Sufficient to Stand, Free to Fall

A life of entitlement can be dangerous to man.

It’s important that you realize that I only wanted to deposit my goddamn check.  All of this could have been avoided if Susan, my ungodly incompetent secretary, had not forgotten to put the check in my mailbox until after lunch on Friday. I mean, really, how does one forget to deliver a check for $5000? Due to Susan’s incompetence, I was unable to deposit the check before the bank closed on Friday. You see, I work on Wall Street doing a job that I wouldn’t expect you to understand for a company you are probably too uncultured to have ever heard of; the hours aren’t exactly nine to five.  I should have fired Susan months ago when she failed retrieve my dry cleaning and then four days later forgot cancel my Thursday meetings. Learn from my mistakes and pick a secretary with experience, not with legs a mile long.

On the day in question, Saturday, September 19, 1998, I got dressed at 8:00am, choosing between fifteen designer suits.  I was going to wear a suit I usually reserve for weekends, a Ralph Lauren that was just a tad too casual for work but perfect for going about town. I grabbed the hanger with the Ralph Lauren on it and hung it separately on a hook on the back of my closet door. As I removed the jacket to put it on, I noticed an imperfection. I held my breath as I examined a dark spot on the sleeve, near the cuff.  It wasn’t a stain, so much as a snag in the fabric. I yanked the entire suit off of the door, howling in frustration.  A lesser person wouldn’t have noticed such an imperfection, but it would drive me crazy. I would never be able to wear the suit again without thinking about the snag, without worrying it would catch on something else and humiliate me. I stuffed it in the trash can, but not without cutting it up. The idea of a homeless man taking it from my garbage to wear it disgusted me. Imperfect or not, he didn’t deserve to wear my $1300 designer suit. Once I was finished, I went back to my closet and chose my newest Armani; two piece, single breasted and tailored to fit me like a glove. It was one of my personal favorites, so I decided to not count the entire morning as total loss.

I tucked the check deep within my breast pocket, and exited my apartment building around 8:45. I like to know the exact time, which is why I spent so much on my diamond encrusted Rolex. It’s worth it.

It was cloudy and the breeze was uncomfortably chilly, so I decided to stop and get an espresso on my way to the bank. The pavement was damp and puddles pooled near the curbs. It must have rained overnight. There’s an authentic French café about two blocks from where I live and I usually go there instead of the Starbucks which is on the corner of my block. I was in a hurry and was too chilled to go out of my way to my usual place, so I lowered my standards and went to Starbucks. To my dismay, the line was inconveniently long. I stood behind two housewives, each sporting a toddler on their hip.  They were near my age but too soft in the middle. The taller one had long, blonde hair well past her shoulder but her roots were painfully obvious. It irritated me. How could she look in the mirror every day and not be bothered by it. If you’re going to be bottle blonde, you need to do the upkeep, otherwise you look like trash. Her counterpart was one of those women that had their first child and then decided to chop all their hair off so they didn’t have to bother with it anymore. Some women could pull it off but they weren’t pudgy housewives wearing department store knock offs.

I watched the second hand tick by on my Rolex. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The women gossiped about how the new PTA president was a total control freak who was more of a career woman than mother of the year if you know what I mean. I rolled my eyes and checked my watch again. Mere seconds had passed but they felt like hours.

One of the little s***s dropped his chew toy and started crying. His mother was too busy running her mouth to notice. I stared down at the slobbery plastic pacifier with disgust. The drool was starting to pool around it. The child wailed and wailed. My eye twitched from the distress. By the time I finally got to the counter, I felt a migraine coming on. The barista was a pretty, young university student whose shirt looked like it had been painted on. Her tits practically burst through it and my excessive wait almost seemed worth it. I pulled my wallet from my pocket as I ordered a tall café Americano.  She gave me a fake smile as she made my drink.  She then handed over a child’s size cup to me.

