Originally published in Verbicide issue #16

Geoffrey smiled, his teeth whiter than piano keys. “Have a nice day Mrs. Walsh, and thank you for your business.”

It was a rush hour at the Madison Center Bank. Behind Mrs. Walsh stood Mr. Tucker. Behind Mr. Tucker stood Ms. Sullivan. And behind Ms. Sullivan stood a never-ending line of customers waiting to make deposits and withdrawals. Geoffrey had a smile reserved for every one of them.

Bella stood to Geoffrey’s right. She had her own river of customers that snaked its way through the line marked by red velvet ropes. Bella’s eyes had not once drifted in the direction of Geoffrey, nor had Geoffrey’s eyes glanced toward her. They had both been at their stations since eight o’clock that morning and had not faltered once from their assigned tasks. There was no “Employee of the Month” award at Madison Center Bank, but it seemed no one bothered to inform the clerks of this fact.

Today’s onslaught of patrons was not of the norm — it could be explained by the empty booth to Geoffrey’s left. That station belonged to Harold, who had been absent from his duties for the last week. The Madison Center Bank had certainly felt the effects, as the remaining employees were left to pick up the slack. Fortunately for those standing in the longer-than-usual lines, all the workers at the bank were the best at what they did. It was beyond natural for them.

It was now Mr. Drake’s turn to converse with Geoffrey. Mr. Drake was in possession of his weekly paycheck and wished to have it cashed. Geoffrey gently took the check from the client’s hand and said, “Happy to be of service, Mr. Drake.” In a fluid motion, Geoffrey slid the check through the appropriate slot while opening the change drawer with his other hand.

“And what denominations would you like, Mr. Drake?”

Mr. Drake did not hear the question. As Geoffrey had spoken, an angry man kicked a nearby postage vending machine. He cursed and made a scene when the buttons did not respond to his command. It was only after he deposited his money that he noticed the handwritten “Out of Order” sign hanging on the upper-left corner of the glass case. The unobtainable stamps only cost the man $.78, but he continued to bang on the machine until a security guard raised his finger to his lips in the universal “shh” signal.

“Please, sir,” the guard coaxed. The man raised his hand in understanding and grumpily walked out the exit.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Drake said. “Could you repeat that? I couldn’t hear anything over that ruckus.”

The customer had not heard the inquiry. Repetition was necessary.

“And what denominations would you like, Mr. Drake?”

Mr. Drake tilted his head to one side, pondering the question.

“Hmm…let’s go with four fifties, two twenties, one five…”

Geoffrey fanned out the money as he spoke, placing the bills into separate piles defined by their value.

Mr. Drake continued. “But the last five dollars I would like all in quarters.”

Geoffrey froze. He held one last five-dollar bill in his hand. He had not understood the customer’s final request.

“Would you please repeat the last denomination?” Geoffrey asked while still looking down at the currency in front of him.

“I said, I’d like the last five dollars in quarters, please. I’ll need toll money this weekend. Big road trip planned.”

Geoffrey’s hand holding the five-dollar bill began to shake. The man’s wish conflicted with protocol. All coins were rolled into even-numbered values.

“I apologize, Mr. Drake, but your request is not possible. I can give you four dollars in quarters if you wish. Or six if you deposit another dollar bill.”

Mr. Drake shook his head in rebuttal. “No, sir. I want five dollars in quarters. Please.”

Geoffrey’s neck twitched, tilting his head to the left. It happened again. Then again. The line behind Mr. Drake was becoming longer and longer. The time debating change could not be afforded. Repetition was necessary.

“I apologize, Mr. Drake, but your request is not possib—”

Mr. Drake raised his voice in frustration. “Yes it is—” He looked down to read the clerk’s nametag. “—Geoffrey! Just give me two rolls of quarters and count out the remaining dollar!”

Geoffrey looked over Mr. Drake’s shoulder again and saw that the line had formed a new bend. He could not afford to count out any change. It would take too long and the line would grow even longer. Geoffrey had already spent too much time with this particular client. Bella’s line was moving at an exemplary speed while Geoffrey’s progress fell far below his peak potential. If Geoffrey were to have any chance to catch up to his expected quota, he would have to double his number of clients in the next ten minutes. This meant that Mr. Drake had to go.

“Please step aside, Mr. Drake.” Geoffrey said calmly, flashing his perfect ivories.

“Excuse me?” He could not believe what he had just heard.

“Please step aside, sir. Next please!” Geoffrey eyed the next person waiting in line.

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Drake’s face was becoming intensely red. Blood rushed into his cheeks from the vein that stood out from his neck.

“All I need is four quarters. Count them!”

Geoffrey did not budge but repeated the ultimatum: “Please step aside, sir. Next please.”

In a nonchalant manner, Mr. Drake turned from Geoffrey and walked two steps back to the beginning of the line.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said gently as he picked up one of the short brass poles standing there. He unhooked the velvet rope, which fell to the ground. He smiled again at the older lady waiting her turn and hefted the metal post onto his shoulder. Geoffrey was about to ask the elderly woman, “How may I help you?” when the pole came crashing into the left side of his jaw. Mr. Drake had used the metal barrier like a baseball bat and was swinging for the fences. Geoffrey’s jaw unhinged and slid hideously downward and to the right. A following blow broke the bridge of his nose, but Mr. Drake was not finished. He rammed the pole into Geoffrey’s face with such tremendous force that his forehead caved in. With his remaining strength, Mr. Drake swung one last time, sending Geoffrey’s eyeball flying from its socket. The eye landed on a pile of rubber bands.

Satisfied, Mr. Drake dropped the heavy, blunt object. He breathed heavily as a grin that lacked signs of sanity spread across his face.

“Four quarters! I mean, c’mon! How’d he ever get behind a counter, huh?” Mr. Drake asked the question to no one in particular as he submitted to the approaching officers without a struggle. They applied cuffs to his wrists and led him out of the building. The security guard announced that everything was now under control, and “would everyone please shift to the other line?” He then thanked them for their cooperation.

Gerald Anderson, bank manager, came running from his office down the lobby stairs. He walked past what was now the only waiting line and made his way through the counter gate. He lifted Geoffrey’s limp body from the desk it rested on. Anderson made sure to stand where he could block the customers’ vision of the mangled employee. Sammy, the security guard, came to his side.

“Second one this week, Mr. Anderson.” Sammy’s arms were folded across his chest.

“I’m quite aware of this fact, Sammy, thank you. God, I just don’t know why these things keep malfunctioning!”

Sammy shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows, boss. Maybe they got a virus.”

Anderson rested his brow in one hand and rubbed his temples. He replaced his glasses on his face and answered, “Whatever it is, CyberTech better get their asses down here immediately.” He looked at the absurd line in front of Bella’s station. Bella moved as if she was being fast-forwarded by a universal remote. “We can’t keep losing clerks. I really don’t like putting this much stress on the Bella unit.”

Anderson briskly walked away and ascended the stairs. He had a very important phone call to make. Sammy watched him disappear from sight and then pulled out a black magic marker from his pocket. He scribbled on a piece of notebook paper and removed a slab of scotch tape from a red plastic dispenser. He slapped the handwritten note on the body and smiled when he realized his shift was almost over. Sammy began to whistle as he took a final glance at the “Out of Order” sign on Geoffrey’s back.
—
Asher Ellis is a student at Colby-Sawyer College and will be graduating in May 2006 with a degree in English Literature. In addition to writing short fiction, he is a published screenwriter, playwright, and film critic. As an aspiring filmmaker, Ellis plans on attending graduate school to study film production.