text: What Can I Do For You “What is this?” “What does it look like?” It looks like a note, because, it is a note, written on what looks to be the back of an advertisement proclaiming the double decker to be the juiciest burger ever, “Subliminal.” I look from the paper into his steely black eyes, bulbous face, and habitually worn stocking cap, adorned with the remnants of dead leaves. I am not a believer in fate, destiny, or really any insinuation that infers a Deja vu fog covers any situation in life, but I was considering changing my mind. The third time in a month, and Jamal is standing before me, trembling, his left eye tic gymnastic, pretending the cameras can’t see him, and Jerry our security guard, couldn’t pick him out of a lineup of one. I’ve known Jamal for, well since he was a baby. His mother Anita was my neighbor, our neighbor. I lived with my adoptive mother Liz, at the time. She has since moved on. Not die, she hooked up with this guy from Detroit who claimed to be trumpet player in some obscure band. She was a push over for musician types. But then as we get older our chances at happiness diminish, and I think there comes a time when we realize we have to take what’s there, as what we was hopin for was commin; might just not come. Jamal spent a lot of time with Liz, as she was incapable of keeping a job. She had an affinity to directions, especially when give by a man. I didn’t know Alvin, her, I don’t know what he was, but he somehow soured her on all things like him. I kind of think that’s why Jamal turned out the way he is. Jamal was a good kid, but temperamental as I remember. He used to make up excuses to be sad. When Anita would tickle him to get him to listen to her, he wouldn’t laugh, he’d cry. If she told him, they was going uptown he’d stomp his feet and proclaim that he was only allowed to go downtown. And his responses were to a woman. God only knows what would have transpired had it been, say an Alvin type. When I asked once about why only downtown, he said it had to do with a song he’d heard on the radio. Made no sense to me, but then I don’t listen to the radio. I been a teller at this bank, Bank of the U.S. for fifteen years. Imagine that, fifteen years checking out how others abuse their money. It kind of wares on you after a while. When Anita left, and Liz decided life wasn’t going to last forever and went looking for greener pastures, I was left with Jamal. Liz said I was sixteen and that was plenty old enough. For what I never got the chance to ask. I realized that I wasn’t fit to be a parent, but then he wasn’t fit to be a child, so we kind of come to a truce. I let him stay with me, he let himself stay with me, but only because I’d said it was OK, and he agreed. I know it sounds like we don’t care much about one another, but that maybe, because we don’t. We tolerate one another however, which is better than a lot of folks do. I don’t tell him how to run his life and he don’t stop telling me how to run mine, perfect! Lately he’s been coming up with these ways we can rob the bank. He says cause I’m working there so it would be an inside job, and from most of the movies he’s watched, it is the best way to do it. He says no one ever expects it as employees have a, “Built in trust from the establishment.” He believes it’s like I work in a convent, and God is my boss. So he’s standing there, looking at the paper like its going to turn into loaves and fishes. Havin been through this before, I pretend I’m putting money in a bag. Actually it’s just some dirty laundry I’ve learned to keep under the counter in a bag, for just such an occasion. The first time I had to improvise, and it caused quite a stir. Apparently, Mr. Hanes our president, keeps a close eye on toilet paper use... of all things! The four rolls I stuffed into a bag set off some kind of book keeping alert that resulted in a memo, “To whom it may concern,” so, the laundry. Jamal had said to me one time that he thought money, unlike the way they talk about it in the movies, “Smells like old socks.” So, I give Jamal the bag, put the note in my pocket, and say louder than normal, I do that when I get nervous, get loud, “Next.” Jerry the guard looks up from his doing nothing, I smile, life goes on like it was a normal day. I know Jamal will be waiting outside as he needs a ride home. He takes the bus down to the bank, but for some reason refuses to take it back. He walked home last time I refused; it took him two days. He claims he got distracted watchin some old guys playin a game like checkers, but with animal heads and funny buildings. I’ve explained to him that the bus, mingling with all the people is a good way to disappear. He tells me that is the first place they look. Haven’t I watched the movie Speed? I hadn’t, so I had to take his word for it. Anyway, I know he’s out there. I tell Margie, the one next to me on the line, that I’m going to lunch. It’s only ten thirty, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone, ever, so I go. I smile at Jerry. He pretends he’s too busy checking for possible deviant robbers to see me. I’m used to it. No one seems to notice me, ever, except Jamal occasionally, but that’s only when he needs something. I go outside and Jamal says first thing, “What’s this?” He’s holding up a pair of my favorite underwear, the baby blue ones with the little rose on the... I of course grab them, no need for every passerby to see, and stuff them in my pocket. Jamal standing there looking his usual puppied self, asks what I was up to. If I'd wanted him to do laundry, why drag him all the way downtown. “There’s a laundromat just on the corner a block over by where that guy is always trying to sell me, a bag.” I’ve found from experience that answering Jamal’s questions only confuse me, so I suggest we go to lunch, “My treat.” He loves to eat, so it is an easy distraction. I take us over to the Donut Hop across the street, and we have donuts and coffee. He likes donuts but only orders coffee to have something to dunk the donuts in. I’ve always been amazed at how donuts seem to change him into someone else. We have a quiet couple of donuts, talk about the weather, whether the Dodgers have a shot at beating those nasty Yankees, and then I offer to drive him home. He’s a Cub’s fan, by the way. He always pretends that he wasn’t expecting me to offer, so he puts on this big show about me bein too nice to him, he doesn’t deserve it, and all the usual things about how he is grateful I’m me, and he’s him. At times it makes me want to cry, but then I’ve seen what that does to him. We find the car and he climbs in with his usual agility, hitting his head on the roof, punching it, which of course causes more pain and punching. We finally leave the bank lot and head for the freeway. He’s kept his eyes closed since we'd left. I have my own spot being I’ve been there so long. No name, but #7 is mine. Jamal usually spends about fifteen minutes standing there lookin at the white stenciled number and mumbling something about how someday he’s going to get him a number like that. He usually only does that when he’s about to say something he considers prophetic, like, “Don’t you think the sun is bigger than it used to be.” I always agree, it’s so much easier. He pushes the button on the door and watches the glass disappear. He pushes the button again, and the window glass, mysteriously appears. He repeats the process several times and then hangs his head out the window and begins to shout obscenities at the cars going in the opposite direction on the freeway. He then asks, “Is it legal for them to do that,” while he points at the one-way sign. I can only laugh, and shake my head, knowing tomorrow could be like today, or possibly, even better.