I tried to be polite, I laughed pleasantly, “No, no, I ordered a tall.”

“This is a tall,” she replied, her fake smile starting to falter.

“This is small.”

“Yeah, a tall is a small.”

“How does that make any f*****g sense?” I was starting to lose my patience. I’d waited in line for twenty minutes behind two obnoxious cows for a damn espresso and then this fake perky b***h was going to try and f**k me over.

The girl grew nervous.

“It’s just our menu, sir, if you want a bigger one, I can remake it…”

“You’re damn right you’ll make me a new one!”

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to calm myself. I told her to make me another one as big as they come and to do so quickly. When it was done, I snatched it out of her hands and stormed out.  It was now 9:32. The sky was bleak which seemed fitting considering the trials I had endured in the name of espresso. I took a sip of the beverage. I expected it to be a little too hot, but drinking boiling salt water would have been preferable to the bile that I consumed. I spat it out onto the sidewalk. The taste was purely metallic, as I would imagine the water from the wishing well at the park tastes like.  Enraged, I turned and pitched the cup full speed into the shop window. The drink exploded; coffee and foam splattered across the glass, startling the patrons inside. 

                A couple mouthy locals started chewing me out, and even though I couldn’t hear them, it pissed me off.  That’s the worst part of living in New York, you know, putting up with f*****g New Yorkers. They think that everyone should listen to their opinions. They just run their mouths to everyone, always bitching, always complaining.  I flipped them off before setting off in search of something to rid my mouth of the overwhelming taste of dirty old pennies

                 The bank was about five blocks north of this spot and my French café was two blocks east. I had enough time, especially if I took a cab. I shoved my fists into my pockets and headed towards decent espresso.  My outrage had warmed me up again, so I drank the new and improved drink simply because I enjoyed it and it made my mouth taste better. I even took a seat at a table and read the Wall Street Journal.

                I exited the café and headed back in the direction of the bank. It was now 10:15. I made it about a block before I noticed it was misting out. Not quite rain, but enough moisture was in the air to dampen my face. I started looking for a taxi. I hailed a few but the b******s either ignored me or already had customers.  Just when I finally gave up on finding a taxi, the severity of the rain greatly increased. Within seconds the rain went from a slight drizzle to a torrential down pour. I could almost feel the rain soaking my Armani suit, feel the drops penetrate the intricately woven fabric, softening and loosening the fibers.  The fibers would harden while drying and the suit would shrink. It would be unfit to wear in public, completely ruined.

 I attempted to hail a taxi again; perhaps if I quickly got out of the rain and dried it properly I could salvage it. The taxi blew right past me, but not without hitting the nearest puddle. The sandy, grimy water rose up in an ugly, malicious wave and sprayed me everywhere. It avoided my face but my suit was unsalvageable now. I cursed and screamed before realizing I had no option but to walk.

I trudged through the street, the chilly rain pelting me in the face. My hair flopped in my face and no matter how many times I tried to smooth it back it wouldn’t stay. I was seething. Steam was practically rising from my now soaked skin.  There’s nothing uglier than New York when it rains. Everything’s grey and grimy and dirty and the rain does nothing but accentuate the filth.   I sloshed through a puddle, figuring that my leather shoes were already completely fucked. I was tempted to strip down naked and continue my business that way. My clothes were a heavy burden, an inconvenient cross to bear. 

 It was 10:48 by the time I reached the bank.  I caught sight of my reflection on the door and wanted to shatter the glass. I didn’t look like myself. I didn’t look like I lived in a penthouse in a very nice neighborhood, and I didn’t look like my suit cost more than most people’s monthly rent, I looked like I slept on the benches in the park.   I threw the door open, and inside the bank was possibly two dozen patrons, almost all of them dry and carrying umbrellas. A well-dressed woman looked at me, her eyes laughing at me for leaving the house this morning without an umbrella.  Every person in the building thought I was an idiot, and I was starting to believe that they were right.

