The Beautiful Dream...
A Beautiful Dream The sounds of Christmas seemed to be playing as a backdrop, carols, the ringing bell of a Salvation Army Santa, and I felt the contagious happiness which comes with the season. My wife and I entered the bank together, holding hands as if the love floating through the air had overcome my normal disdain of public displays of affection.
“I'm going to the tellers, and I'll probably finish before you, so I'll wait in the car,” I said. Traci was meeting with a small business loan officer, moving forward with the manifestation of her own dreams. As a married couple, there are shared dreams and goals, then there are individual goals. Knowing that reality makes life easier, because the pursuit of dreams is time consuming, and a partner has to have a dream of their own to pursue.
We kissed briefly, and I watched her walk away, business slacks and heels, professional and classy, the antithesis of my own outfit of jeans, boots, and a hoodie. I shook my head at the dichotomy, and went to stand in line for a teller.
The line moved briskly, as if everyone in the bank were in a hurry to leave, in order to get back to their real lives. In my hand was an envelope containing checks received from different projects. As a writer, I like to let checks stack up, so that when I finally deposit them, the financial windfall will seem much greater.
My teller was a Black woman of somewhere within ten years of my age in either direction. I've given up trying to guess a woman's age because you can never tell. A smooth skinned beauty might be sixty, and the wrinkled toothless crone might only be forty, the victim of a hard knock life.
“Good afternoon sir, how can I help you today?” she asked. Being me, I read her name tag which identified her as Brenda. I have the habit of learning the names of service people with whom I interact. Mechanics, waitresses, tellers, etc. I guess it stems from me wanting to remember they are human beings too, with family and loved ones. It helps me to be less demanding in my complaints and more effusive with my praise. Just another idiosyncratic trait of a complex mind.
“Good afternoon, Brenda,” I said, smiling at her in an effort to show I was a nice guy. “I need to make a few deposits into different accounts.”
“Not a problem at all, sir,” Brenda assured me. “Insert your card, and we can get started.”
I inserted my bank card in, punched in my numbers, and Brenda's fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up my account information. I laid the envelope containing the checks on the counter, then withdrew a money clip of cash accumulated from direct sales of my books to people who support and follow me as an author.
“I'd like the checks to go to my savings, and the cash to go to my checking account,” I said. I wanted the checks in savings for trips, and the cash into checking to cover editors, cover artists, and marketing. It takes a village to produce books.
“Not a problem Mr. Hayes. Let's deal with the cash first,” Brenda said.
I handed her the cash, which she counted swiftly, then recounted, before typing in the anount, and put the money in the drawer. She gestured for me to hand her the checks, which I did. My mind wandered away then, daydreaming about vacations to exotic locales, and current writing projects. A smile flitted across my face, thinking of passport stamps, Margaritas, and the glazed chocolate effect the Caribbean sun would have on Traci.
“Wait, you're Marlon S. Hayes, the writer?” Brenda asked, interrupting my daydream.
“Yes I am,” I answered, my brows furrowed, puzzled by the question. Maybe the checks from various publishers tipped her off.
“Oh my,” she exclaimed. “My co-workers and I follow your page, and discuss your books.” Brenda's smile lit her face up, as she handed me the receipts. I was flabbergasted, shocked, and incredibly ecstatic. Wow.
“Laurie,” she said to the neighboring teller. “This is Marlon S. Hayes from Marlon's Writings.”
Laurie smiled at me, and I blushed, unable to contain my incredulity.
“I loved the book “Touching Myself,” and I just bought “Watching for Potholes,” Laurie said.
Brenda shook her head in agreement, and Laurie asked for my autograph, as a couple of other tellers joined the conversation. This was the best feeling ever, and I couldn't wait to tell Traci and my friends what had just happened.
The chirping of the birds woke me, but a smile painted my face as the dream played itself out in my head. My legs swung to the floor, and I put on my glasses, ready to write. My smile began to fade, and I scrounged a cigarette out of a battered box. I needed the cigarette in order to deal with the cynical reality of my dream.
See, in my dream, all of the tellers and the bystanders had been Black, severely reducing the possibility of this dream coming to fruition. Cynicism had reared its ugly head, as I pondered how many people supported me, followed my endeavors, and spread the word to their friends. Wow.
I puffed on my cigarette, okay again with the reality that the promised support might not ever come from those who look like me, and claim to love me. Oh well, the grind continues. But it had been a beautiful dream… msh
7/17
