My Last 20 Bucks

My Last 20 Bucks

By Michael Lawrence

"Hey what's holding up the line!" a freshman college student exclaimed
in the middle of an extremely long line at the bank. "Come on! I
haven't got all day!"

This college student might be a tad impatient, but he was tremendously
clever. Not only was he clever, but remarkably athletic, wise, and
above all else, had dashing good looks. Well, I'd like to think so
anyway because that was myself as a brash young lad.

The tellers employed at my bank were so slow, you'd think they
accidentally tied their shoelaces to an anvil. I crossed my arms with
impatience while stomping my foot loudly on the bank's cheap floor
tiles. Unfortunately, that wasn't disturbing the people in front of me
enough for them to leave so I utilized other methods.

"FIRE!" I screamed, but everyone turned their heads and glared at me as
if I was a loon-ball. Right, if I see a fire, I bet they expect to see
it too. "TORNADO!" I yelled. Though tornadoes generally take place out
of doors, they apparently didn't believe in my psychic powers. I then
tucked one arm in my shirt and appeared as if I was struggling to
stand. "LEPER!" I yelled with all my force. I gasped in exasperation
and limped one step backward into something rock-solid. It was the
security guard. He was almost as muscular as I. He frowned and said
nothing. I laughed insecurely and pretended to turn into a lawyer so he
would go away.

***

Before I knew it, I finally inched my way to the beginning of the line.
I greeted the teller who had thin, fluffy, fake red hair and in all
definitions of the word, was an old bag. (Well, maybe not in all
definitions of the word, but an old bag over her head couldn't
hurt.)

"One hundred bucks, please," I said to her slapping my bankcard onto
the counter like a true hot shot. She licked her heavily painted lips
with a smack and snatched my card. She typed something on her computer
terminal and frowned.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you only have twenty dollars left in your
account," she said. I wailed in terror.

"That's impossible," I said. "Check again." My face tensed and a lone
tear streamed down my cheek in anguish. I looked at her with puppy
eyes. (They're not really puppy eyes but my eyes skewed to appear as if
I needed rehab.) She glowered at me with those mascara-ridden eyelashes
and her thinly painted eyebrows.

"You have twenty dollars left in your account, sir," she repeated
angrily. I cursed to myself. "Are you going to make a withdrawal?" she
growled.

"Yes," I said gulping, restraining the tears. "The whole twenty dollars
please." The teller clawed open a drawer and removed a single
twenty-dollar bill. She set it on the counter. I stared at that piece
of paper. I not only gazed at the thing because it was my last twenty
bucks in the world, but I also had to stare at it because the portrait
of Andrew Jackson was talking to me.

"I'm all you got left, kid," Andrew Jackson said, winking. "Remember,
do as I always say: a penny saved is a penny earned. Use me
wisely."

"Dude," I responded. "That's Ben Franklin's quote." President Jackson
appeared frustrated.

"That fat-faced loser always gets the good quotes! He didn't survive an
assassination attempt like I did! That takes real guts, buddy - it's
nothing like those goofy inventions of his," Jackson complained. "So,
blow me on craps if you want, kid."

"Well?!" the wicked bank teller screamed forcing me to cease my
once-in-a-lifetime conversation with President Andrew Jackson.

"Actually," I said. "I was hoping you could give me two ten-dollar
bills so I can try my hand at breeding."

"Look," she said with a grr. "There are people behind you
waiting!"

"No, dammit!" I exclaimed. "I am a customer and I've got my rights! I
demand two ten-dollar bills! And if you won't give me two ten-dollar
bills, then I will take my business elsewhere," It was then when the
teller whipped out her two-inch, red-painted wolf claws. Afraid, I
ducked and waddled away.

I then made a sudden realization: I ought to somehow get more money. If
I don't, I reasoned, I wouldn't be able to afford take out pizza any
more, and I would be forced to eat the cafeteria's slightly poisonous
cuisine.

"What I need is a loan!" I exclaimed. Suddenly, a door noisily squeaked
open and the sound of rapid footsteps grew louder. It was a bank
employee.

"Hello, sir," the employee said. "Did I hear you say you needed a
loan?" He was stumpy in stature and liked to rub his hands
together.

"Yeah!" I responded truly amazed and this guy's convenient
swiftness.

"Shall we make a loan for, say, ten thousand dollars?" he asked holding
out the already-filled, necessary paperwork.

"Ten thousand dollars!" I repeated. "Isn't that a little steep
considering I have no job or valuable assets?"

"But you do have a valuable asset!" the employee said giddily. "A
father you can bum money from."

"Okay," I said signing the paper. The employee then immediately handed
me ten thousand dollars in cash from his pocket.

"Bruno here will pick up the first payment next month," the employee
said seemingly happy to give me the money. Unfortunately, I didn't
learn until later in life that this was actually a bad thing. This loan
officer was really the devil in disguise in some Faustian nightmare. I
essentially sold my soul over to him who put me on strings and forced
me to make minimum monthly payments on command. That is, until I became
so frustrated with it and robbed the bank with a frozen hotdog while
cleverly disguised as Helen Hunt in pajamas. But I'm sure you're not
interested in that story.