Another Day, Another Dollar

A fun little short story:

Mr. Banks was an ordinary man, nothing more, nothing less. He lived in a modest three bedroom home on the outskirts of town. It was of tutor style, like many of the old homes in this neighborhood. It was even in a good school district, or so his wife told him. His ever-adoring family of two daughters and wife at his side, they were the prototypical suburban family.

Mr. Banks looks over at his clock, knowing the impending doom of his alarm. Prisoners get to sleep longer than this, he thinks. Mr. Banks reluctantly rolled out of bed and threw his head under the shower, plotting out his day, as his family, the world it seems, lay peacefully asleep. Banks started a pot of coffee, knowing full-well it would be in vain, and turned on his television to see what the news had in mind for him today. Traffic. Murders. And how to make the world’s greatest apple pie all are frantically are explained by people obviously more caffeinated than even he, Banks thinks. How can they tell him how bad the traffic is with that phony smile?

Banks pondered this further as he snagged his now made coffee and shimmied his way past his kid’s bikes into his sedan. After a couple of tries, and a few grumbles about American cars, the car wheezed to life. Thank god. Mr. Brooks would be less than pleased with another tardy appearance, no matter how reasonable his excuse, the fascist bastard. Amazingly, other creatures are up at this inhumane hour, he notes, as he pulled onto the interstate for another eventful trip to the office. The bobblehead doll of Jesus sitting patiently on his dash, an ever-present reminder of his wife’s unyielding faith, Banks thinks in envy. How can she believe so blindly? Does she not have the doubts he has so frequently? Maybe she’ll advocate for me in heaven, Banks reasons. His thoughts are interrupted when a dark Mercedes inexplicably switches lanes, causing Banks to slam on the brakes. Banks has seen this too many times to let this anger him. Deep breaths, deep breaths, someday people will learn how to drive in this town, he prays. Wondering if it’s possible for such a number of vehicles to exist, Banks exited the highway after mercifully finding a radio station not on commercial. Who is buying these products anyway? Is anyone actually persuaded by such primitive advertising?

He eventually pulled into the garage only to find his favorite spot has been nabbed by the infamous blue Volvo. Damn that blue Volvo. He, too, recognizes the brilliance of being located so perfectly between the elevator and the main entrance. Someday, Banks ponders, he will encounter his rival and try to set up a system of when they can have the spot, a rotation. God knows Banks can’t keep trying to beat blue Volvo to the spot, blue Volvo seems unaffected by lack of sleep. Or does God know? Dammit enough of this Banks, just get up the elevator. He finally arrived at the 6th floor, and noted that Sheila, the receptionist, is not in. Unusual. She makes the best small talk, Banks thinks. With everyone else in the office it is so obviously forced, like he gives a rat’s ass about the gorgeous day we are going to have. Past Sheila’s desk, Banks’ cubicle lies at the very end of the first row of cubicles, right across from Mr. Brooks.

His desk is just as he left it. Banks is saddened by this. Sometimes he hopes some random act of vandalism has left his workspace useless, and he can just go home. Of course, this is completely illogical and improbable, but Banks does not care. He noted that Brooks’s door is slightly ajar and wonders, does Mr. Brooks know how much he looks like Norm from Cheers? What is his name? Regardless of his name, Banks thinks, he does have the same mannerisms and laugh. When Mr. Brooks laughs on the phone sometimes, Banks liked to just close his eyes and pretend he is with Norm. Where everybody knows your name… Everyone knows my name here and I wish they didn’t, he thinks. Well, time to look busy, Banks acknowledges. He begrudgingly opened up a file, as his family’s smiling faces stare back at him. How cliché, Banks thinks. Must every married man have this in his office? As though he would forget their faces in the 8 hours he spends here every day? He laughs, but leaves the picture where it rest, for now.

He worked as diligently as his body will allow until noon, when he noticed Sheila arrived. He should go talk to her, he thinks, but his stomach had other plans, and he unwrapped the lunch he prepared for himself the night prior while watching Letterman. Tuna on wheat was the obvious choice, and one he did not regret. He smiled to himself, acknowledging silently that lunch was easily the best part of his day. It was the part of the day he controlled. He wanted tuna on wheat, he got tuna on wheat. Mr. Brooks hadn’t hassled him yet today either, maybe that was why he was in such a good mood. Tell me 10 years ago that tuna on whole wheat is going to make my day and I would have called you a liar, thought Banks.

Why couldn’t he be a superhero, or something cool like that? That could explain how dull his life was, just trying to not blow his cover, of course. He daydreamt about saving the city for a while until he noted that a short and slight figure was hovering outside his door. It was Karlsgood. Banks hated Karlsgood. Karlsgood not only made more money than him, he also was a world class jackass, Banks thought. It irritated him that nobody else at the office despised Karlsgood as he did. His face was that of a mouse, and his cheeks and nose would turn bright red at the slightest breeze or cold air.

“Working hard or hardly working?” Karlsgood joked as he flashed an awkward smile.
Banks hated hackneyed office talk, such as this.
“You know me,” Banks responded flatly, “always a busy bee, how’s the wife and kids?”
“Great!” Karlsgood yelped, a bit too quickly for Banks’ liking,
“Just got back from the Bahamas as I’m sure you know. And oh, the views!”

As Karlsgood carried on like a girl at a slumber party, Banks’ mind began to wander. What if Karlsgood was blue Volvo? No way, he thought, Karlsgood would never drive such a car, he would need to drive a large SUV, to feel more secure, of course. Should he ask him what he is driving nowadays? No, no don’t egg him on. If Karlsgood is blue Volvo, he would just have to quit, Banks thinks.

“Well, better head on back to the ol’ grindstone, eh Bankser? Take’r easy.”
Said Karlsgood as Banks snapped out of his trance.
“Ok I’ll see you later.” Banks retorted.

As Karlsgood feverishly scooted back to his workspace, Banks noted it was almost 5, excellent. Quitting time. He anxiously began gathering his things, and then, more casually, made his way towards freedom. He walked past Sheila’s desk. She had snuck out a little early, in addition to coming in late. Was she sick? Banks wondered. He would have to confront her tomorrow. He pulled out of his decidedly poor parking space to an ad for Viagra, and hopped back on the freeway towards home.

There was a surprisingly small amount of vehicles on the road, Banks thought, as he cruised marveling at the changing seasons. He noted an old lady going 10 under in the right lane. Someday, people will learn how to drive in this town… As he arrived home, he squeezed into his garage, Jesus watching, judging his park job, and walked up through his door. “How was your day honey?” His wife inquired. “The usual,” replied Banks.