CHAPTER ONE (3)

So Carlos didn’t get his bank routing numbers, nor did he really care. Whatever pleased the rung above him. Whatever kept the cycle going.

                  Ryan brought him the board and said, “Yo, boss. I got me new socks today.” Ryan lifted up his cuffed Dickies to reveal the black socks, ending just below the knee.

                  “Good job, Squirley. Now where are those routing numbers.”

                  Oh the routing numbers again!

                  There was no way in hell that meandering little flap-jack beaner is gonna get my routing numbers, even if I had ‘em, thought Ryan. All he wants is my numbers and what next? My email address? My social? What next? What  -

                  “I need to talk to you about that, anyways, Ryan. Step into my office.”

                  Ryan stepped into the office and saw the picture of a perfectly dressed Ritto, something Corporate had sent to each store in order to represent what was supposed to be. Ryan simply was. He felt his black socks cutting into his pudgy skin on the calf, and hated Corrotto’s deeply. Besides, they were cutting off his circulation.

                  “Every other Ritto has given me their routing numbers except for you.”

                  Not me. Not me.

                  “Should I be concerned?” Carlos said in his refined Chileno accent.

                  “No way boss. The thing is, is that I don’t have a bank account.”

                  “Then get one.”

                  “I can’t.”

                  “And why not?”

                  “Because I won’t.”

                  Carlos paused for a moment. When one has but a minute amount of power, every step was important. Every word could mean dozens of connotations. After all, his miniscule amount of power was won by this mantra. Convince him, Carlos thought. Convince him.

                  “You see, Ryan,” Carlos began. The accent was thickened. Maybe Ryan wouldn’t understand and just nod his head, “we all must do things in our lives that we don’t want.” No! He didn’t want to sound patronizing. But how else? “When I was growing up in south Santiago, I had a teacher. This teacher was supposed to be one of the best in the city, no, in the country. He wrote books and essays on grammar and all of the little children followed him. They awed in his shadow,” this was beginning to get poetic. Maybe Ryan might appreciate this. “Anyways, one day he came to me and asked me to tell my mother – mama – to come to the school building that evening so that they could talk. About what? Ah – you see – I knew what about. I knew I had stolen eggs from the cafeteria. I knew he knew. He taunted me. But of course, I was in awe. Oh what must’ve happened if I had stolen hens! For god sake, what wouldv’e – oh look, I’ve gone off on a tangent. And so I knew that if I told my mother to come to the building that evening I would be sent to detention. Worse – expelled.” Carlos stopped here to reflect.

                  Jesus, do I have to go through these ridiculous stories. I barely understand him anyways. I’ll just nod my head and smile…

                  “But I told her. And do you know why?”

                  “Because you didn’t want to get in trouble.” Ryan subtly rolled his eyes.

                  Not exactly the epiphany-inspired response Carlos had expected.

                  “Well… yes… on the outer layer, yes. But I believed that it was for the good of the school that I did. I would be punished, and I knew it. But the point is, is that I did it for the team. The team that was my school.”

                  Ryan pretended to ponder, and realizing that Carlos wanted nothing more than to be awed himself, Ryan  exclaimed, “Ohhhh, I see. I’ll get those numbers right away sir,” no he wouldn’t, “makes total sense now.” No, it didn’t.