My Nametag Says Billy Banks

Dressed to the nine’s, i’m prepared for the deluge. Suit tie pressed and dry-cleaned, my pockets say no but my cashier smile says yes. Buttery jam bought from the hair-store online, smooth and youth, front ends curl stream like a jet-liner. Who knew so many poor people need the bank in the morning?

Putter by one by one, huddled penguins in dime-store jackets. God never wanted this for his children. I’ve missed church since I got this higher-up position, i’m sure He’ll understand. Anyway, I looked important in my morning meeting to the crowd peeking through the glass.

I never say anything, I let the women do the talking. The last time I interrupted I had a long alley conversation with the branch manager. He waved his hands and told me in kind words that I was wrong, though I wasn’t in trouble, and that I should use the free online employee-resource therapy to cut the wrongs from my mind. I couldn’t stop staring at the lipstick stain hiding under his breast cancer support ascot.

I feel like a winner every day of my life. I spent years toiling away in the backs of bars, Chinese restaurants. I made tips, got laid, drank myself into stupors and pissed onto parked cars. This bank picked me up from the dirt and gave me purpose. Reason to shower, get up in the morning reloaded. Paint the walls with raw enthusiasm. Fake it ’til you make it, the plaque says on top of the doorframe in the break-room.

Assistant Manager salary got me this motorcycle. Cherry red, long curled handles, shined at the dealership. I’m on loan for this thing for at least ten years, but they told me the pussy would make up for it. Still haven’t seen the benefits, but I don’t mind waiting. Rolling up to family dinners with some circumstance, that’s all that matters to me. They told me I was stupid for skipping out on community college, for not marrying that girl I met on OkCupid who liked to fry eggs in ghee. If I listened to them I would’ve killed myself. I let them know this every time I see them.

I pray every day for a robbery, but I don’t think those happen anymore. Barbaric, meant for small meth towns and KFC’s. If they were smart they’d attack from within, commit fraud with all this access I have. With my loyalty, my honor, this bank is failsafe. I conceal carry a pistol on my ankle, licensed in all 50 states, I think.

They’d hit the door first, at least two in coordination. Ski masks, glasses, AK’s. They’d knick the guard first to make a presence, hated that blonde prick anyway. Take Sheila hostage, I glance at her toes every day when she isn’t looking. “Hit the silent alarm, we put a bullet in her teeth.” I stretch a light grin as she starts to cry. Don’t worry baby, i’m licensed.

I’d hit the floor diving, palm that pistol in the swift motion I practice on my fold-out bed every night. Pop one, two, four into each of their dicks, blood explodes onto the floor like a balloon burst. My palms are sweating when i’m awaken from this daydream, hundreds of dollars in my hand that I have yet to hand over to this 40 year-old Nurse with blue braces. She’ll never know my pain. She only knows that if I don’t give her this money her boob-job payment will be late. Some people will never know the light of the other side. I’m not an empath for the weak, the stragglers.

One comment

  1. charlypriest · December 11

    Very well and powerfully written. I felt connected with that character and I really liked the ending. The last phrase,
    “I´m not an empath for the weak, the stragglers”


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