The Catalyst

Fiction by Robert McEvily



Page 12 of the Employee Handbook for the Gotham City Bank states that tellers should be "friendly, polite, approachable, helpful, honest, reliable and responsible." Page 20 states they should be "quick, methodical and accurate;" page 21 states they should be "calm, practical and good listeners" and "have an eye for detail;" page 27 recommends "having a neat and tidy appearance."

Apparently, the Employee Handbook and the person who hired Miss Pippin never crossed paths.

Miss Pippin is grouchy and irresponsible, but mostly shy, and was extra shy last Friday due to an acne flair-up on her forehead. She'd eaten two Frosted Caramel Chocolate Pop-Tarts for breakfast that morning despite vowing to start a healthier diet. The makeup she applied to cover the pimples looked clownish. She wanted so badly to call in sick but didn't have the nerve. Lying to Mr. Walters made her nauseous.

She didn't want to be looked at. Judged. It made her angry there were people who still banked in person. And they were all so stupid. The old woman who always said, "you sure that went through?" That creepy messenger kid with the chapped lips. She hated needing a job she hated. And - believe it or not - she was actually happy when three armed men entered the bank and told everyone to get down on the ground and not move unless they wanted to get their motherfucking heads blown off. It was something different at least. It broke up the monotony.

"You. Bozo." The chief thug pointed at Miss Pippin. "The keycode. Now."

"She doesn't know it." Mr. Walters tried not to shake.

"I'm talking to the fat girl."

"I don't know it," said Miss Pippin. She wasn't scared. She was insulted. Everyone heard the remark. She was embarrassed. She was sad.

Near the hallway which led to some offices, a black figure moved in the shadows.

"You know the fucking code," said the thug. He pointed his shotgun at her. "Say it."

"I don't know it."

"Say the fucking code!"

Miss Pippin looked at Mr. Walters. He nodded no, don't do it. Then behind him, over his shoulder, down the hallway which led to some offices, she saw Batman. She saw his ears and his cape and his yellow insignia. She thought he looked beautiful. She wondered if he'd heard the fat remark. He nodded yes. For an instant she thought he meant yes, I heard the fat remark. Then she realized he meant yes, say the code. He winked at her and smiled. Brown eyes, she thought. She winked back.

Moments later: Scuffle. Shots. Punches. Silence.



The next day, Miss Pippin read an article about the foiled bank robbery in the Gotham City Gazette. Batman rounded up the punks in the vault; responding police officers made the arrests. No one was injured.

All that weekend, she thought of the wink. For a moment in time, a wonderful moment in time, she was Batman's partner.

As you know, Miss Pippin is grouchy and irresponsible, but she's human. She's American. She has choices. Whether or not she trashes her Pop-Tarts and resigns from the bank is entirely up to her. She can do neither, one, or both.