65: A Trip to the Bank

15.

Friday came and my pay check went. Groceries ($150), half of a Trac-Phone ($20), a case of Keystone ($13), two packs of cigarettes ($14). I had a few dollars left over.

“You should open a checking account or something,” Gregory said as we drove back from the grocery store. “Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“I don’t know, in case you… need to write a check. Open a savings account then. You get interest.”

“On what? My eight dollars?”

“Maybe you’ll end up with nine.”

“Maybe.”

“Also, don’t banks give you free shit when you open accounts? Like toasters? We could use a toaster.”

“Could we?”

“I could. Do it for the team.”

“Okay,” I said, “maybe tomorrow.”

“All right.”


16.


It was my second day off in a row. A rarity and a welcome one. I decided that I was going to pretend I was an adult and open up a bank account. Savings, checking, I hadn’t decided. It didn’t matter. I was up around ten, showered, stumbled through the sort of empty apartment n the heat, drank two beers and left.

Main Street, the street we lived on, was hardly what one would consider an average “main street”. It ran from the interstate into town and was mostly houses, save for the two ends of it, one of which held six gas stations and a McDonalds and the other end, town. The traffic was usually backed up for it’s three mile stretch and in the summer seemed more like a parking lot than a road.

I walked down it and tried not to look in each passing windshield. The sun was high and hot and bright and I knew everyone watched me as I walked and I hoped I didn’t walk strangely. I tried to consider how I was walking and change up any thing that might look weird and realized that by changing it, it might have looked weird. I gave up and walked on.

I wished I had brought headphones and sweat dripped down my forehead. Before I knew it I was in that strange land of dreams and fantasy that any long walk or drive or lie down will send you too.

I thought about Rebecca. Her eyes. Dark and smoking away coals in a campfire. Her hair. Long, brown, and waving. I thought about her skin. Her touch. Her kiss. I imagined. I dreamed.

I wanted to start a band. I could now. I had the time. The freedom. I wanted to play guitar and scream and experiment. I wanted all of the things I could never have before. I wanted to paint. I dreamed as I walked of painting. Murals and graffiti and cubism and surrealism and styles new to us all. I could see myself holding the brush in the gallery. The guitar at the festival. I could read my words in the printed interviews. I could do anything now.

I smiled to myself and walked on. I wondered if I had a buzz from the beer or if I was coming into a heatstroke.

I got to town and the temperature rose as it reflected off of the streets and buildings and the cars.

I crossed a series of cross walks. I was sweating badly now. I had only enough money to open an account, I assumed. I couldn’t stop to get a drink. I hoped the bank had air conditioning.

I went to the first bank I came to. Childress National. It’s colors were green and white and I didn’t care. I went inside and there was air conditioning. I wiped my forehead, and stood in line.

The woman in front of me wore a beige suit/dress combination. Not a woman’s business suit, mind you, but the top was a suit, and the bottom was closer to what an art teacher would wear, only in beige.

Ahead of her, a man in thigh high cut off jean shorts and it was 2005 then, and I wondered what made him think that was okay. I stared at the floor and one by one we were called up to tellers. When it was my turn, I walked up to the young brunette lady behind the counter.

“Hello,” she said. She was younger. Late twenties, I thought. Not particularly cute, but if the apocalypse were to strike, I’d claim her as my own. “What can I do for you?”

I wiped lingering sweat off of my forehead. I wasn’t going to fuck her. “I need to open an account.”

“Oh, okay, well Jan,” she pointed behind me to the cubicles hidden away at the back of the bank. “…will be able to take care of you. I will let her know you are waiting.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your name?”

“James. Martin.”

“Okay James,” she said writing it down. “Why don’t you have a seat over by the windows, and she’ll be right with you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I walked over to the chairs by the window and sat down.

The heat beamed in through the windows against the air conditioning and I thought; This is an awful fucking place for chairs.

Jan was taking her sweet time.

Another customer came in and stood in line and I wished I had brought a book. There were magazines around but I didn’t care about what Highlights for Kids had to say six years ago.

The door opened. As with everyone else that had come in, a warm breeze swirled in around me. I looked up.

A brunette walked in. Dark brunette. She wore thick framed glasses. Her hair draped over her shoulders. Tattered jeans and a black baby doll shirt that read “trend whore”.

Fuck the teller, I thought. Her.

She got into line and Jan still didn’t call me and I watched the Trend Whore and noticed and noted the curve of her ass in the jeans. The full lips. The deep, nearly black eyes. My heart beat faster.

Say something, I thought. Say something you fucking idiot!

The line got shorter and Jan was still being a fucking lazy bitch and I watched the Trend Whore. She didn’t notice me, as far as I knew.

She stood and wavered and looked just as bored and annoyed as I was.

Say something!!

The customer in front of her left and the teller called her up. “Hi Marie, how’ve you been?”

She walked up.

“James?”

I looked over. An older lady, Jan, stood a few feet away.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I stood.

“Oh good. Follow me.” Jan walked back to her cubicle.

I looked at the Trend Whore. Marie.

I should have said something.