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1
Burnham chomps fry after fry, each freshly removed from the metal basket that now hangs above the bubbling vat of grease. He fights the agonizing heat against his teeth and the soft tissue of his mouth and throat. Each fry is like swallowing a lit match.
The tips of his index finger and thumb are bright red.
“Not again.” It’s a voice from behind him.
“Hi, Frank,” Burnham says without turning around.
“Come on, dude. This has to stop.”
Burnham listens to a fry crunch between his molars. His fingers and tongue throb. He stares at the yellowish tendrils of grease that stretch away from the fry basket before detaching and falling into the bubbling pool below.
“You hear me?” Frank says.
“Yes, Frank. I hear you. Jesus.”
Frank is a full-timer here at Benny’s Burgers so, though he’s no older than nineteen or twenty, he thinks he’s a boss.
Burnham finally turns and looks at him. He feels tired and annoyed, but thrilled by the prospect of confrontation. An image of Harmony threatens to overwhelm him, but he fights it, suppresses it, focuses his energy on Frank.
Although Frank is clearly Hispanic, Burnham didn’t much care about him until a few weeks ago. Burnham had been working the front counter, covering for a coworker, when in walked Frank and his little sister, Anna, who was no older than five. Frank had her up on his shoulders and she was giggling uncontrollably. Frank had introduced her to everyone, including Burnham, who did his best to hide his distaste. Something about the sight of Frank and Anna together—their smiles and the way they clearly cared about each other—had led to a sort of snapping inside Burnham, a weird and frustrating feeling of loss and jealousy.
“I’ll tell the boss-lady,” Frank says now. “This isn’t sanitary.”
When Burnham doesn’t answer—instead, just stares at him—Frank points at the French fries and continues: “Seriously, dude, if Angie knew you were touching the food it would be your ass.”
“Frank,” Burnham says, “you’re Mexican, right?”
Frank scowls and leans back in an exaggerated way, as if Burnham has just raised a hand to him. “What? Why does it matter?”
Burnham eats a fry. “I’m just curious.”
Frank’s mouth drops open—the same stupid look he always gets when he’s confused: A horse-toothed pink hole in the middle of his bushy face.
Burnham points at the black locks protruding from Frank’s red hat and says, “You’ve got Mexican hair. And you’re dark-complected. You look Mexican.”
“Well, my mom is Mexican,” Frank tells him. “My grandparents came here in the seventies or something.”
Burnham looks down at the grease. He thinks about jabbing his finger in, like he did yesterday. He remembers the sudden pain, how quickly he had to recoil. Frank had somehow seen the whole thing, had come darting over with wide eyes. Burnham remembers Frank’s lecture, remembers forcing a smile and slowly plunging his finger in again. He remembers the shock on Frank’s face.
The grease bubbles, bubbles, and then Burnham sees a new image: A melting face, cheeks drooping like hot wax.
“Frank,” he says. “Stay the hell away from me.”
2
Sunlight seeps through the curtains. The room takes on an orange hue. It is both dark and light at the same time.
“Harmony, dear. Where’s Harmony?”
“Mom,” Burnham says. “Come on. Remember?”
Burnham helps his mother out of her recliner, ignoring the persistent memories of his sister. An infomercial host’s excited voice rages out of the old box-shaped television’s speakers: “Get our new state-of-the-art wok! Just nineteen-ninety-five! Call now and receive a second wok at no cost!”
“Why do you watch this shit?” Burnham says. Images of colorful, steaming vegetables overwhelm the screen.
Lately it’s been nothing but infomercials, like this one, and Burnham has begun to wonder if his mother has lost her ability to comprehend stories, if that’s why she never watches normal shows anymore.
He leans over and switches the television off before helping her into the wheelchair.
“Do I have cards tonight?”
“Not tonight, Mom.”
Burnham begins wheeling her towards the bathroom, ignoring the ancient brown stains—spilled coffee? Pepsi?—in the carpet. He ignores the dead flowers and plants scattered around the house, their browned leaves as crinkly as that cellophane shit they package DVDs and Blu-rays with.
His mother says, “I won at hearts last Saturday. You should’ve seen it. I shot the moon and Jackie Glennon started running her damn filthy mouth, and then she just stalked off and went home. What a sight it was! Did you know that people…people…um….” Her voice trails off.
“That’s nice about your card game, Mom, wow, good for you.”
Fuck me, I need a cigarette, Burnham thinks. His mother’s ramblings are commonplace. She tells these tales about people Burnham doesn’t even know, her brain misfiring like an old engine, sparking up some random memory of an event that took place decades ago. This time it’s card games, probably from the late 1980s or thereabouts, back when Burnham was just a kid. Yesterday it was a fender-bender she had in the parking lot of a grocery store that closed up in 2001. Last week she was going on about Dad winning three-hundred dollars at the casino in Sault Sainte Marie, before Burnham was born. Subsequently, however, Dad had accidentally dropped his wallet into Lake Superior, unwillingly committing his miniscule fortune to the deep.
“Good for me, yes,” his mother says. “I usually win, but when I don’t, to hell with those bitches!”
The walls of the house make it look like the place fell asleep in 1995 and never woke up. Each room is adorned with flowered wallpaper or borders that long ago began to warp and peel from the walls. The Springy, pastel colors have faded: Some of the yellows appear almost white, or ivory. The flowery designs seem decades outdated. Every time Burnham makes this trek from living room to bathroom, passing through the dining room and kitchen, he is reminded of old commercials from the 90s—commercials he likes to watch on YouTube every now and again. He thinks about how Sprite cans looked so different twenty years ago, or how 1990s Ford trucks, so new-looking on the computer screen, still remind him of the weathered rust-buckets he sees in the neighborhood.
“We need to get you in a time machine or something,” he tells her as he forces the chair over the threshold, and she begins humming something…a pretty song that he can’t place, the lyrics eluding him.
“What is that?” he asks, but she doesn’t answer, and quickly stops humming.
Once inside the bathroom, Burnham’s mother wraps her arms around the back of his neck. He lifts, pulling her to her feet and guiding her until she finds her footing. He helps her lower her drawers and holds her hand to support her until she eases down safely onto the toilet.
“I’ll be right out here. I’ll leave the door open.”
