Make-Up Counter

The local headlines and on-line click bait had dubbed him the "Beat Face Bandit." He had taken down three banks; first as Lady Gaga, right down to the pink hat from the "Joanne" album cover, then Madonna circa "Lucky Star," and most recently, though oddly less successfully, as Harry Styles.

James Jameson (who knows what his parents were thinking) was a man who had wound up all alone, bereft of prospects and hope. He was 33 years old, unmarried, uninteresting, unnoticed, and unemployed. Or "available," "steady," "modest to a fault," and "between jobs," as James preferred to say. He had been an out of work software engineer for ten months and had begun to wonder if truck driver or HVAC tech might be career opportunities he should explore.

He had gone to the nearby Kohl's to pick up a repair kit for the leaky toilet in his apartment. He had told his landlord, a man with a desultory interest in his tenants, that he'd found a handyman who would make the repairs for $200. With that money in hand, James would buy the replacement parts, fix the toilet himself, and pocket the change to buy groceries. His savings from his last gig, working as a contractor at Aetna, were running out and every little bit would help.

Inside the store, he noticed the small, animated group of women at the makeup counter. As he drew near, he noticed the sign that had drawn their interest:

 Free Makeover 

with $100 Purchase

If anyone is in need of a makeover, it's me, James thought. 

Had he pondered a life of crime before that moment? Up until this very moment, he'd never pictured himself making that particular career change. He did have the $200 in his pocket that he'd obtained under false pretenses, so perhaps he had already taken a step in that direction without realizing it. In that moment, though, it all seemed to write itself; he would be Robin Hood in drag, stealing from the rich, and giving to the poor. Starting with himself, of course. It's like the oxygen masks on an airplane, he reasoned; you have to help yourself before you can help others.

The young woman behind the make-up counter was a bit surprised and confused as James stepped up, put five 20s on the counter and said, "I'd like that free makeover, please."

"All right," the young woman said, not at all sounding like everything was all right. "Would you like to make your purchase first?"

"I probably won't know what I need until after the makeover," James said. When the woman hesitated, he added, "You can hold the money. I promise I'll spend at least $100 after the makeover." 

"Just a moment," the young woman said. She walked over to another woman helping another customer and pulled her aside for a brief colloquy. When both women looked over at him, James smiled what he thought of as his most reassuring smile. The women finished their conversation and the young woman returned to where James waited. She picked up the 20s and put them on a table behind her. "All right," she said. "Given your skin tone and bone structure, I can make some recommendations."

"I've been told that my nose is just like Lady Gaga's," James said. "Can you make me up to look like Gaga?"

"Lady Gaga?" the young woman asked. 

"Please," James said. "Look, if you think this is some kind of joke, let me assure you, it isn't." James cast about for a believable lie. "There's a karaoke contest at the Gaslight Pub this weekend with a $1,000 prize and I could really use the money. I do a killer rendition of Million Reasons, but I could still use any edge I can get."

"If you need the money," the young woman said, "maybe you should keep your $100."

"A ten to one return on investment?" James said. "I can't afford not to take that risk." Again, the woman hesitated. James tried a different approach. He raised his voice slightly. "You've got a problem with me doing drag? Is that it?"

*****

"He seemed like a nice enough guy, you know, like he was in touch with his feminine side and that's really kind of cool. Open to, you know, different points of view? Maybe a little old for me but my sex life has been kind of like a food desert lately… Sorry for sharing that now. Anyway. So, I go to the Gaslight that Saturday night. But not only is the guy not there but there's no karaoke contest and not even a karaoke machine and the waitress I ask says they've never ever done karaoke at the Gaslight and I'm like, what the hell? Anyway. So, I know I should just let it go; I tell myself, he wasn't the guy you hoped he'd be and maybe you even dodged a bullet, you know? It's all just feeling creepy and weird. And then I see the story on the news about the bank being robbed by Lady Gaga and I thought, that just couldn't be a coincidence, you know?"

Police Sergeant Mark Sebastian, a tall, sharp-edged man who'd had no idea who Lady Gaga was until "she" took down the Service Credit Union on Maplewood, had listened intently to Sarah Tennyson's story about her encounter with the man at the make-up counter, scribbling notes on a legal pad as she spoke.

"Indeed, it was not, Miss Tennyson," Sergeant Sebastian began.

"You can call me Sarah," she said with a bright smile.

Thinking that he, too, was a little old for her, but fearing she may have been driven blind by thirst, Sergeant Sebastian continued. "Miss Tennyson, do you think you could provide us with a description of this man? We can bring in a sketch artist."

