Going to the bank, how I hate going to the bank. I passionately envy all of my friends who, owning smart phones, pretty much do all of their banking from the palm of their hand. Being that yours truly can barely afford to keep his car running smoothly, a phone with any function beyond making calls and texting is but a wishful thought. And so I make my way into the Long Island Trusted Bank, greeted by underpaid young men and women in their early 20s, all of who couldn’t care less about their jobs. Any ordinary visit to this oh-so-wonderfully fun financial establishment would never be the topic of a story, at least not an interesting one that people would want to hear; however, this was no ordinary visit. No, no, no. This visit was one of those days that you remember for the rest of your life. At least I will. Then again, I’m also the main character.
My story begins with me in an $800 suit driving a glossy black, re-furbished ’89 Porsche. You impressed? Don’t be. My boss, the guy who makes the big bucks, was hosting a dinner party that evening to impress some potential investors. I was privileged with the title of his “assistant host” or as he put it, the “Robin to his Batman.” Humbly confessing that I didn’t own a pair of green and yellow tights, he loaned me one of his suits, and as a bonus, his “Batmobile,” so that I could run all the errands he needed completed in adequate style.
Back to the bank: I’ll confess that being adorned with clothes and wheels of caliber I had never experienced in my life had me feeling more confident than ever. So naturally when I pulled into the parking lot, and a gorgeous girl was pulling in at the same time, I couldn’t resist the urge to flirt. But flirting is an art that is lacking in my toolbox. I’ve often compared flirting to Jackie Chan doing stunts. They’re both awesome in and of themselves; they’re both really fun to watch, but I was always confident that I’d never do either successfully.
Once inside, I continued flirting, and decided to do a little role-playing. I figured it shouldn’t be too difficult of a performance to pull off. I pretended to be a “big shot,” and I was making this blonde beauty (who, by the way, looked like Sharon Stone at her best) laugh and bat her eyes at me. I even went as far as to ask her for her number as we both exited the bank together. I couldn’t believe it. It was a moment in time that I wasn’t me. I wasn’t living my life. I was in a fantasyland; a wave of natural euphoria came over me. I imagine that rock stars on stage are used to feeling this way. But just then…just when my mind was tucking away the memories of this moment in the part of my brain labeled “good times,” reality slapped me in the face like a woman hitting her husband upon finding out he’s been unfaithful. This “slap” was in the form of my boss. That’s right. Why the Fates decided it was time for a laugh at that moment I’ll never know. Perhaps I’ll ask them one day.
“Robin! Funny running into you here, huh?” My boss announced.
“Yeah…uh boss-” I attempted an interception before he could say any more.
“Yeah, yeah, I know I sent you here, but I forgot about something else I needed to do here personally!” He responded as I died a little more inside.
“That’s great, boss. I guess I’ll see ya-” I pleaded with every non-verbal cue I possessed for him to walk away.
“I see you’re keeping the suit I lent you nice and clean.” He continued hammering away at my dreams while I slumped my shoulders and contemplated faking a stroke just to make him to stop talking. “Just make sure you keep my Porsche in just as good shape! Oh and uh…I saw your request for a pay advance. You late on your rent again?”
I imagined the end of the world beginning at that very moment. Simultaneously occurring earthquakes and hurricanes seemed an event catastrophic enough to fully take the attention off of me.
“Are you okay?” Interfering with my apocalyptic daydream was the lovely blonde. Darn. No earthquake.
“Excuse me?” I asked, not quite realizing what was going on. I no longer saw my boss anywhere. “Where’d Batman go?”
“Batman?” the lovely blonde seemed to be utterly confused.
“Sorry, I mean my boss,” I explained.
“Well, he asked you something, and you just started staring into space, not answering him, so he just walked away, muttering something about getting a new sidekick,” she paused, look at her watch, and I just knew she couldn’t wait to get away from me. “Anyway, as long as you’re okay, I have to get going.”
“Uh, yeah…of course,” I concluded as I bowed my head and started walking away, imagining what could’ve been with her if my boss had just stayed at home. Damn bank.
“Don’t forget to call me!!!” The lovely blonde screamed at me over her car before getting in.
I still hate going to the bank; however, that day was seven years ago. And the lovely blonde’s name is Joanna, and today marks three years of us being married. I remember that day and always will for the rest of my life. I enjoy telling it to whoever will listen. Mostly to encourage the listener/listeners that sometimes…yes, sometimes…the sidekick gets the girl.
