Girlfriends (Patrick Sanchez) (9 page)

“Hey there,” Gina said.

“Hi,” Bob replied.

Gina figured she should probably ask him why he was late, but she really didn’t care. He’d just lie anyway. He was probably late for the same reason she was—just didn’t feel like getting out of bed. He was young and going to school. His bank teller job was just beer money to him anyway. If he got fired, he’d just go work at Kmart or some other service-oriented place that was desperate for help who spoke coherent English.

“Is the hair on purpose?” Bob asked, being a smart aleck.

Gina ignored his question. “Since you’re running a little late, Kelly’s running the drive-thru for you. Why don’t you just set up in her station and wait on lobby customers today.”

“I hate doing the lobby. I’ll just switch with Kelly.”

“I think you should do the lobby today to avoid confusion, Bob.”

“It’ll just take a second for us to switch.”

Gina knew her lack of firmness was one of the major reasons she was still an assistant manager—aside from being late all the time, having virtually no motivation, and not asking for identification from a woman dressed like a nun, who ended up scamming the bank for over ten thousand dollars. She needed to be firm with Bob.

“Just do the lobby, Bob. End of discussion.”

Bob looked at her with a disgruntled and somewhat confused expression. She’d always backed down before. Figuring she must have gotten laid over the weekend, he nodded his head and left the kitchen. Gina was as amazed as Bob. She only wished that Linda had been there to see her hold her ground and not let one of her employees walk all over her.

Standing over the coffeemaker, watching little droplets of coffee drip into the pot underneath, Gina wallowed through her typical Monday morning depression. She wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to be able to do her job . . . how much longer she could honestly look customers in the eye and tell them that Premier Bank really wanted to help them reach their financial goals . . . how much longer she could watch lines of ten to fifteen people wait for one of two tellers to assist them.

A couple of weeks earlier, Premier had cut off all incoming phone calls into the branches. Customers were no longer able to reach their local branch directly. If they dialed their branch’s number, they were routed to the 800 line, where they ended up in elevator-music limbo. Gina knew it was just another tactic to cut staff at the branches and save money. When irate customers complained to her about it, she had to tell them a bunch of crap about how a central service could serve them more efficiently. She wanted to tell them it was just another way to do her out of a job and provide second-rate service to the customers. It was pathetic. She couldn’t even discreetly suggest that the customer go bank somewhere else. All the other banks in town, which numbered in the single digits due to years of mergers and acquisitions, were owned by giant financial corporations and sucked just as much as Premier, if not more so.

As Gina started filling her cup with coffee, Kelly came running into the back room.

“Gina, we have a slight problem at the drive-thru.”

“What is it?”

“Well, Bob and I were switching stations . . .”

“What do you mean, you were switching?”

“He said you wanted us to. Anyway, I was gathering my stuff, and this guy sent in a note demanding money. He says he has a knife,” Kelly replied with a slight giggle.

“A knife? At the drive-thru? Is he joking?”

Gina left the kitchen, explained the situation to Linda, and told her to call the police as she hurried behind the teller line with Kelly. She glared at Bob and then leaned over the drive-thru counter just enough to peer outside. There was a short man with a stocking cap and sunglasses, sitting in his car, staring directly forward. She quickly drew her head back, starting to get a little nervous. Suddenly, the whole thing didn’t seem so amusing anymore. The man was obviously crazy and might be dangerous. Kelly handed her the note the driver sent into the bank.

Send out 50,000 dollars in cash. I have knife!

“What a wacko,” Kelly said, starting to get a little nervous herself.

Gina poked her head over the counter again and saw that the little man was gone. The car was empty.

“Shit, I’m going to lock the door,” Gina said, running out into the lobby, but she was too late. The little man was already inside, standing about a foot from Linda, pointing some sort of kitchen knife at her.

“Who’s in charge here?”

“I am,” Gina called with her heart racing. This was the second time today she had surprised herself. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to tell the wacko she was in charge. She hoped she hadn’t just bought big trouble for herself. The little man turned around and glared at Gina. Gina tried to keep her composure as best she could. She was scared, and “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” began blaring in her head.