Burnham steps out of the bathroom and into the dining room, which is just a room away, on the other side of the kitchen. He begins poking around the dining table, which is littered with old junk mail, newspapers, and other useless trash.
“We need to throw all this shit away,” he says, raising his voice so she’ll hear him, but she doesn’t answer.
“We could take it all out back and have a nice fire,” he says. He slides a page of expired fast food coupons aside and finds a notepad nestled beneath it. It’s one of those notepads with yellow paper. Burnham has always wondered what the use of yellow paper is.
He lifts the notepad and stares at the writing on its top page, a collection of barely-legible cursive squiggles.
She calls from the bathroom: “Bernie? Honey, can you help me now?”
“Just a second, Mom.”
He stares at the frantic scrawling on the notepad and notices that it’s a series of questions.
“Bernie, are you right there? I can’t stand up.”
“Yeah, Mom, hang on.”
He reads: Am I sick? Where is Harmony? Is laundry done?
And down at the bottom, Will someone please wake me up?
There is a sudden and familiar thunk from the bathroom—the sound of the seat clanking against the porcelain rim of the toilet. Burnham tosses the notepad. He rushes through the kitchen and into the bathroom, expecting to find his mother sprawled out on the floor. Instead, he discovers that she is still in a seated position atop the toilet.
“I fell right back down,” she says, her face flushed. She looks pouty, fish-lipped, but there’s the faintest evidence of a smile, too.
“Jesus Christ, Mom. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but I’m pretty sure my ass’ll have a nice bruise.”
Burnham stares at her. Her eyes are locked on his with an intensity and awareness he hasn’t seen much for the past couple of years. There’s no confused emptiness in them; instead, they are the oily-colored, expectant eyes of an amateur comedienne waiting for a laugh.
It occurs to him that she is joking around, having a rare moment of clarity. He feels a sense of profound wonder—life is a goddamn funny thing sometimes—but he also feels exposed, on the brink of being found out, though he isn’t sure he is hiding anything from her.
“Where have you been?” Burnham says, and for a reason he doesn’t quite understand, punches the wall next to the doorframe.
3
Burnham sits in his gray Malibu across the street from a homey bi-level with beige siding and chocolate-colored shutters. The grass in the yard is dry, yellowed, and the giant maple tree that flanks the house has begun to lose its leaves, though many of them have held onto their greenness with impressive stubbornness. Burnham guesses that less than half of the tree has taken on its usual mid-autumn color, though eventually all of its leaves will be as red as an ocean sunset.
Of course, he can’t see any of this detail in the gloom, but he knows from previous visits. Since his mother’s moment of clarity a couple weeks ago, he has been stricken by an impatient feeling, as if he needs to act. He’s been driving past this house on a near nightly basis.
He lights a cigarette, inhales, and looks at the digital clock on the car radio: 12:14 am. He cracks the window and waits.
At 12:17 a pair of headlights swings into the street in front of him, approaching slowly. He leans down a little to avoid being seen, but he is far enough away, and parked on the other side of the street anyways, so he knows there’s no reason to worry. The car slows, its brakes squeaking a little, and eases into the driveway. The garage door goes up to reveal a dim orange light and a myriad of garagey things: A lawnmower, some tools hanging on the back wall, a couple garbage cans.
Burnham flicks his cigarette away and trots through the front yard as the rusty old Cavalier crawls to a stop in the garage. He leans against the siding next to the opening, listening for the sound of the driver’s side door opening and then closing. When he hears the rusty wunk of the door slamming shut, he peeks around the corner.
A chunky Mexican woman stands with her back to him, fumbling with her keys next to the car door. Her hair stretches down her back, drooping to a few inches below her ass, like a horse’s tail. She has on maroon scrubs, which answers a question for him: she must be a nurse.
He wants to say something, and nearly does, but then the door that leads into the house opens, and little Anna comes hopping out excitedly. Frank stands in the doorway behind her with a huge horse’s grin on his face.
“Mommy!” the girl shouts, and Burnham’s legs go rubbery at the sound of her voice. He hadn’t noticed it before, back at Benny’s Burgers, but Anna’s voice sounds remarkably similar to Harmony’s.
An odd mixture of hatred and love fills him, threatens to pull his feet out from beneath him. He reaches in his pocket and feels his lighter there, the rough grooves of its spark wheel against his thumb. The feeling calms him, brings him back to reality a little, but he can’t shake the odd emotion that has overwhelmed him—a feeling that only gets worse when Frank’s mother bends down and wraps her arms around the little girl in a tight, motherly embrace.
It suddenly occurs to Burnham that he isn’t sure what he’s doing here, what the point of this visit is. He’s been toying with the idea of vandalizing the place, maybe starting a small fire in the garage, but now he’s just confused…and thankful that he hadn’t spoken when he saw Frank’s mother exiting her car. What would he have said? What would’ve been the point?
As she walks into the house, Frank’s mother presses a button on the wall and the garage door begins to rumble shut. Burnham scampers down the driveway, but then stops when he sees a newspaper lying at the foot of the curb. His hands begin to shake and then he laughs under his breath. He plucks up the newspaper, unrolls it, sets it aflame with his lighter, and pushes it into Frank’s mailbox.
Burnham sprints to his car and drives off, laughing uncontrollably all the way home.
4
Harmony hops off her purple bicycle, points at the candy store a couple doors down, and says, “I want some! Can we? Please, Bernie?”
Burnham stops and stands up, his feet on either side of his Huffy bike.
It’s a bright yellow day with blue skies and wispy, tissue-thin clouds scattered about like white freckles. The wind is like nestling your cheek against freshly dried towels.
“Okay,” Burnham tells her. “But I only have two dollars. One candy for you, one for me.”
She hops up and down, her sandy blonde pigtails bouncing. Her hair sparkles in the sunshine.
“Yay! Thanks, Bernie! You’re the best big brother EVER!”
He smiles and hands her the two dollars. There are a few people wandering the sidewalks, and a few cars cruising up and down Main Street, but it’s not too busy in town today. Burnham recognizes many of the people as neighbors and other common townsfolk. There’s really nothing to be nervous about, and anyways, he doesn’t feel like taking the time to chain their bikes to the bike rack.