"I think so," Sarah said. "His nose did look just like Lady Gaga's."

"Well," Sergeant Sebastian said, "hopefully that's a good start. If you wouldn't mind waiting here I'll be right back."

Was this the break Sebastian had hoped for? He'd thought the Beat Face Bandit was a pro based on his M.O. He hit the bank early so the tellers' tills were full and there were few customers in the lobby. He would pass what looked like a cash deposit pouch with a typed note to the teller:

I HAVE A GUN! 

Put all your money in the pouch and 

NOBODY GETS HURT!

Cash in hand, the Beat Face Bandit would thank the teller and leave. Highly efficient. Low risk. He wasn't taking big scores, true, but Sebastian had been sure up until that moment that the man was a pro; once you're in the system there's really no hiding place for you. It would just be a matter of time. But an amateur? That would take luck and Mark Sebastian felt like he'd run out of luck ten years ago.He hoped the sketch artist would be able to give them something because without it, Sebastian would just be looking for some random, disaffected, white dude in a planet-sized haystack of random, disaffected white dudes.

*****

James Jameson was enjoying his newfound, if anonymous, fame as the Beat Face Bandit. He had gone so far as to post make-up tips videos on TikTok using a mannequin's head to maintain his secret identity. He had joined a "Lady Gaga" flash mob at the Fox Run Mall, mingling with his fans, most of them dressed and made up as Gaga's but a few Madonna's and two Harry Styles he had to admit looked much better than his. He had listened to their theories as to the Beat Face Bandit's true identity, and added his voice to a spirited group rendition of "Bad Romance." He was a part of something, something that he had created, even if it had been an accident, a twist of fate. 

He was happy, or rather, this is what he thought happiness felt like. He quite enjoyed being a celebrity, but then, he thought, so had Bonnie and Clyde. At first. At least in the movie. The real Bonnie and Clyde probably weren't anything at all like Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty. 

The question both James Jameson and Mark Sebastian were asking themselves now was, how would it end?

Well, it wasn't the only question James Jameson was pondering. He hadn't decided on his next celebrity robber persona. Who would it be? Kim Kardashian seemed almost too obvious, though he considered for a moment the prospect of padding his ass to look like cartoonishly large melons wrapped in spandex. 

Billie Eilish? 

Yes. Billie Eilish.

More importantly and fantastically, he wondered who would play James Jameson in the movie about the Beat Face Bandit. Ryan Reynolds? Way too good looking to be believable but isn't that how Hollywood works? Maybe Adam Driver? He's got the nose for it, James thought.

*****

James was surprised - hurt was probably a better description - by the reaction to his Billie Eilish job. The "Eilish? More like Ei-less!" post with the shaky bank video on Instagram was at least a somewhat clever play on the name but…

Self-parody? 

The opposite of fierce? 

The post by Yomammajamma2007 misidentifying him as Missy Elliot? Really? My fans think I'd do blackface?

Turn yourself in before you embarrass yourself again!

Was his 15 minutes already over?

Of course, it had never been James' 15 minutes; it was the Beat Face Bandit who had been famous, celebrated, and up until Billie Eilish, had been loved. An anti-hero, perhaps, but that was still some kind of a hero, James thought…

Taylor Swift? James thought? Will that bring my fans back? 

James Jameson heaved a long and thoughtful sigh. Billie Eilish had been tough to pull off (if he'd actually done that, and maybe, he had to admit, he hadn't) but he'd never be able to pull off Taylor Swift; not with his nose…

It hit him like a tidal wave, washing everything away down to the sand and rock, leaving him once again alone, without his phantom, ephemeral fame, without attachments, without hope.

*****

Sergeant Sebastian found James Jameson's dead body, seated in front of the television set in the shabby apartment above a haircutting salon where the man who would become the Beat Face Bandit had lived. Still clutched in his hand was a handwritten note with a single word on it: 

Hopeless

There was no gun, no bullet hole in the temple; no empty glass to hint at poison. Sebastian assured himself that the ME would be able to figure it out, but couldn't help thinking that it appeared as if James Jameson had simply died. 

Sebastian scanned the room. No pictures. Of places or people. No keepsakes. No shells from the beach or schoolboy art projects. No books. No magazines or any evidence that mail had ever been delivered to James Jameson or Current Occupant. The spare, grim furnishings looked like the mismatched set dressing for an old TV show. It was a veritable tableau of hopelessness. Or was it loneliness? Sebastian wondered. 

Perhaps they were one and the same.