At the Bank

By @AlexanderHukow
At the Bank

Typical Friday bank transaction.

Chapter 1

There’s three people ahead of him. A Woman with a Gimp Leg, a Bro’ed out MMA Enthusiast, and a Bald Man. It’s just about lunchtime on a Friday, and still, Wells Fargo has only one active teller. This buys Michael some time to contemplate in his mind exactly how much money there is in his bank account. “What’s the last thing I bought? How much pot are we going to need for two days in the woods? How many cases of beer? Whiskey? Food?” As Michael ponders, the Woman with the Gimp Leg becomes angry with the Teller, a gorgeous, young redhead with porcelain skin and overtly vivid, voluptuous red lips.

“What the **** do you mean, ‘you can’t cash this?’” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but there isn’t enough money in your account to transfer the funds.”

“You ******* jew! I CANNOT believe this!” the Woman with the Gimp Leg says just before storming out of the bank in the fashion of a tantric child.

Next up line is the MMA enthusiast (or “Bro” if you’d like). If you do not quite know just what a “bro” is, here’s a description:  A “bro” is a man predominately between the ages of 20-45, that strictly drinks Bud and/or Coors Light, raves about UFC, and more than likely listens to “Kid Rock” (or music of the same sort)). Even though many may disagree with this man and his overall essence, ********* did he make a model bank customer. In and out. No arguing. No problems. No anti semitism, he just deposited a check, likely from his bartending gig, and moved the hell on.

Upon arriving at the counter, the Bald Man comes to the sudden realization that he’s been standing in line the entire time without his wallet on him. So, he swiftly scurries away and Michael takes his spot. He approaches the counter and greets the redheaded Teller, who is eager to greet him back.

“I’d like to withdraw $100, and if you could please tell me how much is left in my account after.”

“Alrighty, just go ahead and slide your card.” 

Michael does as he is instructed.

The Teller punches open the cash register flips up the metal paper weight, and pulls out five crisp twenty-dollar bills. She counts them out to Michael.

“Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Eighty. One-hundred.”

“Thank you,” Michael utters as he grabs the money from the redhead.

“Now just let me check your balance and……you have $44 remaining,” she says with a smile that’s farcically ironic to him but perhaps not to her. 

“Umm, alright thanks.”

“Is there anything that I can help you with?”

Michael is unable to stop himself, and lets out a slight giggle in response to the proposition, and in response to all of the ways he was imagining that he’d take her up on the offer.

“No. That’ll do it actually,” he finally speaks back to her.

“Alrighty, have a nice day.”

“Yeah, you too!” Michael smiles at her again and walks out of the building. 

Michael bursts through the steel-glass doors of the Wells Fargo, emerging on the outside, and jogs back to his very audible, very smoke-engulfed tan, 2006 Chevrolet Cobalt, where his two friends await.

Kelvin, a tall, dark, bald pizza delivery driver sits shotgun. He’s slouched down low in his seat with his legs spread wide, as if he were receiving head from one of his “pizza mamas” he claims to frequent.  Sitting in the back seat on the left-hand side, is Luis, Michael’s friend from grade-school. He somehow manages to sleep through the bombastic tunes and sometimes-intolerable vibrating of the sedan, by resting his head, padded by a mane of jet black hair, on the rubber strip that separates the two sides of the glass window. Unfortunately for him however, the slamming of Michael’s door is enough to do the trick and Luis snaps out of his siesta.

“Woah… how much longer until we’re there?” he mindlessly asked.

“Man, we haven’t even left the neighborhood,” Kelvin responds.

Luis groans like swine and rubs snot off of his gargantuan nose in the same fashion.

“I’m hungry. Let’s stop and get something,” he whines.

After reflexively rolling his eyes, Michael says, “Sure, what do y’all want?”

“Man, let’s get a ********* Denny’s,”

Kelvin is quick to chose.

“Let’s get a Denny’s?” Michael chortles sarcastically.

“Let’s go to Denny’s, **** you.”

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