“Okay, Harmony,” he says, “I’ll stay here and watch our bikes. You can go in the candy store by yourself, but you have to come back the second you’re done. Got it?”
She nods her head emphatically. “Yes, of course, of course, I will.”
Harmony giggles and scampers away. Burnham watches her disappear into the front door, turns his head to watch the moderate town traffic drift by, leans against the brick wall of Ed’s Hardware, and pulls a cigarette to lips. He’d stolen a couple packs from Sammy’s Quick Stop a few days ago, which was fine, no one would miss them. But, of course, Harmony had found them stashed way in his bedroom and confronted him about it. He’d been somewhat embarrassed about it, but he was more afraid that she’d tell on him. So instead of panicking and snapping at her, which would be an open invitation to go narcing to Mom, he sat down with her and had a friendly chat. He explained to her that since he was underage, he had stolen the cigarettes when the cashier wasn’t behind the counter where they were kept. He also explained that it was wrong to steal and that he regretted it, and hoped to never have to do it again, which was the truth (his friend Tony was turning eighteen soon, so stealing wouldn’t be necessary anymore). Burnham told Harmony that he trusted her and she liked that, and promised not to tattle on him. Problem solved. And still, even today, Burnham feels the need to be overly nice to her, to let her have her way—and it seems like she knows it. She’s acting cheery, but she keeps asking for stuff, seemingly manipulating him in her own childish way to let her have whatever she wants.
He lights the cigarette now, inhales quickly, and then cradles the cigarette in his palm, hiding it from plain view so he won’t be caught. Burnham is much more careful now. If a little girl could catch him in the act, then a cop definitely could, if he wasn’t extremely careful.
A minute or so after he stomps out the cigarette, Harmony comes sprinting out of the candy store, a wild and determined look on her face. She appears to be cradling something.
“What’s the big rush?” he asks her.
She says, “Quick, quick, let’s go!”
As she approaches Burnham notices what it is she’s cradling against her chest: about fourteen Snickers bars. He grabs her arm and says, “What are you doing with all those?”
“Let go, Bernie, let go!”
He pulls her away from her bike. “Did you steal these? You little thief! What did I tell you about stealing?”
She makes a mean and angry face, a sharp scowl that is, in its own way, quite cute. “If you can steal, I can steal!”
He sighs and kneels down in front of her. He looks back towards the candy store, but no one has followed her. He has to admit, he’s a little impressed that she could get away with it. Hiding this odd feeling of pride, he says, “Yes, but I told you, I regret stealing because it makes me feel like a bad guy, like in the movies. You know how in the movies the bad guys always steal, and the good guys always do the right thing? I learned it the hard way, but I definitely would rather be a good guy than a bad guy. I want to do the right thing, and the right thing to do now would be to return the candy bars and apologize.”
Harmony drops the Snickers bars to the ground, places her hands on her hips, and shakes her head. “Nuh-uh, no way. You do it!”
Burnham points at the candy bars. “Pick them up. Now.”
“No.”
“You got yourself in trouble. No one’s gonna save you. You have to do it yourself. Consider it a lesson. Trust me, you’ll be glad after you give them back. You’ll feel a lot better.”
“If you don’t do it, I’ll tell Mom you stole cigarettes and that I saw you smoking.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Mom will be mad at me for sure, but I’m a teenager. She’ll be way more disappointed when she finds out you stole candy. So if you wanna play this game, that’s fine. I’m willing to take the fall because Mom will be more focused on her little girl turning into a little thief.”
This finally seems to get through to her. Harmony thinks it over, toeing at the ground beneath her, and at the pile of candy bars. Then she sticks her tongue out at him, bends over, and begins scooping the Snickers bars up. Burnham smiles and helps her pile them up against her chest, as they were before.
She looks up at him and says, “You’re mean,” and then walks slowly back to the candy store.
Burnham turns away and lights a second cigarette. By the time he finishes it, it occurs to him that Harmony is taking too long. It is a candy store, and a child can get lost in her excitement in such a place, but Harmony isn’t in there shopping right now. Maybe the cashier is lecturing her, which could be a good thing, but if it goes on as long as this, in Burnham’s eyes, that’s just overdoing it. Harmony’s a little girl. She can only take so much berating. Maybe he should go in and help her out.
Burnham stamps out the cigarette, wheels both bikes to the rack, and chains them both up. He makes the short trek to the candy store, but then freezes before going in. There on the ground, a couple feet from the curb, are three unopened Snickers bars. Burnham’s heart thuds as he turns and pulls the candy store’s door open. He looks around. There are a few folks shopping, but not many. It doesn’t take long for him to notice that Harmony isn’t here.
A couple hours later, she is registered as missing.
Two weeks later, she is declared dead.
5
Burnham hoists his mother from the wheelchair and lays her atop the bed. She lets out a soft grunt as she tries to adjust her position. Burnham helps her slip the pillow beneath her head.
He looks her over. Her hair is whiter than it should be for a woman of fifty-five, but there is a certain beauty in it, too. It still seems lively, bouncy, as if it’s in some sort of denial, clinging to whatever life it has left.
There are thick bags beneath her eyes and pink blotches here and there on her cheeks. Her lips are thin and pale. Burnham can almost see the skull beneath her face, but at the same time there is still something mysteriously youthful about her. If he stares at her long enough, he can almost see Harmony in there.
“When your sister died—” his mother begins, but he interrupts her.
“Don’t, Mom. It’s time for sleep.”
She continues anyways. “When she died, it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry if I was distant, but I hope you know it wasn’t your fault.”
Burnham takes a deep breath and smiles at her, hoping she can’t see in his eyes what this revelation means to him. She’s said it before, quite a few times, but not since she’s been sick. He isn’t quite sure how to feel about it. On one hand, he’s grateful for her moment of clarity here, and it touches him to know she worries about him, even in her current state. He also knows there’s a place deep within him that needs to hear that Harmony’s disappearance wasn’t his fault, but there’s another part of him that actually wishes his mother would blame him, wishes that she’d hate him with an intense vigor.
He pulls the covers up for her, nestling them under her chin. With some effort, she rolls onto her side. She smiles very subtly, comfortably.
“Do you think maybe I’m already sleeping?”
“Shh, Mom. It’s okay.”
