Waiting in line at the bank, looking pale and watery, waiting my turn. The tellers all look like Norse Myths. I’m afraid of their hands. The man ahead of me coughs a warning in Morse code and then turns and winks at me. He has yellow sacs under midnight eyes. I have endorsed my check with the wrong name. A door opens and laughter comes into the bank, carried by two women. There are six women in front of me now. I can feel my calves leaking out the cuffs of my pants and puddling on the floor. I’m standing in a lucent pool of my own inadequacy.
“Next,” a teller says, looking straight at me.
I approach the window. I place the check between us. She looks at it with a raised eyebrow.
“That isn’t your name,” she says.
“It’s my nickname.”
She looks at me and looks at me.
“Don’t toy with me, sir.”
“I’m not toying with you.”
“Don’t toy with me.”
“Now take your filthy check and get the fuck out of this