a chapter from the novel Eponym

_{Photo By Colin Brown from Silver Lake, CA, U.S.A – IMG_5096.JPG, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4322776}

The following is told from the perspective of Orion, one of several personalities in a young man with multiple personalities. Orion’s nemesis, Peter, is in control of their body and has decided to get a job as a bank teller. This causes Orion great stress, interfering with his progress in writing his first novel, which is what he does when he is in control of the body.

12/8

            I believe where I left off was:  Jesus Christ, Peter, what the hell were you thinking getting a job at a bank?  Remember we went to college?  Graduated?  Had a degree in something?

            Frumpy women who looked like they hated sex and ate nothing but Twinkies surrounded me.  Margie was to my left.  She sat down hunched over all of the time and didn’t speak above a mumble.  She reached out with a limp wrist for transaction slips and cash and checks.  She never smiled or showed any other expressions.  Signs of life and mental activity came when she sipped from a can of soda and got a momentary rush of that nine-teaspoons-of-sugar-per-serving syrup water. 

            On the other side was Charlene, a blathering idiot.  If I goddamn had to listen to another story about her goddamn momma and daddy and little Georgia and her rickets.  Motherfuck. 

            The worst one was the head teller.  She was a pygmy bitch with smoker’s teeth, smoker’s voice, and smoker’s attitude.  She glared, not looked, glared at us when we walked through the door.  Peter said, “Good morning,” all cheerfully. 

            She scowled and said, “You ever work the drive-through window in training?”

            “No.” 

            “Then you’re working the drive-through today.”  Don’t do x, don’t do y.  Don’t move.  Don’t do anything.  Just work. 

            Working at a bank should be easy with the automation nowadays.  People use the ATM, right?  Wrong, as I found out.  The rest of the world does, but in Midville, folks just like it the old fashioned way with the tellers and all.  It’s more personal.  They feel that they should get to know/irritate the tellers personally.  They check to see how much interest their basic savings account had accrued. 

            The one they just checked on a few days ago with a balance of $845.00

            Peter was all cheerful with his butt cheeks clenched, his belt higher on his waist than usual and his tie up tight against his Adam’s apple making his voice higher.  He brightly responded by saying, “Today’s balance is $845.04, Mrs. Henshaw.” 

            Mrs. Henshaw said, “That’s all?  I’d a thought it’d be more.  I guess I just have to wait.” 

            And Peter, in a dialect he invented for the circumstance, said, “I guess so, ma’am.  Folks just surely gotta wait for what dey get.  Why, back’na old days, you prob’lee stuffed you’ bills in a java can or under yo’ straw mattress.”

            And Mrs. Henshaw somehow knew exactly what he was talking about and began babbling on all day about the good old days. 

            Because this pansy douchebag Peter is just a down home, good ol’ boy.  Sure.   

            And all the old ladies heard about our boy and wanted to be in his line.  Suited the other tellers fine.  But the head teller was a domineering Nazi and she commanded all the old ladies to go to the other lines so that the district manager, if he happened to walk in, wouldn’t see a long line for one teller while two other tellers sat around.  My, did the old ladies coo and grimace. 

            I could have sat up in the brain resting for my night of literary stimulation ahead, but I didn’t.  I was restless.  The job was affecting Peter, making him more powerful.  He thought he was doing some great work. 

            So at night I didn’t write.  I drew.  I hadn’t drawn since the first grade when I lampooned the class retard.  This time I drew pictures of what I thought Peter looked like and I drew him being pushed down open elevator shafts or drinking poison or being forced to listen to a Green Day CD until he committed suicide.  I was trying to send him a message. 

            And at work he got into stupid conversations with the idiots he worked with and got all friendly.  He treated them like the Earth mommy and they loved him and they bought him little things and considered him a son and they pinched his corny little butt when he was in the way and he giggled like a little schoolgirl.  But this was all a message to me.  It said that if anything out of the ordinary happened and the Peter personality went away and I took over, people would notice and care and intervene.  Interfere. 

            Point, match, love.  Queen takes queen. 

            In sudden death overtime, I hatched a plan to switch things up a little. 

            After the bank lobby closed, a teller would continue to work the drive-through window for another couple of hours.  When it was Peter’s turn, people noticed.  The line of cars didn’t move.  He tried to sell new loans, new credit cards or new whatevers to every single customer who just wanted to cash a check or deposit a check or make a loan payment.  The cars in line would honk and Peter would get an attitude. 