Burnham reaches over and clicks the light off. The light from the hallway still illuminates her face.
“Sometimes I think I must be asleep and that when I go to bed maybe I’ll really wake up, and I’ll roll over, and your dad will be right here next to me, and maybe even Harmony will be asleep in between us.”
Burnham says, “That sounds great, Mom. Sounds a lot like heaven.”
Burnham was just nine—Harmony an infant—when their father died. He had been working in the yard and inexplicably collapsed. He was posthumously diagnosed with a heart murmur, a relatively minor condition that, in rare cases only, causes sudden death. Burnham’s father was dead before he hit the ground. Nobody’s fault.
Harmony, on the other hand…. Well, that was Burnham’s fault. Burnham’s fault in part, that is, because, as much as he’d like to shoulder all the blame himself, he knows most of the blame is reserved for the kidnapper: A middle-aged man named Rolando Flores who had, before escaping to the United States, killed five young girls in Mexico. Now, sixteen years after Harmony disappeared without a trace, Flores, convicted, is serving six consecutive life sentences in a Michigan prison.
Flores could have had his sentence reduced (as if it mattered) if he’d only revealed where Harmony’s body was. But he never did. All he’d said was that he’d thrown her into a furnace.
“Heaven,” Burnham’s mother says through a yawn. “That sounds nice.”
Burnham leaves her bedroom and begins to pull the door shut before pausing. He stares at her and listens to her rhythmic breathing. He wonders how many breaths she has left.
“Cards tomorrow,” she says, her voice low and thick.
He’s been living with her for two years, since her diagnosis. He’d quit his job as a news cameraman in Ohio to return to Michigan, because there was no one else alive to take care of her. And since there is some money put away—but not enough to make him rich—from the insurance payout after his father’s death, Burnham is able to survive on a part-time gig as a fast food cook. This also affords him plenty of time to take care of his mother.
She begins humming that familiar tune again, and like before, Burnham is unable to decipher the song—but he hums along with her, remembering the melody just fine.
After a few seconds her face goes slack and she drifts off. She is beautiful when she sleeps.
“Please don’t wake up,” he whispers to her, and closes the door softly.
6
His sleep is a restless one, haunted by a recurring dream….
There are ribbons of black smoke and stalagmites of fire spiraling up into the sky. There are white ashes flitting around in the air like giant snowflakes. Everything is peaceful. So peaceful.
Burnham finds himself surrounded by walls of flames that, for the most part, burn quietly. He is standing in Frank’s front yard and he is listening, listening. He is waiting for the sound of voices, the sound of screaming, the refreshing sound of melting.
Burnham once read on some message board that skin begins to melt around two-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. He doesn’t know if it’s true. But he hopes to find out.
The flames pop and crackle, like Rice Krispies. They flick high into the air, twelve, fifteen feet. They engulf everything: Frank’s house, his mother’s Cavalier, the tall maple tree. Leaves float down, ignite, and fold in on themselves, disappearing into glowing embers.
Burnham realizes he is holding someone’s hand. He looks down, over, and sees a little girl’s face. He sees the smile of angels, hears the innocent giggle. The bouncy pigtails. The squinted eyes, coffee-brown like her mother’s.
Her lips move, but no sound escapes her. He reads her lips: “Hi, Bernie.”
“Hey, punk,” he says back, though no sound escapes him either.
Harmony looks away from him and stares into the wall of flames. A lost look creeps into her gaze. A lost, frightened look. Her eyes gleam orange.
Burnham squeezes her hand gently, thinking, I’m here, I’ll always be here, and I’m so sorry I made you go in alone.
But then the light grows brighter, and the air gets uncomfortably hot and thick, and everything smells of charred wood and burnt meat. And as he tries to pull her closer to him, to protect her, she begins to drift away, somehow escaping his grip. The ground seems to liquefy and she floats, floats away from him, drifting into danger like a crippled boat on stormy seas.
She turns to face him, splashing impossibly in the grass and dirt, screaming inaudibly, tears tracking down her face. Burnham reaches, reaches, but he’s rooted in, can’t move, and then it happens: the terrible and glorious melting.
“Never again! Never, ever again!” he mouths, promising something he can’t guarantee, can’t because he knows it’s hopeless, he is who he is, but Oh God he wants to change because there is good in him, he’s not a monster, and it’s just not worth it….
The walls close in and it feels like glass shattering around him, razor shards pelting his skin, and it’s fire, just fire, but it’s alive and like all living things it needs to eat….
And oh, Jesus, the pain.
7
Burnham stands on the sidewalk and stares at the last door his sister ever opened.
The candy store closed down a few years ago and has since been replaced by a pet food store. At this hour, all the businesses on the Main Street strip are closed—and anyways, the town is not as upbeat or welcoming as it was just sixteen years ago. The town is dirtier than it used to be, more unsafe, more ominous. At 2:00 am, there is very little traffic.
The mid-October air is cool enough now so that Burnham can see his breath under the orange streetlamp. He stares through this white steam at the door and replays the memory of pulling it open and stepping inside only to find…nothing. He thinks about the Snickers bars lying at the curb. He’d turned his back to smoke, taken his eyes off of her, and somewhere in the five seconds it would’ve taken her to walk back into the candy store, Rolando Flores had pulled up to the curb and yanked her into his vehicle, into a hell that Burnham cannot possibly imagine or fathom.
He lifts a smoke to his lips and pauses before lighting it. He laughs quietly.
“‘But time, goes by, so slowly….’” he sings softly.
“Unchained Melody.” Wow, Mom, that’s beautiful.
He lights the cigarette and takes a puff. He glares at the building again and flicks the lighter’s wheel a few times: snik, snik, snik….
The smoke warms him, fills all the hollow places that exist deep inside of him.
He flicks the lighter again, stares at the blue eye at the base of the flame. He holds it to his cheek and fights the urge to pull away. Against excruciating pain, he counts the seconds. After twenty-one seconds, an odd coldness spreads across his face and everything glows red out of the corner of his eye.

Verified? (This bot cannot verify AMAs just yet)
Date: 2014-03-29
Link to submission (Has self-text)

Questions	Answers
If you were going to rob a bank and could only arm yourself with standard items found at the grocery store, which items would you choose and how would you use them?	Awesome question!
