My checks are ready for deposit. I’ve counted them twice and I’ve already pulled my ATM card out. There will be no fumbling with my wallet while I stand before the money machine with my finances exposed to someone in line behind me. I’ve got a neat stack in my right hand: two checks and my ATM card.
It’s near midnight on Friday. I’m sitting in my car, parked in my local bank’s parking lot. It’s me and a white maintenance truck. There’s no one in the truck. It’s probably being left here overnight to do some contract work for the bank. I won’t get out of my car until the song is over. I can see bright lights approaching from the other side of the bank building. The lights are coming up the road adjacent to the bank. Then this happens. The car pulls into the parking lot, but the driver enters the lot through the exit driveway.
This parking lot is a one-way 45-degree design with two rows. One enters through the far row and exits through the near row. “Far” and “near” refer to the proximity of the rows to the bank building. What if I was leaving at the very moment this “entering the exit” driver made his very inconsiderate move. The arrogance of this asshole!
A head-on collision in the bank parking lot. If I was leaving, there would have been a head-on collision. Would we calmly inspect the damage and exchange insurance cards and driver license information? Surely my insurance company would explain to the egotistical driver’s insurance company that this is a one-way parking lot. But would they cover the deductible? Would I lose my car to the body shop while they repair the damage?
What if I was leaving the parking lot while this careless, shit for brains, brazenly forced his auto through the exit, but our front bumpers met without a collision? Would he see the error of his ways and kindly reverse? Maybe there would be a stand-off. Bumper to bumper and eye to eye. Until it dawns on me that I may be looking at myself, and the other car is identical to mine. It’s my car, but with a license plate from nowhere I’m familiar with. We slap our respective accelerators and the cars pass through each other. It’s the deformation of space and time within the confines of my bank’s parking lot. In the moment of automobile overlap, I swap souls with my counter self from an unknown state and our cars motor back to separate parallel universes to complete our respective bank transactions.
The song neared its end and the wrong-way driver passed before me. I watched as he continued to defy painted arrows and angled parking spaces, which all cried out to his disobedient and deviant route. He moved against the grain and around the building to the drive-through teller stations. There were no tellers on duty at this late hour. It didn’t matter, the drive-through teller stations had all been converted to drive-through ATM’s many years ago. The moment had passed and I let it go. The song was over and I had checks to deposit.
This bank offered two ATMs covered by a small canopy. A street sidewalk passed in front of the ATMs. There was a thin tree lawn that framed the sidewalk, and beyond the grass was the street. This was the same street which provided the entry and exit ways for the parking lot. The very same parking lot where my car rested and watched me deposit my checks. As I stood in front of the second ATM, I could look to my right and make eye contact with my auto. I slid my plastic card into the bank machine and then punched-in my PIN code on the worn and defaced keypad. I glanced to my right for a moment. Another car entered the bank parking lot. I’m screaming in the silent cavity within my skull. This car has entered the bank parking lot through the exit driveway. This was painful to watch. Was this a test? Does anyone else know about this? Should I do something?
Is there an hour in the late evening when minor rules of the road and driving courtesies disintegrate? Do these drivers see themselves as renegades of the municipality? Are they exposing their anger and aggression toward the infinite details and rules? Are they frustrated with conformity and functioning among so many in a highly populated urban environment? The underbelly of underlying deep disdain is revealed in a late night strip mall. Breaking the rules. Breaking the law. Entering the exit to find a fissure in everything that speaks to order.
Fuming with disgust at the midnight trend, which was unfolding in the bank parking lot, I looked down to realize that I had not endorsed the back of my checks. How did I not see this when I carefully organized my stack of checks and the bank card? I wanted to punish myself, but there were far bigger mistakes being made tonight in the bank parking lot.
I need a pen. I need something to endorse my checks with. The bank closed long before the last light of day, and those bank pens are crap. The writing surface near the deposit slips defies the mechanics of the metal ball within the socket of the cheapest ballpoint pens known to mankind. The smooth laminated surface doesn’t allow for the ink to roll out properly and results in an initial smear of ink. Then, embossed letters with a hint of ink adhering to the paper fibers. Finally, a tear of the paper as one attempts to apply more pressure to make the darn thing work. Those pens just don’t work!
I have back-up pens in the armrest compartment of my car. These are good pens, which actually write on most any surface. The ATM spits out my plastic card. My right hand is vibrating with an adrenaline aftershock. My anger is on the rise. It’s up for debate whether my adrenaline and anger have a direct correlation with what I’ve witnessed in the bank parking lot this evening. Could it be that mental dystopia has arrived and disrupted a night of mellow grooviness due to latent feelings for bank pens?
