D SOMETHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY

SOMETHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY?

The young woman seemed self-assured as she walked through the door.
After a brief pause in the foyer she walked directly toward the only
male cashier in the bank.
Arthur watched her with disinterest as she approached him. Yet, there
was something about her. Something not right. He did his usual
once-over scan. Short black hair, large hazel eyes. Strange eyes, a
brilliance emanated from them and engulfed him. Her body was lean, not
thin. There is a difference, he thought. Thin is poor, not enough to
eat, a charity case. Lean is control, well heeled, big ego,
self-sufficient. Clothes basically non-descript.
"Hi," she whispered through the bars that separated him from any close
encounters with the strangers he was forced to deal every day. He
ignored her hoping she would move on to another teller.
"Hi," she whispered again. Arthur pretended to be busy counting the
money in his draw. He refused to look up.

"Hi," she said again in the same soft tone, assuming, expecting him to
acknowledge her. He realized that she would continue this way, she
would not go away.
"Excuse me?" Arthur pretended that he hadn't heard her. Hi's bothered
him. Hi's meant something personal was coming. Something out of the
ordinary. Four years experience as a bank teller had taught him to
avoid Hi's or informalities with customers.
His job at the bank was sufficient. He didn't need more from life.
And, he certainly didn't need any problems here at work. He tried to
handle things out of the ordinary with diplomacy, professionally.
Problems frightened him. He became disoriented when confronted with an
unusual situation.
"Hi," she said again.
"Can I help you?" he answered with rigidity.
"Yes, well, maybe. I need to talk to someone." She smiled shyly, but
purposefully.
"What's your account number?"
"I don't have an account."
"Well, if you would like to open one you must talk to the bank manager.
I can call him for you." He was beginning to sweat. A bad sign, he
thought. Sweating meant something terrible was about to happen. His
instincts were honed to a fine point in the area of uncomfortable to
bad things happening.
"I don't want to open an account." She stood there with a very wide
grin on her face as though she had found the lost treasure that she had
been searching for all of her life.
"I need to talk to someone about my life."
"Well, I can't do that." Arthur winced. "I only handle money
transactions here at this window." He was sweating profusely. He could
feel the wetness of his armpits, the back of his shirt clung to him
under his tweed jacket. Make her disappear, make her disappear, he
repeated to himself, mantra like.
Another druggy off the street. He was fed up with them. Coming into the
bank everyday looking for handouts. He worked. He paid his own way. No
one had ever helped him. Why should he give up his hard-earned money to
some useless druggy. I just want to get through the day without an
incident. I don't like incidents, he thought.
"I need to talk to someone. Now." Her eyes seemed to burn right
through him. Arthur turned away from her. He didn't know what to do.
"Just a moment. I'll call the manager." He was mumbling. Tongue
swollen, saliva dried up. He rose from his chair. He knew that he
presented an unapproachable fa?ade . . . how could she have penetrated
this. He began to shake.
"I don't want to talk to the manager. I want to talk to you." She
smiled, but with less assurance than when she had first entered the
bank, or so it appeared.
"I can't handle this problem. I don't know anything about your life.
Or anyone else's life for that matter. It's best if I call the
manager." His voice had become strained, high pitched. He began to move
away from the cashier's window.
"No, it has to be you. You're the one. I need to talk to you. I'm
cold. I need to talk to you about my life." She was shouting and
creating a scene. People were looking at them. Arthur was horrified. He
wanted to hide, or better yet, die. He felt his face heat up. He looked
like a poppy in full bloom.
The manager heard the commotion and came over to Arthur's cage.
"What's the problem?" He glared at Arthur. "Can't you keep your
personal business outside? This is a work place. A place of business."
He was snarling, foaming at the mouth like a mad dog.
The girl continued to shout, "I need you. I need to talk to
you."
Arthur saw his hands shaking as though they belonged to someone else,
to a person with palsy. He had no control, he began to stammer. "Sir,
sir, I've, I've . . . I've never seen her before. She . . . she . . .
she just walked up to me and . . . and she . . . . she started to
shout. She wants to talk to me about her life. I don't even know her."
He could see that the manager didn't believe him.
"Take her outside and settle this thing," he growled into Arthur's
ear.
Arthur quickly went to the front of the counter. The young woman
smiled as though enjoying a private joke. He stopped breathing while
hoping that the whole thing was a bad dream. He guided her outside,
holding her arm as though it was a piece of the most unsavory of human
excrement imaginable, something that he had to quickly dispose of in
the nearest garbage can. Soon he would awake and his alarm would be
rattling in his ear, he would jump up, shut it off, go to the toilet,
shower, dress and arrive at work on time. The day would begin all over
again and it would be a normal day. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"What's this all about?" He was visibly annoyed. She didn't seem to
notice nor would she have cared if she had, that much was obvious. She
maneuvered him down the street, away from the bank. Just as they turned
the corner she grabbed him and hugged him with all her strength.
"Thank you," she murmured into his neck. "Thank you. I'm so cold.
Please touch me. Just touch me."
He put his arms around her. It was as though his arms moved by
themselves. He had never done this before. Not to anyone. His body
loosened. Almost. The muscles ached from the taut position they were
used to. His height towered over her. He felt like a giant next to her.
He hadn't realized how tiny she was. They seemed to meld together,
welded together, molten lava flowing, heated, cooling, inseparable.
They stood there for several minutes holding each other. It was warm.
It was soothing. It felt like more.
Suddenly she pulled away, turned and left him standing there alone.
The warmth slowly flowed from his body and left a cold icy spot just
where she had pressed herself against him. He watched her as she walked
down the street to the next corner; she turned and waved to him. He
didn't wave back. His arms were numb, tired, immovable, as though they
had been holding onto something tightly and for a very long time . . .
a life-saving grip. He was exhausted.
Arthur returned to the bank and his cage. The manager passed by and
mumbled something about, "Don't let it happen again."
Each time the door opened, Arthur would look up hopefully. His sallow
complexion had turned rosy, almost. But, she never appeared again. His
job wasn't enough anymore. He wanted to talk to her. Feel her warmth
against him. Talk about his life.