But wasn’t it always like that in every country? Carlos felt that he was an impediment, a rock thrown into a glass box, no, a glass orb. Yes, he moved to the United States. Yes, he felt the need to defy those Tchilenos. But the orb was continually cycling around him, and now the rock had turned into the hamster and was pushing the orb with its own useless energies. Wasted energies. This was his life – a futile hamster caught in the rolling orb known as Man and wo to the rock that tried to impede the cycle.
Spoken like the words of his father.
He figured he might do another line on the plexiglass covering of the Corporate Corrotto’s calendar on the desk. That’ll show ‘em; tell me to clean up dry storage… By four Carlos entered his tiny Mazda and drove home.
“Ryan. Can you bring me the board?” Carlos called from the back of the house, he figured Ryan could do all the work today. Besides, coming down wasn’t the most fun last night.
Ryan walked in with the plastic board deligating which server had which section of table on the floor that night. Ryan Shirley – “Squirley” they called him – was a pudgy black man – boy, really – who was recently diagnosed with adult onset diabetes. Squirley had a snaggletooth in the right side of his upper mandible, and was the source of his constant half-smile grin that didn’t exactly fit the Corrotto’s Experience. Recently, he had been excersizing for fear that the diabetes would take him , and he had become mad. So mad he become paranoid. Carlos repeatedly asked him for his bank number in order to directly deposit his paycheck in the name of efficiency. How noble Carlos was. But Ryan would make up some excuse or another of why he forgot his number:
“I had it in my pocket, ya see, and, uh, it fell out while I was jogging. Hey Carlitos, you ever jog?”
But Ryan did not have any bank code, nor any bank, because his philosophy simply was that banks stole your money. It wasn’t the fact that he dealt weed on the side, because the earnings from that wouldn’t nearly be enough to alert any big corporation that too much cash was flowing in and out. Frankly, he wasn’t a successful drug dealer. It was the fact that he had been burned badly by the bank (overdraft fees, nickel and diming him), done some research, and came out the other end with a low tolerance for paranoia and a strange felling that “the man” was constantly out to get him.
“You see, the bank teller said that there was a mess up at the corporate center and their system was down.”
“I’ll bring it tomorrow. I could swear I had that damn thing in my pocket.”
“I will call you right away when I get off tonight. Promise.”
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