no rhyme, no reason
fiction
——You can tell our country is in bad shape because being a customer of Bank of America is considered juvenile, said Valery to Joey on the mile-plus walk to the bank. In any other country, say, China, the Bank of China would be considered a big deal. A place where your money could graduate and grow white hairs and liver spots alongside you all the way until death. An institution. But all Bank of America says about you is that you got your account in college, and that you never got it together enough to join the real money people, the big banks like Chase of CitiBank. And, as anyone with any sense knows, the “America” bit is something to fool people who don’t know any better. The word America is pointing to nothing. The only thing that makes America “great” is that it can slash regulations and create business-friendly environments better than anywhere else in the world.
—Anyway, said Joey, we’re at the bank. It’s wild that you have to come here every single month. I kind of think we need to convince your landlord to get on the internet.
—I’ve obviously tried, said Valery as they waited on line. But she really believes in an older version of money. She tells me, money takes hard work to earn. I do my night shifts and I get my paycheck. Shouldn’t it take hard work to spend? So for that reason, she doesn’t trust the internet. I tell her, Marie, this idea is a holdover from farming, where you plant vegetable seeds and believe you can only reap the rewards that come from the various eggplants and tomatoes they bear. I also tell her, listen, you’re traumatized. You moved from Haiti, and your husband left you. You don’t trust institutions because they’ve never been good to you. But this is also why you stay broke.
—$2,000 please, Valery said to the teller. He turned back to Joey. You know, it’s so clear to me why anyone would hate banks, said Valery. The business model is fantastic. They get this rare license to hold your money and keep it safe and move it to a few places you need. But they’ll also charge you to use your own money. And then they’ll house it all in one of these fantastic historical buildings that only they can afford to rent. And then they’ll make sure you feel awful and condescended to with this stiff branding and all the photos of old people laughing, like you are a child who needs help to take care of your own money. When, these days, it is entirely possible to run a hedge fund off of your own computer. Not that I would do it, but you know, why would anyone need to come back to these places?
The teller was holding hot, freshly-pressed bills at the lip of the counter’s glass. Joey handed them to Valery.
—Hold on, let me count them, Valery said. Twice, then thrice, finally satisfied, they left the line, and then the bank.
—I am thirsty though, said Valery. He turned to Joey. Hey man, thanks for coming with me. It’s always scary for me to do this when I’m alone. I walk out of these banks and feel like I have a mark on my back. Sometimes I worry that these guys who own the delis hire people to watch who leaves the bank and rob them afterwards.
They entered a deli opposite the bank. Valery picked up a bottle of Poland Spring. –$1.75, said the man behind the counter. –Fucking expensive, said Valery. Do you take card? —We have a card limit.
Valery rummaged in his bag. –Do you have cash dude? —None, said Joey. –I only have hundreds, said Valery, pulling a crisp bill out of his bag and placing it on the counter.
–I can’t give you change for that. You can use card but I’ll charge you $3 to make up for the fee they charge me, said the man behind the counter.
Valery caught a glimpse of the two of them distorted by the security camera screen hung above the counter. Valery looked short and pale.
–That’s wild, said Valery. I don’t want water, fuck that.
–Damn, said Joey, maybe I can get a few chocolate bars or something if you want to hit the card limit?
–Forget it, I don’t want water, Valery said. We’ll just go somewhere else. And he was correct: Just three blocks down, they found a large, well-stocked deli with lots of choices. Valery grabbed a water bottle branded with spiky, knife-shaped lettering.
—Card machine not working, said the man at the counter. It suddenly struck Valery that the two deli men might be related. They both had low, broadly sweeping eyebrows that jutted out of very prominent bones.
—Look, he said. I have cash, but I only have big bills (and Valery enunciated these words, big bills). Hundreds of dollars. No change. Do you take that?
The deli man shook his head. —I need a smaller bill.
Valery threw his hands up. —I would have gladly bought more things here if you were just a little kinder, he said. You’ve made this whole situation so difficult. You, your friend back there. Both of you ganging up on customers. It’s really wild, it’s like you don’t even want business. I bet you make all your money off of this mafia racketeering.
And he walked out. Joey followed closely behind. The streets grew sparse, the shoe and clothing stores replaced by tall old churches.
—Part of it is, like, why would a business even last today if they don’t focus on customer service, said Valery. Everyone sells water. You can literally get it out of your tap in your sink. At this point, the only thing that makes a difference is customer service—
A man shoved his shoulder, hard. The force was so strong that Valery would feel it hours later, along with the little scritches the sidewalk would carve into his palm when he fell backwards, and the purplish-blue bruises above his eyebrow that Joey would swab at carefully with tufts of cotton balls.
—I swear, that man had the same eyebrow as the other two deli owners, Valery would say at Joey’s apartment. But, weirdly, the guy was awful at being a thief. I mean, he didn’t even bother to take my money. It was like he was just angry, like he just wanted to punch me or something, without any rhyme or reason.
I love how you drop the reader into the middle of the conversation. The dialog here is eye-opening.