	First, something I could stuff under my clothes - papertowels, toilet paper... anything to make me appear bigger than I am (so on camera, they see a HUGE person trying to rob the bank). Second, hairspray with maybe a blue color? As soon as I was done, wash that crap out (disguise my natural hair color). Scissors - cut my hair after I'm done too. Lots of makeup that can be washed off.
	Gloves for fingerprints, glasses (even if things look like a fish bowl, you can accidentally drop them so they are looking for someone with that kind of prescription)... Anything to throw them off.
	Maybe a knife for a weapon.
	And peaches (again, I'm allergic, they wouldn't look for me if they were left behind).
	Incidentally, I have worked for a real bank before :D.
Do you wear gloves when you handle all of my money? Not for fingerprints, but for cleanliness.	Nope. Gloves make you lose traction when handling cash. Think of trying to shuffle through several sheets of notebook or computer paper with gloves on. You need the tactile feel to know you have only one bill. A lot of us use [Link to www.leeproducts.com](sortkwik) to help when counting money (so we don't look like old people licking our fingers).
	We do heavily stock up on hand sanitizer in the department. Trust me, you are correct about filthy money. And, (maybe) surprisingly, coin is worse. *apparently, formatting doesn't like me today...
Do you practice money-laundry or some other form of cleaning?	I hate laundry. I avoid it when possible. :)
	Answered this when half asleep. As far as cleaning, not the cash or coin. But if blood or body fluid ends up on cash or coin, we seal it in a bag and send it with the night deposit to the outside bank.
	If blood or body fluid gets on a chip, an EMT takes gloves, takes all the chips that might be contaminated, and cleans them for us. I'm not sure why an EMT other than they are licensed to handle body fluids, but that is what happens to them.
Do you ever get the urge to grab a stack of money and walk out the door? Obviously you'll get fired/go to prison, but does the thought cross your mind a lot?	We joke about it, but no. We prepare a deposit on grave shift that goes to the external bank (think Bank of America or Commerce or whatever). You can fit between 15 and 17 bundles in a clear deposit bag (depending on brand of deposit bag). We often joke about which grave banker gets the bag with the most money, and which one gets the smaller bag.
	But no, I don't need to spend time in jail, and honestly, unless it is enough to get me to a small island with non extradition laws, it isn't worth it.
I've seen casinos that literally have places where you can mortgage your house so I would imagine you have seen some infinitely depressing scenes during your days as a cashier. What was the saddest thing you saw?	Well, you can't do that at my casino. The state I am in literally is the most regulated for casinos. We often say it is backwards in how they do things.
	The saddest? Probably hearing guests say they can't pay rent or they 'need to win their money back'. We have programs where they can opt out (be banned), and we are supposed to pass on names if we think someone may need help (we can't say they do, we are not trained to make that call). I passed on the information once to a supervisor. It was obvious he didn't care, and I am 99% sure he never passed the information on.
	That and seeing guests trying to use their federal or state benefit cards to get money. We have to turn them away, and then they get mad at us. Um... if you want to try to use your unemployment to gamble, you have a problem.
Charmander, Bulbasaur or Squirtle?	Oh... wow... I love them all. I mostly disliked Pikachu. Between those three... this, I guess.
	But, to tell you a secret, these two are my favorites!
Can you work while on the influence alcohol? (Ran out of questions) Also, did you have any employees who tried stealing chips/bills?	Myself, I cannot work under the influence. We are not supposed to have any alcohol within 12 hours before our shift starts. Now, I've had a wine cooler three or four hours before, but its a wine cooler, not Jack Daniels. I had a co-worker who was alcoholic and showed up hung over everyday, but as an alcoholic he could function that way. We also had one cashier that we knew she had to be on something, but after the initial drug test upon hiring, she never had another (they claim to do random tests, or if you have an accident/work injury, which I did back in January - they drug tested me then). She quit eventually. Another male, you could smell it on him. He was quickly transferred to the hotel, where he was subsequently fired.
I saw that comment right after posting this, real sorry. Anyways it seems you have a great job and a great sense of humor, Its nice to see some few people who put great content or replies to people :)	Thanks! Kinda been doubting AMA as it hasn't been a huge hit (and wouldn't expect it to top the vaccine or war vet one), but I still am having fun with it :)
Have you ever used bake goods as part of a plan to take-over a money-making operation or nation-state?	No. However, on my last day, if my current manager is still there as manager, I plan to make her ex-lax brownies.
Pro-tip: visine in her coffee will work faster than the ex-lax. Use the ex-lax brownies as the gift that keeps on giving. While we're on the subject and this is an AM(a)A, Could you tell us about this supervisor and any stories which may entertain a crowd?	Just a quick overview I suppose... she came from a different department and knows virtually nothing about ours. I personally have chewed her out three times - once when I was a supervisor and she was in a different department, and twice since she became my 'superior'.
	Entertaining: She is a blond, both in hair color and implied attitude/knowledge/everything. She is famous for standing around, twirling her hair, and saying "I don't know."
	Why we hate her (2 quick points) - She knows nothing about our department. Swing shift (I am grave) bank was 'missing' over a million dollars (paperwork issue, money wasn't actually gone). Instead of helping, she was overheard saying, "Well, I have to go to my husband's softball game," and she just left. Your department looks like it is missing over a million dollars, they can't find it, and you are just going to leave. Great management. - She asks for our input and ignores it. She is a 'yes' woman. There are many, MANY stories, but those are just two quick reasons...
It sounds like she sucked a lot of dick to get where she is.	You are not the only one to think this. :D.
With a manager THAT BAD, is it safe to say that the "Pow-Wow" safe must be a myth? "Sorry. Hey, I was just hired and trained to count money. I didn't know it was loaded..."	As far as I know, myth. Lol.
Wow. Thievery is such a murderous business. Couldn't I just show you my big gun and insist you gimme what I want?	Ha - that works better at a cashier window ;)
Mos interesting coin or currency pull? I suppose you got the person trying to spend the $1000 note he got from his grandpa's collection...	Hmm... in the bank, I catch a lot of counterfeit that the cashiers' miss. I have a legit bill I got that is smaller than normal size. Researched and found there was some chemical you could soak bills in and it shrinks everything. I had to verify it was real before I could buy it from the bank.