I take my bank card and unendorsed checks back to my vehicle in the parking lot. I can only hope that security cameras are not over analyzing my small error. A lonely remote security person monitoring things on the security cameras might understand that I simply forgot something in my car. Maybe I was just inspecting my account balance and I was back in my car to mediate with myself and determine the proper amount to take out of my account? Maybe I made a deposit and realized upon returning to my car that I forgot to withdraw some petty cash for a late night visit to my favorite diner. Or, maybe I forgot to endorse my checks and I needed a really good pen for signing the back of my checks. Nonetheless, someone on the other end of a security camera may be scrutinizing me for going back and forth from my car to the ATM, but did they take notice of the two drivers who entered the exit? Did the eye on the other side of the security camera notice that these same insolent drivers were driving the wrong way in the bank’s parking lot? I’m being watched on closed circuit security cameras by a hypercritical intelligence agent, supported by a staff of security analysts hunkered down in a war room, as if I’m scouting the facilities for a big bank heist. Meanwhile, there’s rampant wrong way driving in the parking lot, which is threatening to commit vehicular homicide at any moment.
I’m back in my car. I found my pen. I’m ready to endorse the checks. A light flashes in my direction. A four-door blue Chevy Impala passes before me. The meteor has landed and we’re all going down with the dinosaurs. The circle of life is in a downward spiral and I’m descending through the double helix strands of disbelief and rage. This is the third car inside less than twenty-minutes to enter the exit and drive through the bank’s parking lot in the wrong direction. Moving against traffic, operating without fear, acting abnormally due to the late hour. The Impala rounds the corner and heads for the drive-through ATMs.
With precision and speed, I place the checks, my bank card, and my really good pen in the glove compartment. I lock the glove compartment. I ignite my car, pull out of my 45-degree parking space, and head in the proper direction to the drive-through ATMs. I need to know who this person is. Who is this human being who thinks it’s alright to enter the exit and drive the wrong way? This is a danger to everyone, and I want to let this crazed lunatic know about it.
I turn the first corner. Then I turn the second corner at a higher speed. I’m coming in hot and I break hard before I rear-end the Chevy Impala. I come really close to banging the bumper of the Impala. My lights are shrieking high-pitched photons against the Impala’s rear window. The Impala immediately pulls away, rapidly exits to the street, and turns left around the bank building with a loud screech. I’m feeling the angst and impulsive reaction of viewing an empty store shelf where the special sale item was supposed to be. The thing that’s on sale is the thing that I want, but it’s not here! I run around the store looking for a clerk to check the stock in back. There must be one more in stock. It’s got to be there!
I follow the Impala to the street and take the same hard left. My car bounces off the curb as I move from concrete to asphalt at a sharp angle. I can see the tail lights of the Impala just before the mystery driver disappears behind the bank building. This lunatic has once again entered the exit, and again, he’s moving through the bank parking lot in the wrong direction. I give chase, but I drive the extra twelve feet to enter the parking lot through the proper entrance, and I’m moving in the proper direction. I may be leaving earth’s orbit in terms of my mental state, but no one is going to call me a hypocrite.
I’m closing on the Impala and the lunatic knows it. We both dash through the drive-through ATM area, pull out to the street, and left turns take us back into the bank parking lot. Again, the Impala enters the exit, but I drive the extra distance to abide by the rules. We’re on lap two around the bank. I fall behind in the parking area of the bank parking lot, but I get closer to the Impala when we pass through the drive-through ATM area, which is narrower and trickier to navigate.
After we complete lap four, the Impala takes the usual left turn out of the drive-through ATM passageway and out onto the street with wheels screeching. As I follow the tail lights, the Impala’s tactics have changed. The lunatic driver does not turn into the exit of the bank. For a micro-second I believe that the driver has changed their wayward ways, and may finally recognize the need to enter through the proper driveway. The Impala goes straight past the bank.
I have no idea where the Chevy Impala is headed, and a part of my rational self has become wedged between the seats with loose change from years gone by. My hunter-gatherer spirit has taken hold. Any self-righteous speech I planned to deliver to the driver of the blue Chevy Impala before me has metastasized into a reckless red rage tingling from the roof top of my skull to the chewed nibs of my nails spiking the steering wheel.
The Impala is headed for the other end of this strip mall where a second bank serves as an anchor to a row of micro retail shops we zoom past. The Impala is definitely part of some evil cult. The driver takes a sharp squealing left into the exit of this second financial establishment found in our late night chase. I find this act of disobedience for adhering to the designated entry driveway worthy of new legislation, which would involve a heavy fine, loss of driver’s license, and possibly jail time. This cult of entering the exits has got to be broken.
I cut left into this second bank’s parking lot through the entrance driveway, which was clearly defined with a brightly lit sign that read, “Enter.” My electro-biochemical overdrive subsided for the smallest pause to register the following. The entrance driveway was closer and the exit driveway was farther from where we were coming. They were taunting me. It didn’t make sense to drive further to go into the wrong driveway.
