Bank Shot

La réalité étant trop épineuse pour mon grand caractèr -

Thoreau in the tub, and Rimbaud over two pints of pilsner at the bar downstairs. I have lofty ambitions lately. I knew it long ago, but now I embrace its fancy. I don't belong to your world.
I was disgusted by your place of work, you, you banker. Your company proudly displaying Coast Salish art while you stockpile cash on land that isn't yours, yet you throw around petty authority like you own the place.

I noticed your panty lines as you led us to your cubicle amongst the many. As you typed keys and looked concerned I smirked at the bad picture of your husband behind you. A quick inventory of this supposed place of importance revealed some books, a wedding photo of your in-laws, two sparkling rings on your manicured hands, and mints in a clear jar that have never been opened. We have thrown your day for a loop, gentle banker, perhaps you will lie in bed tonight and ponder us.

I couldn't take my eye off the ceiling. So rigid, perfect really. A massive grid of lights some sixty feet above the walls of the cubicle we sat in. It spread over everything, unifying everyone under one purpose, watching, keeping things in order. Instead of intimidation, I felt relaxation. The person I had to visit you with, banker, I had not seen in some time. We must exchange our pleasantries when and where we can. We carried on, disinterested in the fact that you were studying our profiles, making judgements.

"Maybe you should go to Vegas?"
"Did you dye your hair?"
"You've seen these shoes before, I got them in New York. Maybe you should just go to New York."
"How are your parents?"
"I don't much like him"

But the banker was always interrupting us, asking this and that. At one time her inquiries would have made me feel small, but lately I am strong. I was removed from the account, deemed undesirable. And really, that's quite all right with me. Because, dear banker, what I don't care about can't hurt me. I am learning that your world of numbers, profiles, and histories have little relevance in the timeless circles that I occupy. Places where impressive jewellery and financial profiles mean nothing. Money cannot stay with you, it merely gets passed around and distributed once you're gone.

It is longevity that influences me. Things like Thoreau's observations about human nature during his time in a small cabin at Walden Pond, or the youthful embrace of freedom discovered in Rimbaud's musical prose. These delights are accessible to everyone, almost anywhere. In the bar, or lying in the bottom of a hot bath, free of scrutiny, and you certainly don't need an appointment.