The Frog Bandit
It all started at Timmy Westerburg’s fifth birthday party. After Timmy’s mom had cut the cake, the kids were walking around holding plates and sporting frosting-smeared faces. One little girl came up to Steve and me while we were sitting on a log by the patio. She seemed older than Timmy and the rest of his friends.
“What are you guys supposed to be?” she asked. Was she serious?
“I’m Kermit,” I said. “And this is Croaker.” From the movie Kermit’s Swamp Years. It was what Timmy’s mom had requested.
“Wow, that’s stupid,” she said. “Do you guys have real jobs?”
“Yeah, we do!” Steve said, his voice defensive. “This is just a hobby, right Kermit?”
“Yeah, of course,” I replied. But it wasn’t. Steve didn’t know, but I did this every single day of the year. I was Kermit the Frog.
When I went home that night and took off my big green feet, I thought about what the little girl had said. Did I really want this? I was 27 years old and working as a professional Kermit. I wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you bring home to your parents; not like I had time for a relationship or to look for another job. This stupid green head took up all of my time.
I had gone to bed thinking, which was a dangerous thing for a birthday party frog to do.
The next morning, I took my van out of storage, packed a suitcase, and left. I had thrown the frog costume in the back, hoping I would drive over a bridge and could toss it off. I just wanted to get away.
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That was two weeks ago. I didn’t know then that I was going to end up like this: a frog on the run. I have robbed three banks so far.
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The first time I thought I was out of my mind. I was driving through the city, and thinking about getting a place to stay. I only had 87 dollars in my wallet, so a hotel was out of the question. I was thinking about having to sleep in my van when I drove past a bank. The idea flashed through my mind. ‘Absolutely not,’ I thought. There was no way.
That evening I was dressed in my Kermit costume, standing out on the sidewalk in front of the bank. I stared at the front doors.
“Don’t freak out, man,” I whispered to myself. Nobody could hear me if I was wearing this big frog head. “You’re like Clyde Barrow without his Bonnie Parker. Like Robert Redford in The Old Man and the Gun. You can do this.”
I felt a rush of air conditioning as I walked through the spinning door and looked for an open teller. Surprisingly, there was one at four o’clock in the afternoon. I walked to the pretty lady on the end. She was about my age, with curly brown hair. I started to rethink this, and then I saw the ring on her left hand. She was married. She was married, and here I was, the frog equivalent of a birthday party clown.
“Hello! How can I help you today?” she asked, without even looking up from her computer.
“Kermit de Frog here,” I said. She looked at me, a palpable level of shock and disgust on her face. “Put de money in de bag.” I had a paper bag in my left hand, and a revolver in my right. I had tucked it under the passenger seat of my van for emergencies; it used to be my dad’s. It wasn’t loaded, but she didn’t need to know that.
I ran out of the bank holding on to my stupid frog head. I had parked a few blocks away, so I had to get there fast and get out of this costume so I could leave without being caught. I tripped around in my big feet; alarms were blaring. I couldn’t believe what I had just done.
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The other two jobs went pretty similarly. I dressed up like Kermit, spoke like Kermit, and stole money. I’m sitting outside a market right now, reading a newspaper all about me. A woman is walking by, talking on her cellphone.
“Did you hear that they know the identity of the Kermit bandit?”
They what? My stomach drops. There is no way. I’m reading about it right now and there is no mention of my name. I get back in my van and start the engine. I have to get out of here.
In the next town I stop at another market to get the newest newspaper. I take off the rubber band and unroll it. I’m going to be sick. The headline reads “Frog Bandit Unmasked”. My face is on the front page, not in costume. My real face. They couldn’t have used a better picture than my senior photo? I have acne!
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I’m driving now. I don’t know where I’m going, but driving makes me feel like I can run away from the problems I’ve created for myself. How could Steve have ratted me out? I thought we were buddies. If he were robbing banks in a frog costume, I would keep his secret. Lights flashing in my side mirror catch my attention. Then I hear the sirens. Shit.
“License and registration, please.”
“Is there a problem, officer?” I ask, trying to stall for as long as I can.
“Yes, you have a taillight out. License and registration, please.”
I hand them over; maybe he won’t notice.
“Oh my god.” Shit. He noticed. “Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the car and put your hands on your head.”
It’s all over. I step out of the car and do what he said. He cuffs me, and laughs, leaning so close I can smell the coffee on his breath.
“What? No Miss Piggy to be your Bonnie Parker?”
It’s not easy being green.