	I had a businessman (a regular guest) who runs a nail salon give me a huge stack of twenties once - one was counterfeit. Had to call a gaming officer (actual highway patrolman) to question him. He says (I believe him) he got it at work and didn't realize it was fake. It was an 'okay' fake (easy for me to spot since I'm used to it). We've also had someone try to make fake tickets for the slot machines. No fake coins that I am aware of - though guests will bring huge bags of coin for us to convert to paper money, and we run it in a machine. Sometimes we find those flat spacers (for bolts and nuts) in there. So we lose maybe a whole dollar a month to that.
	Otherwise, most interesting would actually be IDs. Its fun to catch the fake IDs. :D.
those flat spacers.	Thank you. Had a moment and couldn't think of the word! I work overnights... apparently I go dumb when it's daylight out. Maybe I'm allergic to the sun. (Thanks again!)
Washers.	Sorry, missed the second part there. We don't use tokens (casino coins) anymore. We have gotten blank 'slugs' in our jetsorts (think coinstar - machine that separates and counts coins). Not too often.
I'm curious though, I saw a documentary who essentially made coin blanks of the same general composition as some casino coins, ever get any of those?	Most often, we get bus tokens, Chuck E Cheese tokens, Angel coins, stuff like that. And if you ever bring a lot of coin to be converted to bills, please remove paper clips, safety pins, nuts, buttons, etc. They jam our machines sometimes. If the machine jams, I can guarentee we won't get an accurate number, and you will be shorted. Period.
So, we love the service we get at Casinos -- even at the Cal Neva in Reno we got top notch service -- do Casinos tend to pay better than the same job elsewhere? Or, do the tips add up?	Casino pay depends on job. Slots in my casino makes just a little over minimum wage, but they make a nice profit in tips. Dealers make less, but they kill in tips. As for cashiers - I once worked two jobs, one at my casino and one at a bank part time. A starting cashier makes more in their base salary than a bank teller, as well as a higher base pay than dealers or slots. But as far as employees who actively deal with guests on the gaming floor, we make the least. No one tips (hardly) the cashier, because usually they are coming up when they are losing and need to withdraw more money. So we don't get to see the happy guests too often.
Also -- what's the rule about tipping with chips/slot tickets? We gave our waitress a slip worth 5 or 7 dollars once, but now I feel bad, like maybe we DIDN'T give her a tip.	Tipping with chips or tickets is 100% acceptable. At our casino, the waitress (or whatever employee) brings those to a special hidden window that is only for casino employees. At that window, we make change for bartenders, give slots their money so they can pay jackpots, and we will cash the ticket or chips for whoever received them. So yes, she did get/should have gotten the tip!
What's the biggest amount of money you have seen at once?	Hmm... back when I first became a banker... over six million? I worked in the bank last on Thursday night. We had (does the math) almost 2.5 million when I walked in and counted.
Physically? or just numbers on a sheet?	Physically. On our spreadsheets? We are usually accountable for between 12 and 15 million - but the money is in ticket machines, cashier drawers (tills), slot wallets (what slots use to pay jackpots), all outlets in the casino and hotel, and all chips (even though they are not cash, they have cash value).
Ever tried rolling in it? XD, jk, thx for answering.	OMG! It is so filthy. After working just an hour, I have to wash my hands before using the restroom. And after of course, cause not washing after is just disgusting! Lol.
Do you have facial recognition on the doors?	Some casinos might have facial recognition, but that is the first I have heard it.
Would i be correct to assume that money stored is to go to the bank? I assume large winning amounts would be paid via cheque?	Yes, money is stored in the main bank and then eventually sent on to an outside bank as a deposit. However we do pay large jackpot out in cash if that is what the guest wishes. The largest jackpot I've ever seen from a slot machine was over $200,000. That guest did take a check for most of it. The largest I've seen that was I myself paid out as all cash was around $170,000ish. So really its whatever the guest prefers. If I guest honestly wanted $500,000 in cash we would pay them five hundred thousand cash, although honestly, that's really stupid. A check can always be cancelled before is paid out and rewritten if it is lost or stolen; if the cash is gone (lost or stolen) and no one catches the perpetrator the cash is gone.
Whats the craziest, wierdest and scariest things you have seen while on/off the job at a casino?	Craziest - when one woman poured hot coffee on another woman because they were fighting over a slot machine.
	Weirdest - The cross-dressing hookers, by far. They don't even try to look like beautiful women.
	Scariest - There was a fight between two guests in the poker room (not the scary part). I was the poker cashier. One was a large fellow and one a scrawny fellow. The large one took a swing at the small one, hit a different guest... they ran around the table, and the small one ripped a hand sanitizer contraption off the wall and threw it at the larger guest.
	The scary part? The first security officer to report to the fight was, and I love her, an older frail woman officer (she really should only be doing ID checks, never fights). She actually put her hand on the bigger guys arm to try to stop him. He shrugged her off and made her stumble. I was honestly scared for her life. A few seconds later three other officers and the security supervisor came literally running through the casino and into the poker room.
	She was alright, but I feared for her life!
	That, or when I caught a woman through the cashier window because she appeared to pass out. I think she had a seizure. I had to catch her hands to keep her from hitting her head on the counter. I had to call for a supervisor to call for an EMT and please get a chair because I was literally holding her up.
Holy crap! Sounds like an interesting buisness to be in. I am underaged, but when I turn over the limit I will be on the lookout for these kinds of instances at casinos.	No worries. Don't take more than you can lose, leave credit cards and checkbooks at home, bring your ID, and have fun! :)
Have you ever had a colleague try to "sneak a couple" away?	We have had theft before. Before my time, one banker stole a 'strap' of hundreds. A strap is 100 bills, so that is $10,000. They eventually figured it out, fired her, and several supervisors because of it (even though they had nothing to do with it).
	We had a supervisor who if at the end of the day you were 'over' (meaning you had more money than you should have), would tell you to go home while she looked through your paperwork. The next day, you would hear that she found it and you were fine. She actually took however much you were over, called a friend, and gave it to a friend who didn't work for us. She got fired.
