I'm a confident motherfucker, but I can see how this was going to problem for me...I was visually outclassed. I shrank a bit.
"Yes, I'm the manager, is there a problem?"
no good morning, no handshake, no offer to come sit in her office to discuss the matter; only a puff of stale coffee breath arrived with her terse question. I could tell by the slight quiver in her voice and hands folded low across her front this broad was uptight. I knew her tragedy, she hadn't been gone down on in a long while; maybe never.
she looks at the teller, then at me. there's a pause in the exchange.
I felt like a criminal.
I get it. stringy hair over an unshaven face gilded with pronged dog collar below, filthy grease smeared Levi's full of holes, and a threadbare black wife beater; in their eyes, I'm stealing cash from my estranged woman by filling out a check and forging her signature.
it was a meager five hundred bucks.
sensing a possible confrontation with a switch blade or sprayed with bullets, the forty-something brunette in her catalog-ordered navy blue skirt suit asks me into her office.
after a failed attempt to reach my woman on the phone, the manager saw that we had a joint savings account there I had forgotten about and withdrew the cash.
my wife wanted to open a joint account, but because I wasn't physically there, I couldn't be included...so she opened it in her name.
this place is all windows. they saw a scarecrow getting out of an old, forlorn 944S that to them was just some unrecognizable old car. I was profiled; pegged as a drunk, a bum, a newly made homeless guy living out of my old car because my woman threw me out. had I got out of the red 911, they would've thought me a rock star offering me tea and asking if I was aware of their high interest yield savings account on a USD$10,000 deposit.
she's my rational voice when mine is too agitated to understand. class, sophistication, poise, she's everything I've long since shed.
I laughed hard when she called the manager the moment I told her what went down.
"Is it because my husband looks homeless? Well, I assure he's not."
"Oh, no, no, Mrs. Deferrari, it's a simple matter of protecting your interests..."
a higher up stiff left several messages on my wife's phone looking to lick her ass clean after she'd made good on her promise to pull our cash out.
every sales person at one point or another had learned from hearing or experiencing such presumptions about the dirty fucker crawling in from skid row being blue blooded royalty.