I surveyed the situation. There was one teller; one single teller working in the entire goddamn bank. She was a young, sophisticated thing; blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, perfect smile spread across her face as she attended to the customers.  I took a deep breath that rattled my bones. There were exactly 22 people ahead of me in line and the bank closed at noon. I had exactly 72 minutes until the bank closed. I figured that allowed a little over 3 minutes per person. I tucked my finger into my collar and loosened it.  Technically speaking, they couldn’t all have separate business to attend to. I decided it was safe to assume that since I made it inside the bank I would be fine. I had to be fine.

The bank was quiet compared Starbucks, much less pointless chatter amongst the patrons.  I pulled the check out of my breast pocket to examine it.  To my annoyance, the damn thing was damp but thankfully not too soggy. I held it in my hand, hoping to dry it out some.

I then examined my watch. I was worried it had gotten too wet but it was still ticking when I put it to my ear. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second pulsed through me as it passed. I felt time crawl across my skin, burrow inside and wrap its gnarled fingers around my heart. Time itself pumped my blood, and controlled my pulse. It was agony. Every moment a patron attempted small talk or fumbled with their wallet, it felt as if shards of glass had entered my blood stream.  The b***h with the umbrella spent 45 full seconds trying to locate her personal pen instead of just using the pen attached to the goddamn counter. Time tore at me with its talons every time some idiot forgot to endorse their checks or asked too many questions.

There were now eight people in front of me in line and none of them appeared to be attached to each other in anyway.  It was down to six people in line ahead of me and fifteen minutes until close. I took a deep breath. I could feel the heavy, wet fabric of my shirt on my skin, all at once. I could feel it on my shoulders, on my back, on my arms and on my legs. I could feel my socks on my feet in my shoes, soggy, moist, and uncomfortable.  I checked my watch. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.  Each tick was more irritating than the last. 

It was 11:58. I was next in line. I tried to make eye contact with the teller so she wouldn’t forget me but she always gave her undivided attention to each patron. The man in front of me, short, probably around 5’8, round in the middle, balding on top, was the only thing separating me from depositing my bonus check. He was a bumbling sort of man. He was sweating nervously, pulling at his collar. I heard him apologize as he dug around in his pockets for his wallet. This b*****d had been in line with me for the past hour and hadn’t thought to have his damn wallet ready. I rubbed my face in frustration.  People sicken me. They never consider other people. Take this as a lesson: no one, not a single person in the whole damn planet wants to stand behind you at the bank, at the cash register, at the box office and wait for you to dig around in your purse or pockets for your money.  I mean, you’ve waited in line at the bank, the store, the theatre, what have you, you know what comes next. You pay at the f*****g counter. I do not understand why that is such a hard concept for these simpletons to understand.

The stout man joked with the teller about the weather and asked her if she was a student somewhere. She had a beautiful smile; it lit up her whole face. She told him she was studying ballet at Julliard.  I shifted my weight.   She took her time counting out each of his bills before handing them over to him. He continued to chat with her and wish her luck as he slowly folded them into his wallet. When he finally had the decency to move out of my way, I stepped up to the counter. I faked a smile the best I could, stretched it right across my face. I peeked at her name tag.

“Good morning, Jessica.”

The teller slipped her graceful hand beneath the counter and pulled out a sign. She placed it on the counter between us.

“Sorry sir, but its past noon. We’re closed for the day.”

Her pretty face was void of any real sympathy.  How could she possibly sympathize with the day I’d had? She had no idea the sheer hell I’d been through.

                “I waited in line for 72 minutes.  I was here well before noon,” I replied tersely, through clenched teeth.

                “I understand, sir, but I cannot assist you today. But I can help you first thing on Monday when we open.”

I took a step closer.

                “I will not come in on f*****g Monday, you’re going to deposit this f*****g check right the f**k now, have I made myself clear?”