The robber stammered over to Gina, never losing eye contact. “Well, if it ain’t Fried-Hair Barbie. I asked for fifty thousand dollars. This is a bank, isn’t it? I don’t want any trouble, blondie. Get me the cash, and I’ll be on my way.” The robber grabbed Gina’s arm and raised his voice. “Move your bony ass and get me the cash.”

Gina was virtually frozen. “Okay, please calm down. Let me get you your money.” The robber pulled Gina’s arm and led her behind the teller line. Between the smell of whiskey coming from her assailant and the blaring sound of Julie Andrews in her head, she thought she might faint. Gina opened one of the teller drawers and looked at the robber. He must have been at least sixty. He couldn’t have been over five feet tall and, she wasn’t sure, but he might have been wearing lipstick.

“Do you have a bag or anything to put the money in?” Gina asked the little man.

“Do you have a bag or anything to put the money in?” the robber mimicked Gina in a squeaky voice. “No, I don’t have a bag, you whore. Why don’t you take your bony ass and find me one!”

Gina was about to start looking for some sort of bag, when she saw two cops stroll into the bank as if it were Free Toaster Day. The robber saw the cops coming toward him but continued to stand next to Gina, pointing the knife at her.

“Had too much to drink again, Gladys?” the taller cop said casually.

“You guys stand back or there’s no telling what I’ll do.”

“Settle down, Gladys,” the smaller officer said, easily pulling the knife from the robber’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said to Gina. “She’s harmless.”

She? It suddenly hit Gina, as she breathed a huge sigh of relief, that the nasty little man was, in fact, a nasty little woman. The police handcuffed Gladys, and the smaller cop led her out of the bank. The other officer looked at Gina and said, “I’ll need statements from everyone. Are you in charge here?”

“No,” Gina said, and pointed to Linda. “She is. Excuse me for a moment. I need to go to the rest room.” As Gina left the teller line, she saw the cop approaching Linda. As soon as he had his back to her, Gina sneaked behind him and left the bank. She had to get out of there and didn’t feel like coordinating some kind of robbery-debriefing ceremony. She didn’t know the procedures, and she wasn’t about to rummage through some policies and procedures manual to find all the goofy forms that needed to be filled out. Besides, she knew Linda would cover for her as usual.

Diving Right In

C
heryl had been up for only about an hour. Well, actually, she had been up briefly about two hours earlier to call in sick to work before she lay back down. She felt fine, but she hadn’t called in sick for a few months, and she figured she deserved a day on the sofa, watching television. She was beating a couple eggs with a heavy-duty whisk her mother had bought her for her birthday and trying to remember everything she had learned about omelet making in one of the cooking classes she had taken. She remembered the instructor saying that it was important not to overbeat the eggs. The goal was to mix the yolk and the white so slightly that the final product would have striations of both. She dropped some butter in the skillet and poured in the eggs.

“Work it, work it,” she said to herself as she swirled the pan and raised and lowered the skillet to control the heat. As the bottom of the omelet began to set, she lifted it up to allow some of the uncooked egg to run underneath. When the eggs were almost set, she turned off the heat and dropped in a few green peppers, tomatoes, and mushrooms.

“Okay, now for the hard part,” she muttered as she brought the skillet over the edge of the plate and tipped and rolled the omelet out of the pan at the same time.

“Yes!” she said as the perfect omelet hit the plate. Cheryl set two pieces of toast next to the omelet, pulled a cheese soufflé from the oven, and took the whole spread into the living room, where she set it on a TV tray in front of the sofa.

She went back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice and grabbed some strawberry jam. As she walked back into the living room, she thought about how nice it would be to share her culinary creations with someone. When she lay her orange juice on the TV tray, she pictured a guy sitting in front of it, raving about what a great chef she was, and how lucky he was to have someone like her. As the vision passed, she clicked on the television to catch the last part of
The Today Show.
She didn’t particularly care for Katie. But that Matt—he was hot!

