I played my usual game in the bank drive-through. I pulled into the lot to get out of the street, but hung back a moment to size up the traffic flow. In Lane One was a late-model Cadillac with a wisp of white hair barely visible above the headrest, followed by a panel truck decorated with cheap magnetic signs for “Hernandez Bros. Electrician.” In Lane Two, a soccer mom waited behind a PT Cruiser. Lane Three started with six or seven construction workers piled into an old Ford pickup, then a pretty blonde in a convertible bimmer. Lane Two seemed like the obvious choice, so it had to be wrong. I flipped a mental coin and nosed my rust-bucket into Lane Three.
From my vantage point at the tail end of Lane Three, I had an unobstructed view of the activity inside the bank. I watched the tellers move in a careful choreography of slow-paced service. I was impressed that the young lady with the horn-rimmed glasses made such short work of the truckload of construction workers, dispatching half a dozen envelopes of cash in a couple of minutes. We eased forward. The blonde in front of me loaded her paperwork into the canister at a satisfactory pace. She placed it in the tube, then studied the machinery a moment longer than I might have liked before pressing the “Send” button.
I don’t know how much time went by before some movement drew my focus back to the world inside the bank. The preppy boy working Lane One was trying to solicit the assistance of Miss Horn Rims. Miss Horn Rims stared out into space past the tinted glass. She didn’t seem to be listening to Preppy Boy, and she’d also stopped processing the blonde’s transaction. Preppy Boy looked increasingly agitated. I rolled up my windows to shut out the gathering exhaust fumes and switched the air conditioner to “recirculate.”
The forty-ish woman working Lane Two stopped what she was doing and tried to intervene, but the look on Miss Horn Rims’ face told me she’d had enough of this conversation. She turned to face Preppy Boy, mouthed a few calm words, and then exited the bank through the door at the far end of the booth. She left the door swinging open, walked across in front of the drive-through lanes, turned right when she got to the sidewalk, and then disappeared behind the Mobil station next door.
Five or six cars back in Lane One, a driver honked a couple of times. From the tinny speaker two lanes away, I heard the voice of Preppy Boy shouting something unintelligible at the old lady in the Cadillac. I eyed the line behind me in my rear-view mirror. I stared at the back of the blonde’s head. I wished that I had eaten breakfast.
From where I stood waiting to fork over my $6.50, I could see the stack of plates at the near end of the buffet table. There were seven plates left when I came in out of the driving rain, placed the battered remnants of my umbrella behind the ficus in the corner, and took my place in line. Two plates remained by the time it was my turn to pay. The cashier struggled to replace the roll of tape in the register. As I pocketed my change, a fat-assed man with a satisfied grin and a greasy napkin tucked into his shirt collar made a dash for the last plate.
A waitress dumped a batch of dinner rolls into one of the steam table trays, then turned on her heel and was halfway back to the kitchen before I could form the words to ask for her help. Two busboys engaged in a frenetic competition to evade eye contact with me, one sloshing iced tea into three-quarters-full glasses, the other noisily collecting dirty dishes, silverware, and napkin litter into a plastic tub.
I walked toward the kitchen door, arriving there just in time to head off the shift manager before he could disappear into no man’s land.
“Please, sir, we need some more plates.”
Three-and-a-half minutes later, my patience was rewarded. I piled lightbulb-warmed food onto my steamy-hot plate and carried it to a table. I used my napkin to clear away the worst of the crumbs from the plastic checkered tablecloth, then unloaded my tray. The chicken fricassee must have been good when it was hot. The rolls weren’t so dry that a couple of pats of butter couldn’t make them palatable. My mood was much improved by the time I headed for the dessert table.
When I got there, Mr. Fat-Ass was scooping the second-to-last wedge of pecan pie onto a plate. I watched in disbelief when he reached back under the hot lights with the pie server and slipped it under the last slice. Our eyes met as he lifted it toward the plate. Did he see sadness, frustration, rage? Whatever he saw made him hesitate long enough for me to grab a plate and hold it hopefully out toward the sweet object of our shared desire. He deserves some credit for the graciousness of his surrender.
That hunk of pie was all I could see as I pivoted back toward my table, so I didn’t notice the busboy until it was too late to avoid a collision.
Note: The assignment was to write a description of a lucky or unlucky character, without ever using the word “lucky” (or “unlucky.”) I consider myself neither particularly lucky nor particularly unlucky, but every once in a while I have one of those days when the whole world seems to be against me. And so does this guy.
© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick
I just love the way you describe the surroundings. I am always seeing the scene in my mind as I read. For example, I can totally see you thrusting your plate at the guy, daring him to take two pieces of pie right in front of you. I’ve been in the restaurant you describe watching waiters swirl around you avoiding eye contact. It reads so smoothly and places you there so completely. What a pleasure reading your work, every time.
Great job – and for this one you actually whacked the assignment dead on instead of glancing off it.
I went to your blog tonight because I needed absolute, guaranteed distraction from an unproductive train of thought. So you see, I go to the source for fast relief.
Funny coincidence (maybe even ironic) that luck was the topic.
Thanks for the stories. I feel better now.