade of ghosts who always needed something, always had drama, always had opinions. And today, as usual, he tried to ignore them.
A man behind Joseph groaned loudly.
Man #1: “This line hasn’t moved in ten minutes! I’m gonna be late to work and my boss is already on my ass.”
Woman #1: “What is that teller doing? She flirting? Looks like she’s batting her lashes like it’s prom night.”
Man #1: “Figures. Only in Philly.”
Joseph pinched the bridge of his nose.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Finally the line moved, and he stepped up to Sasha’s window.
She gave him a warm, borderline too-friendly smile. Her hair was sprayed into a crunchy, perfectly fanned halo — pure 1986.
Sasha: “Hi, sir. How can I help you today?”
He slid the note across the counter:
TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND. NO DYE PACK. NO SOUND. NO EYES.
Then he casually flashed the butt of his Beretta under his jacket.
Sasha’s face didn’t twitch a millimeter.
Sasha (quietly): “…Alright then.”
Loretta hovered behind her, frantic.
Loretta: “Tell her about Richie! Tell her now!”
Joseph: “Lori. I am literally stealing.”
Sasha: “I’m sorry — what?”
Joseph: “Not you. Her.”
Sasha: “Her who?”
Loretta waved dramatically, but to no avail.
Loretta: “Me, sweetheart! Aunt Lori! You remember — died in ‘79, open casket, terrible dress? Your mother swore everyone would compliment it but she lied through her teeth.”
Sasha carried on as if Loretta were not directly in front of her.
Joseph: “Yep. So. Anyway, the money—”
Loretta: “No. Tell her Richie’s cheating with Natalie.”
Joseph (smirking): Who the hell is Richie and Natalie now?
Sasha: “NATALIE? My best friend Natalie?!”
Joseph (motioning his hands as if he were going to sleep): Uh, yeah, I heard about them, ya know…
Sasha (eyes widened): “NATALIE AND RICHIE!?!”
A woman two windows down snapped her head over.
Woman #2: “Wait — Natalie who? I know like six Natalies.”
Man #2: “Why’s everyone yelling? Some of us are on lunch! I barely get thirty minutes.”
The front doors whooshed open with a cold blast from the street.
Natalie strutted in like she was starring in a Pointer Sisters video, shoulder pads sharp enough to puncture a tire.
Natalie: “Sash? I got your page. What’s goin’ on?”
Sasha: “What’s goin’ on?! YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON!”
Natalie: “I—I really don’t!”
Woman #2: “Oh this is better than Dallas.”
Joseph shifted uncomfortably.
Too many eyes.
Too many voices.
Too many dead people hovering at the corners of the lobby whispering nonsense — an old man who died choking on a cheesesteak muttering about onions… a teenager from South Philly who kept repeating, “Don’t trust anyone with white loafers”… and Loretta getting louder by the second.
Joseph (whispering): “Lori. Seriously. Shut it down.”
Loretta: “Tell her to check under the mattress!”
Joseph: “No.”
Loretta: “JOEY. Don’t be smart. Tell her.”
Joseph groaned into the fake beard and muttered the words that would collapse this robbery like a bad folding chair:
Joseph (to Sasha): “She says… check under the mattress. Natalie’s panties are under there.”
A wave of gasps.
An old man in line applauded like he was watching Phil Donahue.
Natalie: “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! They are NOT!”
Sasha: “I trusted you!”
Natalie: “I swear to GOD—”
The bank manager hurried out of his office with the posture of a man who’d just had three antacids.
Manager: “Ladies, ladies! This is a financial institution, not an episode of Solid Gold! Can we keep our voices down?”
Man #1: “Yeah! Some of us got paychecks to cash, pal!”
Woman #1: “Honestly, though, I wanna see how it ends.”
Joseph tried to shrink into his coat.
But Loretta wasn’t done.
Loretta: “Also tell her about Avalon!”
Joseph hissed: “What about Avalon?”
Loretta: “Last year! The weekend she and Richie spent down the shore! Tell her!”
Joseph clenched his teeth and muttered:
Joseph: “She says… you and Richie spent a weekend in Avalon.”
Sasha: “AVALON?! You told me you were in PITTSBURGH visiting your COUSINS!”
Natalie: “Oh my god — will someone PLEASE tell this nutjob to stop listening to his imaginary friend?”
Loretta scoffed.
Loretta: “Imaginary? Honey, I’m more real than your loyalty.”
A security guard across the lobby started giving Joseph a long, suspicious stare.
Security Guard: “Hey. You been in line a long time, buddy. You makin’ a transaction or sightseein’?”
Joseph forced a smile beneath the sweaty latex beard.
Joseph: “Uh… bills. You know how it is.”
Guard narrowed his eyes.
Meanwhile Rich burst through the front doors in record time — breathless, sweaty, and guilty-looking.
Rich: “Sasha? Natalie? Why are you both— what’s happening?!”
Sasha: “CHECK. UNDER. THE. MATTRESS.”
Natalie threw her hands up.
Natalie: “For the love of— I DID NOTHING.”
Man #2: “This is insane. I should’ve brought popcorn.”
Ghosts gathered around Joseph, whispering advice like they were betting on horses.
Cheesesteak Ghost: “Tell her to dump him AND the friend.”
Teen Ghost: “Tell Richie to get better shoes.”
Loretta: “Tell Sasha to keep the dog, too!”
Joseph finally snapped:
Joseph: “PLEASE. INSIDE VOICES. ALL OF YOU.”
Nobody living or dead listened.
Eventually Rich slunk away like a kicked mutt.
Natalie stormed off, muttering obscenities that echoed off the marble walls.
Woman #2 sighed as if her favorite show had ended.
The line moved up one spot.
Joseph exhaled and made his decision:
He was bailing.
No cash.
No robbery.
No more dead people telling him about underwear scandals.
He turned toward the exit.
Sasha called after him.
Sasha: “Sir! You almost forgot your withdrawal!”
He froze.
Everyone else ignored her — to them, he was just another Philly guy in a goofy beard.
He turned back slowly.
Sasha held out a bank-logo tote bag filled with crisp bills.
Twenty-five grand.
Sasha (calmly): “Aunt Lori told me to give it to you.”
Loretta floated behind her, arms folded like she’d won a bet.
Loretta: “You’re welcome, kid. Don’t say I never did anything for ya.”
Joseph took the bag like she was handing him dry cleaning.
He nodded, adjusted his itchy beard, and walked toward the doors like a man who absolutely was not robbing the place.
No one even glanced at him.
As he stepped onto the city sidewalk, Sasha called out softly:
Sasha: “Have a good day, sir.”
Joseph muttered back without turning:
Joseph: “You have no idea.”
And he disappeared into the Philadelphia afternoon — twenty-five grand richer, exhausted, and more annoyed than any bank robber, living or dead, had ever been.
