manager comes over to the window
to ask
me why i'm
withdrawing
three thousand four hundred
and fifty
dollars from the bank.
from my personal checking account.
i've been banking
there forever,
which to me is thirty-two years.
what's with the withdrawal?
he asks.
i tell him, it's personal.
i'd rather not say.
just tell me, he says,
stepping into my personal space.
he smells like soap and baby powder.
i see a security guard
go over to the entrance
doors to lock them.
i see his hand unsnap
his holster.
are you going to tell me why
you want
to withdraw so much money
from this bank or not?
no. never, i tell him. like i said,
it's personal.
it's my money. i put this money
into the bank and now i want
to take some out.
the manager shakes his head,
you're one of those, are you?
he says,
and asks me to step into a side
office where he
pulls down the shades.
a woman comes
in, the assistant manager,
she's wearing a yellow pantsuit,
because it's close to Easter, and
there's a flower behind one ear.
i see a large pail of water
swinging from her meaty hand,
and a burlap
bag that she quickly pulls over
my head.
i'm forced to sit in a chair
and put my head back.
suddenly she's pouring water
onto my face through the burlap mesh.
tell us,
they both say menacingly.
tell us.
why are you taking your money
out of our bank.
why?
again, the manager says,
motioning for another pour.
so she pours more water on me.
i'm choking, gagging.
okay, okay. i give up i mumble,
gagging,
tapping out on the chair.
i'll tell you. i'll tell you.
i have to bail someone out of jail.
and cash is the only way
they'll accept payment.
okay, okay. calm down.
we believe you.
the burlap bag
is pulled off my head and
they hand me a towel to dry off with.
now go ahead and get back in line
to withdraw your money.
here's your withdrawal slip.
try to stop whimpering.
by the way, our cd rates are at 3.4 percent
for five months, starting
today, the assistant says,
while handing me a cherry lollipop.
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