Investment

FICTION

by Thomas Mixon

        The man wore a tracksuit with a tie. The tracksuit was always green, lime, but each time he arrived at the bank, the tie was different.
          Barb hadn’t noticed the changing colors of the ties until Donika said something about it. They were tellers, it was the ’90s, and they often worked next to each other. Donika was well-dressed, Barb less so. Barb would tense up each day when Donika started gossiping about the man’s wardrobe, when their lunch breaks overlapped. Her colleague had never said anything to her about her own clothes, but the woman would pause after describing the man’s newest adornment. Barb couldn’t tell if she was meant to, in that gap, also say something about the man’s appearance, or if she was supposed to compliment Donika. Maybe she was supposed to make a self-effacing remark? Something like, “Well this blouse of mine has sure seen better days.” But she didn’t, and the pause grew in importance.
          It’s like having a child, Barb would think, as Donika waited. There’s no right answer to provide. She thought of all the 4 x 800 relays she used to drive her daughter to. How they always got to the meet early, since that was always the first event on the schedule. Her daughter ran the first leg, since she was second fastest. She was called “the starter,” but rarely initiated conversation, waiting with Barb in silence in various parking lots across New England. They sat in front of locked gyms, countless winter weekends, the girl balking at Barb’s attempts at small talk.
          Over sandwiches, the girl long gone, Donika would leave room for a reply. Barb would cough. Soon enough the break was over.
          The bank was busy. The town was booming. People would queue outside, in the rain, before opening hours, which were extended every year, so that the people could do things with their money, then go out to breakfast, to celebrate. It rained so much the managers bought small umbrellas, and had the bank’s name printed on the side, so that when Barb arrived for her shift she saw a sea of undulating custom canopies, white, crowding the bank’s main entrance, in the dark.
          She would politely snake her way to the door, unlock it, apologize to the sopping wet customers, who would have to remain standing, outside, in the elements, while she turned on all the machines. She would get there early, prior to the official opening time, but so did the gathered mass of men and women, their checkbooks close to their hearts, in waterproof holders. Which the bank also supplied.
          Even with the long lines, the tracksuit man would wait for Barb, and Barb alone. If Donika was free he’d put a hand up, and shrug, his mustache and his lips in a tight but wild smile, double tildes atop each other. A gesture that was almost too firm, acknowledging the oddness of his preference, the oddness of himself, and challenging anyone to say something about it. He pointed to Barb, waited for Barb.
          Each Tuesday morning the man arrived and asked to exchange a small amount of US dollars for a foreign currency. He had a bank account, but not much in it. He never deposited checks there. Barb did not know where he got the money he handed her, but she was obliged to complete the transaction. The bank she worked at charged no fee for such transfers.
          It was perfectly legal, unlike what her daughter was involved in. Barb strove not to think about what her daughter was doing. It was nasty, unhygienic. The girl would be dead before thirty, Barb was sure. Did she work out, run anymore? Hard to imagine her girl, second-fastest in state finals, not at least taking an easy jog past the unpronounceable street signs of her adopted city. Even if she was killing herself overseas. A young couple, their vows and honeymoon a week away, had a copy of a guide by Rick Steves. They were proudly showing off the places they would go. Barb had to look away.
          The tracksuit man would ask for francs, liras, schillings, always something European. He’d once asked for Finnish markkas, but it wasn’t on her spreadsheet. Barb consulted Donika, who only rolled her eyes. That day, the man was wearing a soft yellow tie, a bit of muted fire creeping through the forest canopy of his activewear. She apologized; he just stood there.
          “Your tie,” she eventually said, “is nice.” He looked down at it, as if he’d been wholly unaware of how he looked, what he had put on himself that morning. She thought, maybe he sleeps at night, with the tracksuit on. Like her daughter used to do, when she was healthy, when the girl got into bed wearing a pair of warm-up pants and jacket not too different from this man’s preferred attire. Her daughter implied, more than explained, that it was to save time. She would raise her brows at Barb, point to the clock, dare her mother to respond. Barb would think of a phrase Donika and others said at work: early money is like yeast, it helps to raise the dough. She would start to say “My girlfriend says,” but the girl would close the door.
          The man said, “A bit of sunshine,” and flicked the bottom of the cloth with his fingers. The yellow hit his stubbly face, but that’s not where Barb was looking.
          His nails were stubby, dried blood evident at the edges. He caught her staring at them and put his hands quickly back into his nylon pockets.