This second bank was at the opposite end of the strip mall and it was configured as the mirror layout of the first bank. Once the Impala entered the exit and was moving in the wrong direction of the second bank’s parking lot, the lunatic cult driver made a right to get to this bank’s drive-through ATMs. If we were to simulate the chase around the prior bank, as we initiated the first lap around this new bank, we would need to execute consecutive right turns.
The second race ended before it could get started. This race track only offered a single ATM on the back side of the bank. It was being used at the time of our chase. The Impala slammed into a beige minivan peacefully awaiting a cash withdrawal. I turned the corner, hit my breaks, and slammed into the broken Impala. My view of the world was instantly interrupted and a micro-second later I was completely confused by my bright white surroundings. Where was I? Why did my face feel like it was burning? What is this toxic industrial smell taking up residence at the back of my throat?
I snapped out of my moment of shock and frantically moved my arms to cut through the bright white surroundings. I was covered in an airbag. My brain voraciously sponged-up relief compounds secreted within my brain tissue. I was still on planet earth and in my car. That toxic industrial smell was dissipating and I could breath again.
As quickly as the relief took hold, it transformed into despair and disbelief. I had mashed my car. There were low frequency thuds coming from outside my vehicle. These thuds evolved into fast-paced rhythmic pounding on the glass of my passenger door window. It was the lunatic cult driver from the Chevy Impala. The driver was a middle-aged woman in a hot pink track suit. She backed off for a moment to give herself room to perform an awkward karate kick to my passenger door. Snap judgments and contrasting considerations simultaneously processed through the frontal lobes of my brain. This was insane and beyond anything I could have imagined in terms of an outcome when I began to pursue the Chevy Impala. It’s possible that I’m passed out and the events are not happening. Who cares if the hot pink track suit momma dents my door with her weekend workshop martial arts power kicks — the automobile exoskeleton is already crumpled and bent beyond body-repair restoration.
I should remain in the car, which is serving as a temporary cocoon of safety. Things stopped making sense from the time I realized that I had not endorsed my checks at the other bank’s ATM. Consistent with the questionable actions in the last twenty-minutes of my existence, I try to escape the protective cockpit of my automobile. My driver’s side door opens an inch and then slams into a concrete support pillar. During the rear-end collision with the Chevy Impala, my car bounced to the left and nearly collided with one of the banks support pillars holding up the drive-through ATM portico. I’m trapped between a concrete pillar and a middle-aged momma with her thunder kick, body blows to the curved sheet metal of my passenger side doors.
From the shadows of this late twentieth century strip mall, the driver of the beige minivan saves the day. Thunder kick momma is taken down by another woman in purple activewear. The two women are slapping at each other and hot pink track suit momma attempts to land a kick near the midsection of purple activewear lady. This improvisational octagon death match is abruptly illuminated by the flashing bright lights of two police cruisers pulling into the area at once. It’s just like a sting operation on TV. This is that magical moment, with ten-minutes left in the high drama one hour program, when all of the unanswered questions of the last fifty-minutes (including extended commercial breaks) come to a head. It’s possible that I may pull out of this insanity smelling like a rose, if by the good grace of God, they can find a stash of drugs in the trunk of hot pink track suit momma’s Chevy Impala, or in the hollow of a hidden compartment within purple activewear lady’s beige minivan.
I’m in the back seat of a police cruiser moving at extremely high speeds through empty streets. The officers need to hurry, vacancies are running low in the overnight holding cell. I’m wearing handcuffs with my arms behind my back. I lean forward on the seat to ease the pinching pain in my neck and shoulders from the car crash. With every bump in the road, the front of my head bounces against the cage of the steel divider. After multiple attempts by the officers to decipher how three cars collided at a drive-through ATM, and why two of the drivers were physically beating on one another in bright colorful garments — they called in a third police cruiser and we each received a private tour of the town.
The first stop on our late night city sightseeing would be the county hospital. Track suit momma and purple activewear lady needed some medical attention in the post-fight analysis. I had burn abrasions on my face from my bright white airbag, and there was some concern for head trauma, as my story was downright incoherent. When I was questioned while sitting on the ground in tightfitting handcuffs, the officers assumed I was intoxicated or over-medicated with some illegal substance. In my rambling, I included the possibility that I was pursuing others in an attempt to make a citizen’s arrest.
I could see bright red lights illuminating the emergency wing of the county hospital. As we approached the city block occupied by this large medical institution, an ambulance passed us and went into the special emergency ambulance entrance. The police cruiser I sat within came upon a second driveway. This second driveway was framed by two identical red and white signs that read, “Do Not Enter.” Of course, this was my path to healing and salvation.