            One time he got more irate than I had ever seen him get. 

            Guy:  “What’s taking so long?  I’ve been in line for an hour!”

            Peter:  “Sir, we haven’t had this line open for more than 30 minutes.  And yelling and making an issue out of it won’t help matters.” 

            Guy:  “What are you, some kind of fag?” 

            Peter:  “Do you want me to process your transaction, sir, or do you want to throw around insults?  I have worked just as long and as hard as you today and I expect better behavior from my customers.” 

            Guy:  “Okay, whatever.  Let’s just do this.” 

            Peter:  “Fine.  There’s your receipt and your envelope.  Have you thought about opening up a low-interest home equity loan with us today?”

            He was getting tired.  I took my opportunity and pushed Peter aside into his cage.  It was a weird feeling taking the controls of the body and using it to do things I had only casually watched.  For example, do you know how to work that slider chute at a bank drive-through?  You have to pull back on a lever that eases the tray out, but you can’t overdo it.  The first time I used it I shot it out too far and nearly clipped a woman in her forehead.  The opening was practically in her face.  She had to reach up, instead of out, to place her envelop in the chute.  The second time, I didn’t pull the lever far enough and the guy had to open his door and lean out to reach. 

            Also, do you know about die packs?  In case of a robbery, there is a specially marked pack of twenties in the drawer that is hooked into an electronic circuit.  Once the pack is removed, it is armed and will explode when it is a certain distance from the bank.  When it goes off, pink gas and paint that can burn the skin are discharged, covering everything for several feet.  This way the cops can find the bank robber easily.  But the device looks just like a regular pack of twenties.   

            There was also an alarm close to my knee that was just begging me to push it. 

            And the customers kept coming and I just gave them the money they asked for.  A guy in an ambulance drove up and asked me to cash a check.  I tried to access his account, and I didn’t know if I did it right or not, but it looked like he had no money.  So in this case you’re not supposed to cash the check.

            But I did it anyway because I wanted out of this job.  Petey was getting uppity. 

            I gave away money that people didn’t ask for.  I refused to give some people money until they cut their hair, showered, put better shirts on.  One time I demanded a woman give me some – like a tip or a finder’s fee. 

            I excused myself and walked away from the window for fifteen minutes for no reason.  I flicked the ‘lane open/lane closed’ light switch repeatedly.  Then I tapped the microphone button on and off as I explained something important so that people had to ask me to repeat myself.  After that I pretended to be asleep whenever a customer pulled up to the window.

            The last guy was the pink icing on the cake, the cherry on top.  He was red faced when he pulled up.  I opened the chute hard and fast, trying to bash him in the head, but he was too far away. 

            “How can I help you?” I said. 

            “Start by quittin’ your fucking around, you little snot-nosed shit.  Keep that lane light on when you’re open!”  The man’s red face began sweating and saliva sprayed from his mouth as he spoke.  I got the impression he was angry.  “I do business with the people who own this bank and I’m going to tell them about you.” 

            “Yeah, what are you gonna tell them, tough guy?” 

            He shook his head and got even madder because I was keeping my cool.  “Just give me $3,000 out of checking.  I want it all in twenties and I want it wrapped.” 

            As if he could request something that would confuse me, consternate me, make me mess up, foil my plans. 

            I pulled out all the packs of twenty dollar bills, including the last pack out of the last slot, and shot his money to him and said he could have a nice fucking life for all I cared. 

            He sped off.

            I got my coat and ran out of there, not bothering to shut things down, lock up my drawer, secure the alarms, etc. 

            I caught up to my last customer at a stop light down the street.  I looked over at him, his face red and blood pressure steaming and his forehead sweating.  He kept his eyes on the road.  We pulled to the next light and stopped when it turned red.  This time when I looked over he looked back.  Recognizing me, he began mouthing very dirty words, ones that I would never print in such a proper book as this.

            Suddenly, all of his car windows splattered with pink paint and the driver’s door opened and pink smoke poured out.  My last customer was running around in the intersection coughing and spitting up the cotton-candy-colored goo.  I made a right turn and went home. 

            I left Peter a note on the kitchen counter to read when he woke up.  “Don’t bother going to work.  You’re finding us a new job today.”