          Barb said, “Yes, it’s been so cloudy lately.” Which was true. The more prosperous the town became, the worse the weather. There were further downpours, records broken, flooded streets. Over that summer there was a tornado warning, the first in thirty years.
          Without fail, week after week, year after year, the man would only line up in Barb’s queue. He couldn’t hide his fingers, handing over the loose change to her, to trade for drachmas, or escudos. They were getting worse. There was barely any surface left, the cuticles impetuously torn away by teeth. She’d get home late, think about taking a walk. The town was flush with freshly wrought capital—in addition to the many drains they installed for rain, they put up streetlights, closer together than they needed to. The leaders lobbed the word “investment” at any criticism. Barb would reach for her shoes but stop at the door. Everything outside was blazing bright. She longed for dark, for proper night.
          One time, after she had changed her mind, and was sitting on the Welcome mat, sole in hand, unknotting tangled laces, her phone rang. She was asked to accept the charges. An incoming call from a faraway land. She said “Yes,” and the line connected. A little girl was babbling, something indistinct. English? It was hard to say; she sounded young. Barb almost said her daughter’s name, could sense, rather than hear, a woman in the background. Footsteps hurrying to the receiver, on another continent. But then, the dial tone, steady, more alien than any distant country.
          On 9/11, as everybody in the bank huddled by the little television, the tracksuit man showed up, as usual. Barb ignored Donika’s open mouth, her silent accusation, the how-dare-you look she gave the man. Barb waved him forward. National tragedy or not, people needed money.
          The man had never looked so bad. Not only were his nails completely gone, but his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. Even the knot on his tie looked shabby, a first. Barb looked at him, then the TV, and asked, “Do you know anyone there?”
          He shook his head, seemed to come to. “What?” he asked, looking at the screen. He watched the second tower fall. He said, “That’s nothing, pretty soon there’ll be no pesetas.” Donika scowled, turned up the newscast, even though the anchors were stunned into an eerie quiet.
          Barb said, “You mean the euro?” She had vaguely been following the developments over there.
          “First of the year,” he said, “then it’s done.”
          She tried to look sad, both for him and for the other customers who were glancing at her to make sure she looked sad. She didn’t feel sad. New York was just as far away, perhaps not geographically, but mentally, as the other side of the world. She had given up the idea of nation, once her daughter had left. She hated that innocent people were no longer there, but it happened, all the time. How dissimilar was it from those who made bad trades, financial mistakes, their bodies perhaps showing signs of life, but their confidence completely gone, the infrastructure of the soul in lasting disrepair? It wasn’t fair, one could play it safe, buy only bonds, and still end up alone. One could drive a daughter to portfolios of padlocked gyms, and have no relationship accrue.
          She started to say, “My daughter used to,” looking at his tracksuit, but stopped. Instead, she said, “You must travel a lot.”
          He frowned, tilted his head. He asked, “How’s that?”
          She said, “All the different coins and bills.”
          He waved her statement away, as if it were irrelevant. He said, “Why would I leave this place? Everything is perfect here.”
          A giant boom of thunder killed the lights, the TV, the man and Barb’s strained dialogue.
          The bank stopped offering Dutch guilders, Irish pounds, come 2002. That same year, Barb received a package in the mail. From her daughter, to her daughter. Separately, there was a letter. It read: DO NOT OPEN the box, I had to send it somewhere, I’ll call you soon.
          She sent it back to the return address, in a larger box. She hesitated for a moment, at the post office, when she was asked if it contained anything hazardous, liquid, or perishable. She wanted to say “Yes, don’t we all?” She shook her head no instead.
          The tracksuit man still visited, but on Saturdays, which Barb had off. Donika wasn’t as senior, still worked some weekends. She said that he had started wearing gloves. Blue ones, that clashed with his green tracksuit. She called him tracksuit man, though everybody knew his name. Barb sniffled—they’d begun to take their lunch breaks in the basement, next to the vault. It was damp down there, but quieter than eating in the back room by the lobby. The wind by then was constant; there were daily severe weather threats. One could pack the perfect sandwich, only to have it fall apart, as atmospheric circulation loosened bricks, divested roads of all their traffic lights. The town started installing mesh to catch them, literal safety nets. One could make a donation, adopt an intersection, immortalize one’s name on a plaque attached to rope. Many people gave, speculating that their standing in the town would rise, even as things fell.
          Donika paused, giving an entire forty seconds for the other woman to respond, before raising her brows. She said, “You look nice, Barb.”