Wealth Distribution at a West Texas Bank

 

 

The line extended from the teller’s cage to the door. About fifteen yards. In that span was room for around twenty people. Everyone had a mask. From the expensive “95’s” to the cheap drugstore brand made for pollen while mowing grass. None of them really did any good. The Pandemic was government approved, nuclear powered influenza of the highest sort and masks of any kind were required if you were to eat, drink, be merry, or put money in the bank. Everyone had a mask.

 

He was standing in line. Nineteen people in front of him, bank bag in hand, mask on face. Sixty-five years of hard knocks and for him he was just a nail and COVID was just one more hammer. Going to the liquor store, the supermarket and the bank had become his routine since COVID rode into town. Bottle of whiskey, cigarettes, and money to do it all over again the next day. Go home, be alone, and drink himself to sleep.

 

He had kids. All grown and gone. Grandkids? Who in the hell knew who the “real daddy” was. Father’s Day was the most confusing day in West Texas.  He had sired two sons, and they came home with two West Texas Firecrackers, girls around fifteen or sixteen years of age who could get into any bar without an ID. And from those two unholy unions came a whole tribe of grandchildren who looked no more like him than a bunch of Chinamen slipping across the border pretending to be Mexicans.

 

He was retired. Social Security. That Ponzi scheme that made you pay into all you’re working life and then returned you pennies on the dollar while praying to the CDC that you wouldn’t last long enough to get all your money back. As he pondered this, one person finished their business and the manager let another one in who took their place at the end of the line, causing the old man to index one slot closer to the teller’s cage.

 

Money was tight. But then, for him money was always tight. Money had been tight all of his working life and at sixty-five it just got tight-ER! If you had to pay the lights late, and not in full you hoped the electric company would work with you, and if they wouldn’t, you spent a lot of time in your car because in West Texas the heat could cook a chicken left in a mailbox on the curb.

 

The line indexed one more click. He noticed the teller was young and pretty. She had a ring on her finger. He wondered if it meant anything to her. It hadn’t meant anything to his two ex-wives. The first one lasted two years and ran off with her brother-in-law. The next one was a victim of the seven-year itch. He itched, she left. He called her “dearly departed.” She didn’t die, she just departed. The line indexed again.

 

He had to wonder how they expected to control the virus with people standing in line in a crowded lobby in a bank. Sure, they were six feet apart. It didn’t matter. Six feet apart or six feet under. Breath and cigarette smoke drifts. He’d done a highly scientific experiment at his house. By smoking just one cigarette he found that a normal sized living room of around 15 by 20 could be saturated with the blue haze of smoke. Now how many viruses could be floating around that bank lobby? One more person stepped into line.

 

He had to find a way to subsidize his income. He wasn’t into any of that internet stuff the kids do. He’d drive around town picking up discarded vacuum cleaners and cleaning them up. If he could get them to start one time they were good for five or ten dollars at the Hock Shop. Furniture was no good, not that there wasn’t furniture on the curb from foreclosures. The law of supply and demand. During oversupply there was no demand, and you cannot pawn a Lay Z Boy! Why did the former owners need to move out just so the homeless could move in. Fortunately, he’d bought his house on the GI Bill. God Bless America and God damn the property tax. Property tax was like renting your house from yourself.

 

He’d tried to control his drinking by using shot glasses instead of tea glasses, but he was so busy filling shot glasses that he couldn’t appreciate any change. Two things did alarm him, however, concerning his drinking. He forgot how to put his car into gear one morning, driving home from the liquor store drinking straight from the bottle. However, he saw a news story saying that at least half of the population was just like him, so he did receive some solace from that. He was pleased that the churches were shut down so he could sleep off the hangover on Sunday. Another customer got into line.

 

His position in line was considerably closer now. He could see that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to complete what he came to do. He felt really bad about the people still standing outside in the Texas heat. The bank would be closing soon, and he was sure that there would be no accommodations for the customers who hadn’t been served that day, but such is life. As the customer in front of him completed her transaction he adjusted his mask and stepped forward.

 

“How may I help you?” The young lady inquired. Her voice was muffled by her mask and neither could see each other’s complete face but she had lovely eyes.

 

He tapped the money bag he’d laid on the counter. She unzipped it, looking into an empty bag. Forgetful old men weren’t rare in West Texas.

 

“Where is your deposit, sir?” she said slowly and a bit louder in case he was hard of hearing.

 

Again, he tapped the bag, this time wiggling it around a bit, seemingly indicating that there was something in the leather bag. Smiling, she understood. Obviously, he was making a deposit and not a withdrawal, having placed his withdrawal slip upside down on the counter. Just then she noticed that he had written a message on the slip, “Do not scream!”  She had noticed it when he first placed it there but believed, due to his age that he’d made some kind of note on the back of the slip or just mistakenly began filling it out on the wrong side. No matter. She would help him finish it and he then raised the bag slightly to show her the barrel of a forty-four-caliber gun beneath it. Removing her hand from the bag slowly she looked into his masked face. He glanced from her face, down to the bag and up again, and then shoved it toward her a bit more. She gently nodded in understanding. Just then she heard the four clicks of the hammer as he drew it back. C O L T!  Indicating that it was a Colt 44, and the hammer was now in a firing position. But he wasn’t a crazed active shooter, and would never shoot a lady. He was there to do a little distribution of wealth as the Democrats advocated, only Texas style! As she began to reach into her money drawer in a very professional fashion he stared into her pretty blue eyes and said in a calm West Texas drawl just above a whisper, “All the cash!”