The Bank

'Don't worry about me,' said Johnny Dougan, running his fingers nervously over his skinhead, as if he was testing it, to see if it was short enough, 'I'm going to die young'.

I'd heard it all before. It was a James Dean moment. Nobody was ever going to die like a fat Elvis, with a bib and nappy on, regurgitating their own vomit. But, I must admit, there was something about Johnny Dougan.

'It's up to you Johnny,' I said, shrugging my shoulders, 'but your girlfriend's pregnant and you'll need to do it for both of you and the child'.

Johnny shook his head and his face creased into the discontent of an older man, that had seen too much, but didn't want to admit that he was scared.

'Ok,' he grudgingly mumbled.

Johnny's girlfriend half smiled and patted her stomach, as if to reassure the unborn child that everything was going to be different, everything was going to be alright. I knew that Johnny wouldn't back down now

My car was a nondescript red Ford Fiesta. That's the way I liked it. Not as flashy as Johnny was used to, but it got me from A to B. Johnny sat in the front, his foot jiggling, pumping up and down, as if he was hitting the accelerator. But I was in no hurry and always kept within the speed limit.

'That fuckin' music's doin' my box in,' Johnny said, without any preamble, almost jumping from his seat.

'Too bad,' I replied, keeping my eyes on the road. 'My car. My music.'

I tapped two cigarette out of my packet and handed them to Johnny. 'Light one for me, will you?' I said, giving him something to do with his hands, nodding down at the cigarette lighter in the car.

Johnny almost smiled. 'At least let me get you a new stereo. That's a piece of shite,' he said emphatically.

I laughed. 'You know I can't do that.'

'But it's free,' Johnny said, pleading like a little boy. 'You can't say any fairer than that.'

I snatched my eyes from the road and looked at him briefly. 'You should know, better than most, that nothing is ever free'.

Johnny took a deep breath and nodded. 'But nobody will ever find out.'

We both laughed, Johnny rather nervously, as we pulled into the car park at the back of the bank. I used the disabled bay and kept the engine running.

'You want me to come in with you?' I asked leaning across him and opening the passenger door.

'No,' he said, like a little dog barking big.

'Remember what I told you,' I said encouragingly.

But I could see that he was already running away in his head and wanted it all to be finished and return to the safety of the car.

I let Johnny walk around the corner. Then I turned the engine off. I picked up my walking stick. I didn't always need to use it, but it was always better to be prepared.

The bank was busy, but there was only one teller behind the screen. She had on the standard uniform,embossed with the livery of the banking chain. Her black hair, seemed like part of the uniform, sitting on her head, like a Nazi helmet. The teller kept flicking at her hair, even though it didn't budge. But she was efficient enough. The line moved quickly forward.

Johnny leaned forward into the space between him and the woman teller. I'd told him what to say. We'd even practised it in an empty room, with me playing at being the teller. It went smoothly enough there. I watched Johnny's lips, as if I could lip read. And he seemed to be saying all the right things; the commerce of civility: the excuse me, the please and the thankyous. He passed his papers through to the teller. But the teller barely registered them, or Johnny standing patiently, waiting for a reply. He even tried a lopsided smile. But the teller's face, like her hair, never moved. She pushed the papers back through. I could see her pointing, telling Johnny to stand away from the queue.

I expected Johnny to lose it, but he didn't. He just moved from foot to foot, as if regaining his balance, put his head down and moved once again to the back of the queue. I was proud of him and thought he might just make it.

There was some kind of problem with the customer in front of Johnny. The teller moved to the back of the bank, to the front of the bank and then used the phone. It seemed to take longer than Lazarus's death, but eventually Johnny was once more in front of the teller's protective screen. Once more, just as we'd rehearsed, Johnny moved smoothly through the opening gambit and passed his papers through. The teller didn't look at them, or him. She just passed them straight back as if they were playing pass the parcel, and there could only be one winner.

'Just stand over there,' the bank clerk said, briefly looking at Johnny, and giving her real voice license to snarl and sneer, 'and I'll see to you when I've dealt with these other customers'.

The teller angled her head so that she was looking around Johnny and at the customer directly behind him.

I limped forward. 'Excuse me.' I put my arm out blocking the path of the next customer in the line, behind Johnny. 'This station is now closed. I'm sure another bank worker will be out shortly to help you.'

The man looked at me. Then looked at the teller. And moved along one, to the next teller's window, which was closed. The others in the queue, looked on blankly, then followed his lead.

The teller started to say something, but I held my hand up like a traffic cop and leaned in, clearly enunciating every word and looked her straight in the eye. 'I have no wish to speak to you. But can you please get me the bank manager. NOW.'

The teller looked at me and seemed to be testing the strength of every word.

'NOW,' I said, looking at her coldly.

The teller scampered away. Another female bank worker came out of the back office and started serving the customers in the adjacent line.

I knew he was the manager, because he had a name tag, bigger than a desk: Peter Potts. MANAGER, it said, making him, or his jacket, seem lopsided.

'Yes, there is a problem,' I said, before the MANAGER spoke, eyeing the embodiment of the problem, in the teller standing behind him. 'We can do this here, or we can do this in your office. The choice is yours.' I added reasonably enough.

I could see that Peter Potts, MANAGER, wasn't really sure. No actuary diploma, or spreadsheet qualifications told him what to do next. I waited patiently, leaning on my stick. There was a shift in his surety. And I could see it all caving in.

'My office,' Peter Potts, MANAGER, stammered.

Johnny Dougan followed on behind me.

'If you would like to sit over there' said Peter Potts, MANAGER, pointing to a space filled with plants, 'and help yourself to coffee...'

'No, No, No,' I said, 'John is with me'.

Peter Potts, MANAGER, held open his door and, unrehearsed, we both sat down, in the plush leather seats, as if we owned the place and he was the visitor.

'How can I help you?' said Peter Potts, MANAGER, scuttling behind his desk.

'Well,' I said, 'I think you owe this young man an apology. The way your teller behaved was nothing short of outrageous. Just because he wants his benefits paid into an account'.

'And you are?' said Peter Potts, MANAGER, trying to estimate my worth. 'His mother?'

'Does it matter?' I replied.

Peter Potts, MANAGER, grew bold behind his desk and tried to stare me down. But I didn't live exclusively in his 9-4 world and my cold blue eyes picked him apart.

'Of course,' said Peter Potts, MANAGER, 'We aplogise unreservedly. I'll open this account myself.'

'Is there anything else?' he asked, rising from his chair.

'Yes,' I said, 'can you ask the worker that tried to humiliate John to also apolgise.

'I'll just go and get her,' said Peter Pott, MANAGER.

'No,' I said, 'it would be better if she apoligised in front of all the people she thinks are so much more important.'

'Of course,' said Peter Potts, MANAGER.

'Thank you,' I said, showing John once again the value of manners, 'and I'll just rest my leg here if you can get me a coffee?' I said to Peter Potts, MANAGER, showing him my best face.