Banker v. Bank Teller

The Banker starts his tape recorder.

He clears his throat.

It was a bright morning in May when I got the call from my secretary. Word from the hospital, she told me. Congratulations—you’re a father. Tell my wife to name the boy Henry, I said. Then gave the phone back to the hotel porter.

The Bank Teller, who'd been vomiting by the poplars by the road, arrives. The Banker shuts off the recorder. He nods. She wipes her brow with her coat sleeve.

They speak, then walk to the smoldering pile of bones. Around the ash runs a ring of black scorched grass, the untouched ends of half-burnt timber, the untouched ends of half-burnt appendages.

The Banker walks to the eastern fence to gather more timber. The Bank Teller throws hands and fingers and feet into the middle of the heap. The Banker throws on the timber. The pile smolders. The Banker gets takes out the Artist's box of matches and lights the clothes that the Bank Teller takes off the Bank Robber, then stuffs under the wood. Smoke rises. The timber catches.

They watch the fire.

I knew a man, says the Banker, that started his career as a bank teller in the town of Macklenburg, Alabama. Young man, high school drop out. Worked like hell, kissed ass, got promoted. Got promoted seven times in two years. Worked his way up to management, worked his way up to senior management. Ran the regional office, then ran every bank in the east, then every goddamn retail bank in continental US.

The Banker looks off nostalgically. Guess who that man was, he asks her.

You sir?

Fellow by the name of Trent Buckhalter. He was the first man I fired after graduating Yale, class of '72. Wept openly. Disgusting display.

Yes sir.

They return to the oak. The Banker choses his gun, the Bank Teller takes the other, and they both take the field. They stand ten paces apart.

Before we do this, I want you to know how very important you are to the bank, the Banker says. And that goes no matter what anyone says.

Yes sir.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.