                Jessica’s face fell, I saw her eyes dart away, perhaps searching for security that wasn’t there. In that respect, he’s just as much to blame as I am. There were some people behind me line, sad saps who had also hoped to reach the counter before close. They just watched like my public failure somehow alleviated their own.

                “Sir,” she replied sternly, her voice a little shaky, “You cannot speak to me that way, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the premises.”

I don’t know what happened. I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment. I know what you want to hear. That I had a clear epiphany, that I felt all the strings within me snap, but I didn’t. All I know is that I started laughing. Quietly at first, but then loudly, gasping for air. Jessica watched me nervously from behind the counter.  The onlookers were quiet, but seemed to have put plenty of space between us.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I laughed, leaning over the counter, “No really, Jessica, I stepped over the line.”

She took one fatal step closer to me, about to utter a response. I leaned over the counter and grabbed her ponytail. She managed to let out a yelp before a bashed her head into the counter.  Her yelp transformed into a scream.  The few people who were behind me let out cries of horror before running out into the street. I told you people were disgusting. They ran from the scene instead of ripping me off of her. They are every bit as much to blame as I am.

“Listen up, you little s**t,” I threatened, pulling her now bleeding face towards mine, “I have had enough of this f*****g bullshit.

                She tried to twist away but she couldn’t. I had a fistful of her hair. She started screaming and just kept screaming. It was hurting my ears. I wanted her to stop. I couldn’t make my damn point if she wouldn’t stop f*****g screaming. I was literally shaking with rage, I thought the vein on my forehead was going to pop right off my head.

                It seemed like time stood still, but it must have happened pretty quickly. I removed my right hand from her hair and replaced it with my left. It was as natural move as tying my tie in the morning, as buttoning my shirt. I grabbed the pen that was attached the counter. I gave her a chance.

“Shut your f*****g mouth!” I ordered. She yelped out again. “I’m not f*****g around, shut up or I’ll shut you up.”

She squealed as she tried to wretch away from me.  Without giving it any thought I rammed that pen into the tender flesh of her neck.  I spare you twisted b******s the gory details, but I stabbed her and I didn’t stop stabbing her until that squealing b***h was silent.  Blood splattered across my ruined $1500 Armani suit and that only made me angrier. Finally the security guard decided to show up and he pulled me off of her, but it was too late. It was over.

Reviews

[Ketal]

I find this easy to read and well described. The main character is believable. It is a true portrayal of the psychopath brain. The violence at the end is disturbing to me, but that is how they think. A narcissist sees things this way. There are a couple typos : an “a” instead of an “I” and one other small one at the end. But overall quite readable, I enjoyed it!

[Jordan Bryant]

Thank you so much for reviewing my story! I really appreciate the feedback. I will search for those typos soon!

[VALORMORE DE PLUME]

Quite a build up to make the point. You are very good at discribing the scene and the state of mind of this first person account. I think the details and cursing have over painted the scope of the plot. After all the build up I found the ending a wee bit rushed. Thank you for sparing the Gore, but how did the man react to the security? Did he feel anything about losing control? How did he get back the Ralph Lauren suit fater cutting it up? If he was so wealthy why was this $1500 bonus check not direct deposit? Why did he need so badly deposit it today? I mean think about it, he was too concerned about self image to wear a suit with a microscopic snagg, yet didn't mind public homicide in front of the banks cameras. More plausable for him to coldly calculate murdering her as she left the bank, in such a way as to leave no clues. This would have been more in character with the man you portrayed so adeptly. I believe you have a great talent for discription, but need to think things through to a finer degree of fruition. All in all this was an engaging read. I am far from perfect and mean no offence.

[Jordan Bryant]

No I appriciate your criticisms, they are all things I have thought myself. I was mostly trying to emulate the tone of American Psycho while building a set tension to a breaking point. In subsequent drafts I would probably explore the aspects you mentioned more! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!