	We had a cashier who, a guest's check was declined, but they had signed it (not filled it out because at the time, the system we used would print it for you), so he took it home and wrote it to himself for $500. The guest called a week later asking if we had an employee named (insert name here). He was arrested at work shortly thereafter.
Are people really that stupid where you live? If so, do you have more stoopid people stories?	My favorite one: This happened when I was a supervisor, and involves one of our high playing guests (top tier).
	We have two cages at my casino. One (main cage) is open all the time. The other closes at a certain time (as business slows) and reopens in the morning. At this time, the satellite cage closed at midnight.
	Its about 11:58pm, so I walk out to close off the stanchions that make the lines/ques for the guests. My lone cashier is waiting on a guest and has one more in line. At 12:01 I start closing the area while he helps the last guest.
	At 12:03 (because he was still helping the guest) the high end guest tries to hurry up and get in line. I explain that the cage is closed. I could smell the alcohol on this guys breath. He throws a fit about the guest who is being helped. I explain they were in line before midnight, but we are closed.
	As I am arguing, my cashier finishes up, closes their window and begins to remove their money to the back count out area. The guest continues to be mad, and eventually threatens to write a letter about me (and a slot supervisor who stopped to help) to our general manager, who he knew by name (he really did, he said their name... big deal).
	A week later, I am helping out in the other cage. A cashier calls for an override (we waive credit card fees for high end players, but a supervisor has to type in a password). I go up front, and lo and behold, it is the guest from last week.
	After I waive his fee, he says he wants to talk to me about an issue from the week before.
	He then tells me about this bitch who wouldn't let him in line at the other cage a week earlier even though it was 11:50pm when he came up, and how he didn't know how that bitch had a job.
What do you like the most about your job?	My co-workers. The job gets monotonous, honestly, and I dislike upper management. If it wasn't for my bills and my co-workers, I would have quit eons ago. As it is, I'm in and out of school as I can afford it. I'm a non-smoker, and I'd like to eventually be at a job where I am not on overnights.
What is the best way to count large quantities of bills without the use of a counting machine?	Well, we 'strap' the money when you have 100 bills. This has a good picture of straps (attempted to format, if it fails, sorry!) So that makes it easy. The picture is color coded correctly too - blue for $1's, red for $5's, etc. Bothers me when movies have the colors off.
	Then, 10 straps makes a 'bundle', which we rubber band together and wrap in clear plastic that seals. Here is a bundle not wrapped in plastic - after a fashion, you just memorize how much is in a strap or bundle and can count by the color of the strap alone.
	As far as hand counting, everyone has a different method. Some count the bills placing them down on the counter in front of them one at a time (where the guest can't see/reach), some fold the money in half and count the corners, and some just count from one hand to the other (which I do, and I am the fastest on my shift to pay out, according to slots).
How long would a hypothermic drill completely go through the steel of the vault? How much muscle would I have to gain to be able to punch a hole in the vault?	Not talking about my place ;)
	An instructional video
	Not all casinos have what you would call a vault in the sense you are thinking. So make sure the one you rob does before you go through the trouble of bringing the equipment.
Have you ever seen counter fit chips?	Counterfeit chips... closest we got was someone took a $1 chip (white colored) and attempted to sharpie marker color it black ($100 chip). Pretty easy to spot. Plus, if you hold $100, $500, $1000, $5000, or $1000 chips under a blacklight, they have a hidden image. And, if you take any chip, hold it so the side is angled on paper, you can color like a crayon if it is a legit chip (we draw pictures with chips when we are bored :D )
Have you seen that history channel special. It's about these guys who made their own chips and made a load of cash. They had the blacklight tag and everything.	I've seen a short clip that either is what you are talking about, or close. Some casinos have, some don't (according to a supervisor of mine who was just laid off, who worked in a different state so I cannot verify, obviously my casino doesn't have), a scale on their counters (built in) that weighs the chips as you break them down, or even if you just spill them on the counter. It gives a total by weight. Each denomination weighs slightly different. And the higher denominations are a larger size chip too.
Have you ever been robbed?	No, thankfully. We do have panic buttons at every window and the main bank. They've been accidentally hit before. Surveillance must check the cage/bank where it was hit and see nothing wrong because we always immediately get a call from them. Gaming officers (highway patrolmen who are always on property) also show up just to check.
Profit wise, is it good to get into the casino business? Do you know what the profit percent margin is?	I would imagine a good average would be 12-13% for profit margin, though it varies widely based on market (location). All I know is each cage proudly displays a sign that says the previous month's aggregate payout... usually around 90%.
	As far as business, it has dropped quite a bit in the 8+ years I've been there. It used to be super super busy on weekends, and still okay busy during the week. About five years ago business started to drop bad. It hasn't really recovered, not where I am. I think the current economy and its sluggish recovery (... no comment) haven't helped... we seem to be at our new level of business I would guess. Split that with competition from other casinos...
	If you find a great locale, you could probably do quite well. Just... not where we are... too much competition for too small a market.
Great ama btw. Greetings from Mexico where casinos are weird man.	Casinos are weird everywhere, bro. They attract all the odd, different people. Especially guests late at night ;)
Are there any security features built into the chips? Maybe some sort of magnetic code or something? How often are the designs changed? Every time I have cashed in, I noticed they don't really inspect the chips for authenticity. Seems like that would be a major point of weakness.	The higher denomination chips have an image or word that is in the center of the chip that only shows up under black light. Also, not sure if it is a security feature or not, but if you hold the chip at the edge and drag it on paper, it colors like a crayon. We have made some elaborate crayon/chip drawings at work that way. :D.
What does your average day in your job look like?	It really depends where I am scheduled. ~ Main Bank: Count in (verify all the assets we are accountable for are there). Prepare sheets in excel that track the flow of paperwork and money. Do cashier transfers (cashiers send back all the paperwork showing why they paid out X amount of money - checks, credit card slips, chips, coupons, etc), which means verify/auditing their paperwork, taking in loose cash not in a paper strap, loose coin, etc, and sending fresh money back out to replenish what was used.
	~Ticket machines - Count into the bank. Go out on the floor and put fresh money in the machines (where you put your ticket in to get cash out). Print reports so we can make sure the machine didn't over or underpay guests. Do simple maintenance as needed.
