Wednesday, May 6, 2009
In the backyard, the fresh lawn mown sits east under the shadow of a two-story house, the early sun still fighting through the cold. Just inside, someone smashes away on a plastic drum set to gain familiarity with the "Hard" difficulty setting on Rock Band 2. That smasher is me. Tucked in my ever present black hooded sweatshirt and green shorts motif, between scatter miss beats I crash, crash, crash away with specific intent, that is, simply "To do."
Defined. Pick me out and pick a word. Sloth. My idleness becomes me, or rather, I to it. Many things attribute to it, as personal issues always tend to do. By my name alone, I need not further explain. ("Ground control to Major Lacking.") Despite this, I would rather have the life less dormant. Between the man standing and the man running, I do root for the one with his sneakers kicking in the air. He who stands stays back because he'd rather kick himself. For now though, I smack plastic, uncoordinated as it may seem.
Sometime soon after the misshapen beats go quiet, I decide upon going out. Saved a bit of cash, as it were, and it would be nice to put it where it needs to go - the bank. With a driver's permit and TJ in the passenger seat, I make way to the bank just up street, keenly aware of the inevitable behind-the-wheel test (which I most surely will blunder) and making every move "passable."
Left turn. Right turn. Left turn.
"Is the turn signal on?" I ask myself.
"Uh huh."
Inside the bank, I scope out "who's who" and am reminded to hang left. Why? To get the bank teller that I would rather deal with. There are three of them there. The girls to the right are younger, are of asian persuasion and some might find considerably attractive. To the far left, however, is an uncurious but kind white woman more physically befitting of a job that doesn't require good looks. That's where I want to be. So I wait. Each teller is busy. This unfair game of chance plays out before me like a game of Craps with no dice in the hand. I look around aimleslly, wishing for chrissakes that things will go in my favor and the dude to left would just get his money and piss off already! At the other end, the teller is kept busy, thus prompting no danger whatsoever. In the middle? Peril. Things look to be nearly finished. I panic! No heavy breathing, no crazy looks, oh no, but my mind is a mess.
I look away.
Then I look again.
The man to the left walks away.
Thin seconds go by and the customer in the middle also walks away.
How could it be so close? Why, why must it be so close? I staunchly take steps to the plain bank teller with that very sparse moment I could take advantage of. But no, it doesn't work. Not even two strides in do I see the lady of the left walk away from her post. The reality is crushing. My feet no longer firm, I slump over to the pretty one in the middle. "Ah shit."
The encounter from here on out is a series of glances. Before stopping at the counter, I quickly look to see if she is as attractive as she seems. Check. My eyes settle back to where they're most comfortable, specifically, the floor and everything else below 45 degrees to the horizon.
There are the forms I filled out earlier. My wallet. Her hands. I tell her slender fingers that I'd like to make a deposit for both my checking and savings account. A voice gives the confirmation. This same voice then tells me to slide my bank card through a machine. I oblige. Her fingernails are painted a dark color. Black. Maybe a very deep blue. They fill out the rest of the information on the forms and my eyes follow as they swing and dance to my missing account numbers. I ask her if I could get a copy of the numbers because I never seem to know. She takes a spare piece of paper and puts on a encore performance. As her painted, delicate fingers jive to the Checking Deposit Ballet, a very peculiar thing happens.
"Are you a student?" she asks.
"No." I reply.
"Are you working?"
"No."
"How did you get all this money?"
Meekly, I respond, " I save."
Take this affair and blow it up. Throw it across multiple billboards on the freeway, woefully advertising my deficiencies. What just transpired is the very archetype of my being. A play between fingers and words, looks not taken and a pen chained to the desk, this darling bank teller in but few questions hath exposed mine own ill-suited self. Hurrah, hurrah.
I am burned-out from this 7-second exposé. Her fingers cooly slide over the paper with my account information; the final flourish of a well-played passage. Though I find her prototypical girlish handwriting achingly cute, it does little to comfort me. She shifts, switches focus to a computer, each type a strike rebounding off the deadbeat standing before her. As she hits her stride, her bank routine, I wonder, "Do I now dare peek at the horizon?" I wonder, I wonder. She types, she types.
I look.
A name. I need a name.
Is the name tag on her left? No.
I always find it funny to look for a name tag on a girl. Fundamentally, you're looking at her breasts.
It's on her right.
Treng.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." I reply.
Back in the car, I summarize to TJ the story of a strained bank misadventure. It comes to no surprise to him, as my talent with the ladies is known to all who know my name. He throws out a joke. As do I. Then I realize, "I should've joked with her." When asked about how I got my money, I should've replied, "I'm a gigolo." She may have smiled and to see a girl smile is quite a treat. She may have even laughed. I would've left the bank feeling primo, not the despondent slouch that walked out the door. I could've done something but maybe what I did was enough. It is all but too close to a "Hard" difficulty setting. Enter attraction and my social ineptitude borders on slapstick rather anything that could be considered "proper." Still, I crash, crash, crash away.
