Superficial Orange
She walks in a perfunctory manner toward the bank, her purse hanging on her shoulder, her shoes clicking on the just-swept, white-squared sidewalk that leads in a winding manner from the adjacent parking lot to the glass entrance doors, the pleats in her variegated dress symmetric in their vertical creases, the bank itself far enough away from the sewage plant so the banking customers are not aware of the stench emanating night and day, day and night, the olfactory presence malodorous in its threat.
Inside, the two on-duty tellers are occupied; there are two customers in line: one, a young but tall blonde girl with short hair, the length sufficient for a ponytail, her shirt a smoky gray color bearing a pro sports team logo on the front in the direct center of her chest, which does not show evidence of large breasts. She is wearing tight-fitting denim jeans. The second patron, the one next to the woman who just walked in, is a very old man with cropped white hair and eyes that bulge and a jaw that appears crooked. He is unshaven and looks as though he just woke up from too long a nap.
She stands motionless beside the man and notices that the blonde girl is holding a white pen in her left hand. She does not carry a purse, the pockets of her jeans hold nothing that protrudes. The woman wonders why the girl is here with only a pen and nothing else. This is a bank, a place to make transactions, so shouldn’t she have some papers, a checkbook, something else in her hands besides only a pen? Anxious to see what happens when the girl is called by the next available teller, the woman ponders the pen-only issue pensively.
One of the tellers wishes a good afternoon to the customer she just helped and verbalizes the young but tall blonde to approach. The woman in line beside the old man watches the girl from a left angle as the girl positions herself before the teller. The conversation ensues, but is too low a volume for the woman to hear; all she can do is watch the movements of the girl and the teller in order to attempt in deciphering why the girl is at a bank and in possession of only a pen.
The teller says something and the girl nods and responds with a brief utterance, the pen now in her right hand, which rests on the chest-high ledge before the teller. The teller looks down and to her left, grabbing a slip of paper; it appears she is writing something on it, but since the ledge blocks the view, the woman cannot be certain this is happening. After a moment the teller hands the girl the slip of paper and the girl looks at it. The teller’s eyes are not on the girl.
Handing the slip of paper back to the teller, the girl says something and the teller smiles. The girl turns to her left, exposing her face to the woman, walks past and exits the bank. The woman looks back at the teller’s ledge and sees that the pen has been left. The old man has been called to the other teller, leaving the former open for the woman to approach. When she is called, she lifts the pen from the ledge and reads in cursive lettering just below the cap: EXCUSE ME, BUT I DON’T CARE.
The woman looks at the teller, who is also looking at her. The woman realizes the teller knows the pen was left by the blonde girl and that it doesn’t belong to the woman. Reaching into her purse, the woman brings out a roll of bills and tells the teller she wants to deposit the cash into an account. The teller performs the transaction, watching the woman write her information with the pen that the blonde girl left.
The woman exits the bank as the heavy glass door shuts in silence, hoping that one day she’ll see her daughter again and tell her that she left her favorite pen behind.
Copyright © 2004 by Jeffrey S. Callico
Inside, the two on-duty tellers are occupied; there are two customers in line: one, a young but tall blonde girl with short hair, the length sufficient for a ponytail, her shirt a smoky gray color bearing a pro sports team logo on the front in the direct center of her chest, which does not show evidence of large breasts. She is wearing tight-fitting denim jeans. The second patron, the one next to the woman who just walked in, is a very old man with cropped white hair and eyes that bulge and a jaw that appears crooked. He is unshaven and looks as though he just woke up from too long a nap.
She stands motionless beside the man and notices that the blonde girl is holding a white pen in her left hand. She does not carry a purse, the pockets of her jeans hold nothing that protrudes. The woman wonders why the girl is here with only a pen and nothing else. This is a bank, a place to make transactions, so shouldn’t she have some papers, a checkbook, something else in her hands besides only a pen? Anxious to see what happens when the girl is called by the next available teller, the woman ponders the pen-only issue pensively.
One of the tellers wishes a good afternoon to the customer she just helped and verbalizes the young but tall blonde to approach. The woman in line beside the old man watches the girl from a left angle as the girl positions herself before the teller. The conversation ensues, but is too low a volume for the woman to hear; all she can do is watch the movements of the girl and the teller in order to attempt in deciphering why the girl is at a bank and in possession of only a pen.
The teller says something and the girl nods and responds with a brief utterance, the pen now in her right hand, which rests on the chest-high ledge before the teller. The teller looks down and to her left, grabbing a slip of paper; it appears she is writing something on it, but since the ledge blocks the view, the woman cannot be certain this is happening. After a moment the teller hands the girl the slip of paper and the girl looks at it. The teller’s eyes are not on the girl.
Handing the slip of paper back to the teller, the girl says something and the teller smiles. The girl turns to her left, exposing her face to the woman, walks past and exits the bank. The woman looks back at the teller’s ledge and sees that the pen has been left. The old man has been called to the other teller, leaving the former open for the woman to approach. When she is called, she lifts the pen from the ledge and reads in cursive lettering just below the cap: EXCUSE ME, BUT I DON’T CARE.
The woman looks at the teller, who is also looking at her. The woman realizes the teller knows the pen was left by the blonde girl and that it doesn’t belong to the woman. Reaching into her purse, the woman brings out a roll of bills and tells the teller she wants to deposit the cash into an account. The teller performs the transaction, watching the woman write her information with the pen that the blonde girl left.
The woman exits the bank as the heavy glass door shuts in silence, hoping that one day she’ll see her daughter again and tell her that she left her favorite pen behind.
Copyright © 2004 by Jeffrey S. Callico
posted by wiredwriter at 8:38 AM
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