	~ Cashier (hardly happens) - Count into a cart, then wait on guests, cash checks, do credit card advances, give cash back for chips, tickets, coupons, etc.
	~JPH Cashier - Count into a 'special' cart and the 'chip bank' (where all chips are stored). Basically a cashier but only for employees - make change for bartenders, the restaurants, give money to slots to pay out jackpots, fill 'chip fills' for tables (when they need more chips). Generally staffed with a banker.
	~Poker Cashier - Only chips and cash in the poker room. Transactions need to be quick so they can get back into the game. They prefer cashiers who are fast with chips. Generally staffed with a banker.
Which game pays out the most often?	Honestly, Texas Hold 'em. It requires skill, and we have some very good players who make a killing.
	As far as slots go, it is honestly random. We cannot fix the machines to win or lose more. Sure, they can be rigged, but we do not have that power or authority on property. In fact, whenever a tech has to check the main computer component for any machine, the gaming officer (highwaypatrol man) has to okay the procedure and usually stands by and watches.
	Now, do not quote me, but one of my friends in slots said he has noticed, the best way to win (not huge, but win), is to play penny machines and always bet 'max bet' (which realistically can turn a penny machine with a minimum of $0.09/bet to closer to $5/bet). Not sure if he did enough observations to make that, or if he just thinks that... but that is what he told me... so, I guess, good luck! :D.
That makes sense. I didn't realize that casinos had poker. The dealer plays poker all night or just deals cards.	The dealer just deals. The way poker room makes money is the take a rake, which is a small cut of the pot. It isn't like black jack where you are playing against the house. In the poker room, it is strictly guest against guest for the best hand or best bluff. :)
of all, your job seems really cool, and second what kind of requirements or training must you go through to perform your job?	On the job training. You have to know how to use the equipment (cash and coin counters, ticket machines), how to count chips (they train you) and do simple math in your head.
	They are supposed to teach us how to spot fake ID, but they don't (they just give us a book with a picture of all states). They are also supposed to teach us how to catch counterfeit bills, but they don't do that either.
	You also learn how to use the computer programs they use for cashing checks and doing credit card advances. We are taught about certain laws that affect things like identity theft and such.
	But it is all on the job training.
Working for a Credit Union, we have a marker that when used upon a Legit bill leaves a gold colored streak, but upon a fake, or any other form of paper, it is black. Do you guys have anything like this?	We do. We have a ton of them floating around the cages. 2 tips: as the pen/marker get older, it will cease to work correctly, and on bills that are from the 1950s or earlier they generally do not work at all. I mean, they will mark the bill, but it will mark as a counterfeit even when it is real. It has something to do with the type of paper used for todays currency verses the older currency.
Oceans 11 and all the others like it: is it possible?	Would you hate me if I told you I never have seen the movie? I know, I know, sacrilege. I don't have NetFlix (yet - waiting to dump my cable contract in May).
	I've been told Oceans 13 is more likely, but again, no idea what I'm talking about here.
Watch them now. but after I'm done thinking of questions.	You'll have to let me know when you are done then. ;)
Paper or Plastic?	Titanium.
We ran out of titanium bags however you could have tungsten or zirconium bags.	What about Gallium? I hear its pretty when it melts. :D.
In this heat it will probably melt before you make it to your car, you sure about you still want it?	Well, you are the BagBoi, any suggestions to a mere banker like me?
How do you eat Reece's Peanut Butter Cups?	With pleasure.
I just put your food in the bag man I'm no bag expert.	How about putting it in this bag.
Do you know who the Pelayo's brothers were?	No... please tell or link? (I'm on mobile atm).
Whats the "list"?	Context? I have no idea what you are asking.
It's a nice film based in a real story: www.cfi-icf.ca/index.php?option=com_cfi&task=showscreening&id=660. Vimeo.com/12114490.	Sweet, thanks. Since I am not doing much this eve, I am definitely going to look that up!
A casinos Blacklist what do you do to get on it?	Gotcha. We have banned people for fighting, ruining property, starting fights with security, theft (if they refuse to make retribution - in the case of say stealing a ticket from another guest). It depends on the situation. Some people who fight are just asked to leave. Some are banned. It all comes down to how you act to our security and the gaming officer, really.
How would I rob a casino exactly like yours, but which (obviously) is not yours. Extra points for guard rotation and vault pass codes. Triple points for being able to leave the annoying and greedy associates at home.	First check if the casino has codes or hand scanners for restricted access. If hand scanners, you would need to cut power. This would work only temporarily, so time it right.
	Next, know where the cameras are and the blind spots (they exist).
	Third, not only know the times the officers switch, but know which officer is assigned where at what time. Some officers run slower than others.
	Not a bad idea to disguise yourself either. Have a way to getaway (next to a river? Have a speed boat waiting).
	Know where the bank is. Is it on an external wall? Dynamite the bitch.
	Doing it yourself? I don't know. The head of security on my shift has several plans to rob the place. They all involve using other officers. They all also involve killing off the other officers in some way shape or form so he is the only survivor. :D.
No question, just wanted to say that I love the attitude you have with your job. As somebody who doesn't particularly like most of his coworkers, you seem like somebody who'd be good to work with.	Thank you - this made me smile!
in the interest of full disclosure, ex-lax can cause dehydration which could lead to death. Any advice given on poisoning someone should be refused by your conscience. If not, you need serious help, friend.	Chill out everyone. After talking with a friend, they suggested simple weed in the brownies, then drop a hint that she needs to be drug tested.
	Not a lot... hardly noticeable if at all. But enough to be picked up on a test. Anyone know how much that is? ;)
Um... You might think that sounds cute. But you're still asking for help drugging a woman without her consent. It wouldn't be a good case for you if something did happen to the woman and they suspect you because you've already clearly shown motive.	Yes, it is just venting. If I really wanted her in trouble, well she has been known to hit the bars often... I would just stalk, wait until she left, and call the cops. She would have to explain why she was driving after drinking.
	I understand you are just being flat logical. But it still came across in a... douche-ish manner? Without knowing me, you couldn't know that I would never hurt a fly. I will give you that. But to receive better reception, sounding a little less demeaning would go far.
	Apologies if it wasn't meant as such, but that is how it came across to me.

Last updated: 2014-04-03 13:02 UTC
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