As she sat down to eat her breakfast, she felt the same way she always did when she cooked herself an elaborate meal and then ate it in front of the television alone—pathetic. She only did it about once a week. Usually, she subsisted on Lean Cuisines, deli sandwiches, or restaurant meals with friends, but she really enjoyed cooking and wanted to keep up her culinary skills. She took classes every now and then through l’Académie de Cuisine in Bethesda and some of the adult education programs in the area. Sometimes she would invite friends over when she cooked, and every once in a while she would ask Bea, the middle-aged woman next door, if she would like to join her for dinner.

When she finally got settled in on the sofa and started to eat her breakfast, the phone rang. Cheryl hopped up and grabbed the phone.

“Hello.”

“Is Cheryl there?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi, this is Hal from the
City Paper.”

Cheryl took a deep breath and tried to relax. “Hi, how are you?”

“Good, good. And yourself?”

“Just fine,” Cheryl said.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, not at all,” Cheryl replied, staring at her breakfast, which was getting cold on the other side of the room.

“Great. Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to dive right in.”

“Dive right in?” Cheryl asked.

“Yeah. I developed this questionnaire I’d like to go over with you. Do you mind?”

Questionnaire? “No, not at all,” Cheryl said, not really sure if she minded or not. She would have preferred just having an informal conversation.

“Okay. Let’s see. I think I have all your stats. You’re five five, one hundred ten pounds, African American, short black hair, brown eyes. Correct?”

“Yep,” Cheryl said, now knowing that she minded.

“You didn’t say how old you were in your response.”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Great. Are you from the area?”

“No, I grew up in Maine, but went to college in D.C.”

“Cool. You have a 202 area code, so I guess you live in the city?”

“You got it,” Cheryl said, not sure if she would complete the rest of his dumb questionnaire before she just hung up on him. He sounded so pleasant and normal on his greeting.

“What do you do for a living?”

Cheryl didn’t understand the logic of his questions at all. He went from where she grew up, to where she lived now, to what she did for a living. God, anyone with half a brain knew you were not supposed to ask someone what she did for a living when you first meet. It’s one of those things everyone wants to know when meeting a potential love interest, but you’re supposed to pretend it’s not important.

What an idiot! Oh, well, she’d figured she’d get through his dumb questionnaire then just not return any of his calls if he ever phoned back. She was about to tell Hal about her job implementing new accounts for a health insurance company, when she had an idea.

“Well, I’m not working at the moment,” Cheryl lied. “I’m out on disability.”

“Disability?”

“Yeah. I’m having some mental health issues at the moment. My psychiatrist thought it would be good for me to get out and do things. That’s why I answered the ad.”

“Oh, well . . . good for you,” Hal replied with some apprehension.

“Don’t worry, as long as I take my antipsychotics I seem to do reasonably well. I haven’t had an incident in several weeks,” Cheryl said, not really sure what antipsychotics were.

“Oh . . .” Hal replied, not sure what to say and losing his interest in continuing with the questionnaire.

“I’m sorry. I probably divulged too much for a first phone call,” Cheryl said innocently.

“No, no, not at all,” Hal said before adding, “Oh, that’s my call waiting. Can I take this call and try you back later?”

“Sure,” Cheryl said. “I’ll be home all day.”

“Okay. Nice to talk to you.”

Cheryl hung up the phone, slowly shook her head in frustration, and smirked slightly to herself. Only two ads in the whole paper even remotely interested her, and both turned out to be duds. Not to mention she had probably spent a nice chunk of change to respond to the ads. Maybe she could check the personals in the
Washingtonian
magazine or
The Washington Post
. She tried to think of a few other sources when she started to think about taking out her own ad. What did she really have to lose other than her pride?

As Cheryl finished her breakfast, she flipped through the
City Paper
and checked out the guidelines for placing an ad. It was only five dollars for fifty words, but Cheryl thought that some Web sites, like Digital City or Yahoo! let you take out electronic personal ads free.