“I don’t feed my cure formula.”
“Right. Who would? But like I said before, this is PerFormula. Graham&Swords-branded, Graham&Swords-tested, and totally Graham&Swords-official. Or at least it will be in just a few more months. And listen, I can go as low as one seventy-five, maybe even one fifty, and plus I didn’t even tell you the best part yet because I’m definitely forbidden to mention it, but listen, okay? The marrow of a cure that’s been Independenced? Let’s just say it acquires certain heretofore-unseen and wicked-rad properties if you know what I mean. That’s way off-the-record, though, feel me? You do. I can tell. I can. You feel me.”
By this point, the teller was leaning in to whisper, and Tiddleywinks had jumped from his vest to the counter, where it lay on its side, clawing at the collar and jerking its head around. It hummed through pursed lips in two- and three-note bursts, too young still to piece a whole painsong together.
“I don’t think it likes wearing that collar,” I said.
“Word,” said the teller. “Cute as hell, right? Hey, though, watch this.” The teller remained bent forward at the waist, but he took a step back, which yanked the cure off the counter, into open air, where it dangled by the neck, kicking its legs around. “Adorable.” said the teller. “So freakin adorable!”
“Chad-Kyle,” Lotta Hogg said. Her customer had left.
“Oh right,” said the teller. “Unprofessional. Sorry. Thanks for the feedback. And thanks for calling me Chad-Kyle.” Turning from Lotta and winking at me, he straightened his posture. The cure collided hands-first with his belt, clung and breathed heavy, eyes squeezed shut. “People tend to call me C.K.,” the teller told me, jamming the cure back into the watchpocket. “That’s partly because I used to introduce myself as C.K. It’s also partly because lots of people know me through my VIP-flyering work, and, in the lower-right corner of every flyer I print to promote the events I VIP-flyer for, there’s a little stamp that says, ‘C.K. Productions International.’ But mostly it’s because people don’t, for some reason, like to say Chad-Kyle, which is why I started introducing myself as C.K. to begin with, and also why I branded my little VIP-flyering-slash-VIP-flyer-design-and-consulting side venture ‘C.K. Productions International’ instead of branding it ‘Chad-Kyle Productions International.’ Vicious cycle. Circle? I don’t know. It’s vicious either way, right? Vicious. I don’t personally see anything wrong with Chad-Kyle. It’s actually a pretty great name, I think. But now I’m just babbling, and this isn’t about me. And I’m sorry if I pressed you about the Independence—it gets me all enthused, and I want to share that with people. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Just keep it lo-pro, alright? Okay. I know you got my back. Now how can I help meet your banking needs?”
I showed him the check.
“Would you swipe your ATM card for me, please?”
“I don’t have one,” I said.
“Oh, that’s okay. Do you have another form of ID?”
I showed him my state ID.
“Now that is a name,” he said. Then he stroked keys, paused, stroked more keys.
“You probably won’t find me in there,” I said. “I don’t have an account. I’ve just got this check.”
“Ah-ha,” said Chad-Kyle. “You’d like to open an account with this check.”
“If that’s what I need to do,” I said.
“Well that’s…”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m totally new at this. I don’t really know how it works.”
“No no no. I’m a teller. This is a bank. We like new accounts. So, let’s see here—well, thing is, it looks like this check isn’t made out to you, unless maybe you changed your name since you got that ID?”
“Right,” I said. “I mean I haven’t changed my name. The check’s made out to my father. But it’s meant for me.”
“For you.”
“It’s my SSDI check. I’m the beneficiary. My father’s my guardian, though, so it’s made out to him. He’s out of town, is the thing, and he forgot to leave me any money. He won’t be back for a week, so I thought probably I could maybe come here and get the money myself since this is his bank.”
“I see,” said Chad-Kyle. “I see now, but—you know, this isn’t…I’m not sure exactly how to handle this kind of thing,” he said. “I think I better go up the chain a little here.”
The manager came. The manager was nice. He quietly explained why they couldn’t cash the check for me—why no one could. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel pretty low. To have become an adult without having learned how to bank—which it turned out wasn’t very complicated at all—was embarrassing. On top of that, Chad-Kyle, while the manager explained things, kept biting his lip and trying to throw at Lotta, who was too busy closing down her station to notice, these wide-eyed looks that seemed to say, “This poor idiot here who has to rely on his father to bank—makes the heart just bleed and bleed. Too bad we can’t help him.” So I wasn’t merely ignorant, unworthy of credit, and in need of more Quills—I was also pitiful. And this is how pitiful: when the manager finished talking, I asked where the bathroom was, and Chad-Kyle, apologetically, informed me that the bathroom was employees-only, and the manager overrode it. Said he’d make an exception. He gave me the four-digit code for the door.
I didn’t use the toilet. I only blew my nose. After blowing my nose, though, I saw how they could think that I had used the toilet and not washed my hands, given how little time the whole process took. So I decided to stay there another minute or two. Except then I thought, “No. Let them think what they will. Your hands are clean,” and I resolved to leave, yet my resolve was not as strong as I liked to imagine, so I washed my hands and didn’t dry them, but rather walked past the counter conspicuously wiping them off on my shirt.
I could have wiped them on my shirt without having first washed them and still produced the effect I was after, except that didn’t occur to me til I was back in the lobby, halfway to the exit. It was probably all for nothing anyway. No one seemed to be paying attention. No one waved at me. No one said goodbye.
* * *
Lotta Hogg was out front, leaning on the building and eating a blondie.
“Belt Magnet,” she said. “I thought it was you.”
“You did?” I said.
“Yes!” she said. “But I didn’t believe it til Chad-Kyle made a comment about how unique a name you had, which must seem like a really dumb way to say it to a wordsmith like you because of how a thing’s ‘unique’ or ‘not unique,’ but I guess that’s just—I don’t know—how people talk. ‘So unique!’ ‘Very unique!’ It’s colloquial! Anyway, I asked him what it was, your name, just to be sure. And sure enough, right? So I guess this must be totally weird for you. You don’t have the faintest idea who I am.”