This is something I wrote for Dr. Hess' Advanced Prose Style class this past spring semester, and I just dug it up again and decided I would appreciate some feedback. So here it is.
By Dr. MullinThe pen bled M&M-blue ink as Aaron pressed it in precise lines, drawing his identity on the check his aunt and uncle had sent him for Christmas. It wasn’t an outlandishly large amount of money, but he took what he could get now that he was out of work, and besides, it was just supposed to be holiday money anyway. How much can one aunt and uncle team be expected to gift a twenty-six year old?
He’d been able to keep his joblessness a secret from his family for a while now. Not living with them helped in that respect, but the worn down old apartment he’d been renting for the past year was beginning to take its toll on his reserves. Cash and energy.
Wallpaper hung from the pictureless walls like skin from a partially peeled potato, but instead of delicious starch behind it there was horrifically green paint, the kind it almost hurts to look at. His attempts to renovate the place had ended this past summer, when the air conditioner installation ended with the off-whitish contraption blowing up on the sidewalk and showering nearby cars with pieces of metal and plastic. He thought that only happened in commercials.
This check would go in the bank. Had to be able to pay for the necessities until he could land another job. Which in all likelihood would be a while. No one was hiring these days, or at least nowhere he wanted to work. Cleaning bathrooms was just as much not his thing as all the other people who had neglected to submit an application.
He threw on his old, fraying coat and snugged his signature New York Yankees beanie on top of his shaved head and walked out the door. The hallway of the apartment building was in a state of disrepair similar to that of his own accommodations. Every few feet he walked toward the stairs he would catch some smell he hadn’t met before, and didn’t necessarily ever want to meet again. But this was life for now.
Out on the street the wind smacked into him like someone was bowling for pedestrians. He managed to right himself and keep from falling onto the refuse-rich sidewalk.
“No spare for you this frame, buddy,” he said, waving a middle finger in the direction the wind had come from.
He took the usual route to the bank – through the alley to the left of his building, west to the old baseball park that had certainly seen a more prosperous era, straight up center field and into the bank parking lot. The grass in the field had turned dry and brittle in the constant cold weather of late, and it made a sound like a broom sweeping across his unwashed pant legs.
“Much obliged,” he said with a small smile.
He reached the parking lot without delay in roughly fifteen minutes. Short trip, but he was glad to be out of the apartment for any stretch of time. He was especially glad to be out of the apartment and headed to the bank, where he hoped he would see a particular teller.
She looked about his age, mid-length brown hair, never wearing a good deal of makeup. Which was fine by him, because as far as he was concerned, she didn’t need it. He didn’t know her name since they didn’t wear nametags at this branch unless they were a consultant or something, but he saw her almost every time he came in. He sometimes wondered how weird it would be to ask someone out while they were at work. After all, this was the only place he ever saw her.
But he never did. Not knowing anything about her made him hesitant to even attempt an introduction. The fear of coming off as the creepy, desperate guy kept his mouth shut. So, he settled on being just another customer yet again.
Aaron looked up every time she issued a quiet “Next” to summon whoever was due for a trip to the teller’s window, but the line was long today. Aaron occupied himself by daydreaming.
“Can I help who’s next?”
It was finally his turn at the counter. Aaron confidently strode up to the barred interface, smiling broadly at the girl. She met his gaze and timidly smiled back, obviously attracted to him. Looking like
Raiders of the Lost Ark-aged Harrison Ford helped in that regard.
“Hey there beautiful,” he said. “I’d like two things from you. One is your help with depositing this check into my account. The other is a piece of paper with your number on it.”
She looked startled for a moment, and then giggled and took the check from him. “Sure,” she said.
When she handed him the receipt, it was financial information side up, hardly the
modus operandi of a dedicated bank employee. He took the hint and flipped it over to find a unique ten-digit code written on the back in blue ink, accompanied by a cursive “Emma.” He smiled gratefully at her, tipped his fedora respectfully and made a “you’ll be hearing from me” motion by waving the receipt at her. She waved goodbye.
Later that afternoon, back at his very classy apartment on the Upper East Side, where the wallpaper was firmly attached to the walls and his neighbors incessantly filled the hallways with the pleasant aromas of whatever they happened to be cooking, he called the young lady and proposed a dinner date that evening. She accepted.
At six sharp, he showed up at her apartment in his used German luxury car, not too expensive but still a quality vehicle, complete with butt-warmers in the front two seats. She walked out looking beautiful in a floor-length black dress, and he opened the passenger door for her, whispering hello as she stepped into the car.
They reached the restaurant laughing, as he had recounted one of his classic stories from work where his classically clumsy colleague Dave once again forgot to close the paper door on the copier and sent white sheets hovering through the air like oversized flat snowflakes. She thought it was hilarious.
In the restaurant, as they waited at the bar for their table to be ready, a particularly drunken male member of the twelve-person party at the other end of the counter began making advances on Emma. Aaron bravely stepped up to rebuke him and ultimately was forced to resort to fisticuffs, easily retiring his opponent with his trademark right hook. Right then and there he decided this restaurant was not for them.
“This is highly irregular!” he shouted at the host. “I expect better from an establishment with such an impeccable reputation.” With that, he and Emma briskly exited the restaurant.
Then they went back to his apartment and made love for hours, what with her being so impressed with his manly defense of her honor. The next morning he awoke to her poking him in the shoulder.
“Dude what the hell are you doing? It’s your turn, dude! Fucking MOVE!”
The haze of his daydream was lifted and Aaron quickly turned to see some skateboarding teenager staring gravely back at him, and realized he was the front of the line.
“What the fuck are you waiting for dude? I got stuff to do!”
Uniquely ashamed at his folly, he offered a muffled apology, shuffled to the counter and handed his check to the girl.
“Uh…hi. I’d just like to deposit this please.”
“Sure.” There was no giggle.
The machine whirred, the computer keys ticked and tapped, and within moments she handed him his receipt. Financial information side down.
“Thanks.” He turned and walked toward the exit, avoiding the still wildly unfriendly gaze from the skater kid.
As he pushed the door open and stepped back into the wind, he ventured a gaze backward. Maybe next time, he sighed to himself.
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