More than just your average transaction

Starting May 14th, I'm going to have to stand in line at the bank like the rest of you. I don't expect sympathy; I'm just saying it's going to take some getting used to. I'm really not sure why he chose me, but for several years I've been getting secret, special treatment, thanks to a flirty young banker.

He was a simple, chubby teller who greeted me with an eager smile and unchecked enthusiasm, weekly. At first I thought he treated all the fertile girls this way, but then I began noticing that he'd put up a "Next Teller Please" card when he'd spot me in queue. When I'd near the front of the line, he'd lift the card and motion me to his booth. This went on for months. I was polite enough not to mention how painfully obvious he was in his flirtation, as, I suspect, were his superiors. Besides, talking about his attraction to me was right at the top of my "Things-to-Avoid-at-All-Costs" list.

The first real favour I enjoyed, involved my account status; there would be no more holds placed on my foreign currency cheques. I thanked him sincerely. Other people, regular people, have to wait up to forty days to get their cash. I loved this perk.

Then the transformation began. He lost weight, roasted himself to a tangerine hue, and revamped his wardrobe with tighter, shinier shirts. He strategically unbuttoned those silky atrocities just enough to allow the occasional glimpse of a two-inch gold cross, nestled awkwardly, blasphemously in his chest hair. I knew what was coming. It was inevitable.

The managers were pleased with his way with customers and promoted this soon-to-be Greek God of Finance. With his own office, his confidence skyrocketed. From that point on, when I stood in line with the good citizens of Montreal, he'd emerge from his office, adjust his suit jacket and ask me in a rehearsed professional tone, "Are you here to seek advice about our Retirement Savings Plan, Miss?" Just so I wouldn't miss my cue, he'd wink, every time.

From that point on, he'd escort me to his private office immediately upon arrival, and in exchange for a little small talk, I could avoid waiting in line.

This interaction wasn't without weirdness, though. I soon learned that this fine young momma's boy was looking for a naughty-but-nice young wife to appease his traditional Greek family. I know this, because he told me. Flat out. He was the youngest of many, and photos of (seemingly) hundreds of his brother's children papered his office walls. His thick, dark eyelashes (the kind I wish I had) fluttered at me for the duration of each transaction, while I thought of him wanting to impregnate me. Oh geezus, I thought, he wants to have preggo sex.

I started weighing the pros and cons of this special treatment. "Special" carries many meanings. Each visit to the bank became more and more awkward. I began timing my visits with his lunch hour, hoping to avoid the inevitable woo session. I'd also developed a minor guilt complex. What made me so special, and why shouldn't I have to wait in line like everyone else? I mean, he'd pull me out of line before frail old ladies, matriarchs on canes. Ultimately, I decided to smother my internal socialist. A bank is no place for socialism, I reasoned.

Then, one night, I bumped into the banker downtown. Draped in his usual silky, shiny and glittering adornments he approached me. Me, who was pedaling an old beater bike in filthy Converse, rolled up jeans and a messy for-function-only ponytail. He was blind to my shortcomings, to my obvious incompatibility, so I knew he had it bad. I had to break the news to him, "I have a boyfriend."

I really thought that might scare him away, and I wasn't sure I'd mind. I was so naive. For the following three years, he continued with his "Retirement Savings Plan" tactic for getting me into his private office, and winking so I'd know to follow him there, but now with this addendum: "You still got a boyfriend?" I still blush when I say, "yes."

After several years of this, with only nine days until his departure for the greener pastures of the downtown financial district, I don't think my answer is going to change, but I'm sure going to miss not standing in line.

Geek love

I love my job so much that I have an urge to use profanities to express the fact. Am I normal?

Well, it's not really a job. It's good fortune. I'll expand after my meeting.

Extreme chocolate and random acts of violence

Since I'm currently avoiding the more-than-usual responsibilities I've yet to tackle, I'll just talk about something totally unrelated: ice cream...oh, and homeless, crazy people.

The wind was still cold, but the ice cream parlour was finally open. Imagine a sunshiny Saturday afternoon with only moderate guilt about not completing all the tasks I've set myself up to do. It was glorious!

Selection was limited because it's not even May yet and the freezers aren't cold enough to keep the ice cream hard, but even though it was gooey and melting (and probably left over from last year's stock), it was irresistible.

Armed with Cookies & Cream, Extreme Chocolate and the classic anomaly: Pistachio, we crossed the street to the ever popular sunny-side and found an available bench. This was the perfect bench: a little shelter from the wind, full sun, and no pigeons or squirrels to lustfully eye our cones. The only problem was that it seemed to belong to another unaffiliated venue.

We pondered the possibility of someone's irate Italian grandmother coming out of the restaurant to shoo us away. Upon establishing that we could take her, should she be aggressive, a homeless man approached us.

This man is a sort of institution here. His skin is leathery from the cold Canadian winter, his eyes are glassy, his nose wasn't properly set. This man's priorities switched from conventional to narcotic many years ago.

Now I know you aren't supposed to judge a book by it's cover, but, he looks violent.

Fortunately, being a Montrealer, I'm used to dealing with aggression from the homeless. A good friend recently brought one up on sexual assault charges. She didn't feel the need to involve the police in the "tit-grabbing incident", but upper management got tired of the man lurking just outside the window wagging his tongue at her. As it turns out, he was making the customers uncomfortable. The court date is set for next week.

But, back to my tale...

The 30-something homeless guy stumbled in our direction, empty collection cup in hand, and mumbled something. I could only assume he was asking for change. We responded politely, not wanting to pull out our wallets. There we sat. And he stared. And we sat. And he stumbled closer, and stared.

Something was happening and apparently it was our fault. Realizing he wasn't planning to move away, we slid down the bench and stood up to leave. That's when he kicked me.

Luckily, his balance was a little off so when he pulled his foot back he stumbled a little and lost momentum. I was wearing thin girly shoes though, and they were no match for his steel-toed boots. He recovered more quickly than I thought he would and caught my friend in the knee with a weak roundhouse. We got off easy. The third, and imaginary person beside us yielded the hardest kick of all.

Ice cream still in hand, we decided the Italian grandmother was the least of our worries, and made our escape. It being a sunny day, we promptly bumped into a cowboy and some punk kids we knew. By this time, the incident had already reached 'hilarious' status and, unable to control ourselves, we began to reenact the scene and kicked our friends in the shins.

In agreement that the story was, in fact, funny, one of them kicked more imaginary people as he walked down the crowded street. So it's true. Violence does breed violence, even the weakest of efforts.

Tic-toc...

Might I have some time to write today?

Dammit--I just used it all.

Audience

I remember a lesson, from a writing class I took in Vancouver, that the way one writes depends wholly on the acknowledged audience.

I haven't been here very often. Why? Well firstly, I've been busy with two new jobs and school. Oh, and that volunteer position I do little more than feel guilty about.

Other than that, I know who may possibly be reading me.