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Especially if Ed doesn’t pull through.
I scroll through my phone, checking the call log and emails inbox, swiping through my messages. Still no word. I pull up Ed’s contact card and fire off a text:Status?
I stare at the screen and wait for a response. Tiny letters under the blue bubble tag the text asdelivered. But there are no dancing dots, nothing to indicate he’s even seen it.
I check the time—4:44—and try not to scream.
There’s movement in my periphery, and my head pops up to spot the second teller slinking back into view. He stops at the first window, nodding at what I’m guessing are marching orders, his squinty gaze pinned at the woman holding up the line. He sighs and checks his watch, and I roll my eyes.
Dude, weknow.
Just please, for the love of all that is holy. Hurry it up already.
He sinks onto the stool at the second window, and I’m already there, spilling my cards into the stainless steel feeder before he’s removed the Next Window Please sign. “I need the max cash advance on these five cards.”
He picks up the cards and arranges them in a neat line on his side of the glass.
The rhinestoned lady shoots me a smirk, a serves-you-right curiosity burning in her eyes, and I clench my teeth and try not to slug her. She has no idea what kind of tragedy has brought me to this place, just like I don’t know what’s motivated her. People will do all sorts of things when they’re desperate for cash. Lie. Cheat. Steal hundred-dollar steaks from the freezer in order to feed their families. Max out every line of credit in order to survive.
So fuck me and fuck this lady.
I fish my license and another card from my wallet and drop both into the slot. “I need whatever’s on this account, too.” The Lasky account I use to pay bills and run payroll, the last twist to the noose around the Lasky windpipe. Another $10K, which means the payments I signed off on last night will be dead in the water. Emptying it out will be the death knell.
With a finger, the teller slides the card next to the others. “So you want me to close this account?”
I shrug. “Empty it, close it out, I don’t care. As long as you give me what’s in there.”
He sticks it in the reader by his monitor and recites an amount that churns in my gut. “That’s $13,514.83.”
“What about the payment to ADP, is there any way to stop it?” Taking back the money from payroll, that’s apparently the kind of asshole I am.
The teller shakes his head, gestures to the cards spread out before him. “Do these cards all have a pin?”
“Yes. Well, all but the Amex.”
“Sorry, sir, but I can’t do anything without a pin.” He drops it back in the slot with a metallicdingthat echoes in my bones.
I grip the counter with both hands, fighting a wave of dizziness. “How do I get a pin?”
“I believe you have to call their customer service.” He stuffs the Visa into the reader. “Enter the first pin onto the pad, please.”
I tap in the pin, then flip over the Amex, dial the number on the back, and drop it back in the slot. “Do this one last. I’m getting a pin for it right now.”
The process is excruciatingly slow. I cast an apologetic glance over my shoulder at the people in the line as the teller counts, then double and triple counts the Visa cash into a fat stack. With a Sharpie, he scribbles the total onto a paper label he uses to bind the bills, then clips the stack to the card. We move slowly down the line, repeating the process for each card while I listen to canned music in one ear, occasionally broken by a woman’s soft voice:Thank you for calling American Express. All our representatives are serving other customers. Approximate hold time is...six...minutes.
Six eternal minutes to think about all the ways I’ve messed up. All the wrong turns I’ve made, the questionable people I’ve chosen to partner with in order to expand the Lasky brand. That first bistro, in that tiny house in Peachtree Hills, feels like forever ago. A kitchen barely big enough for three chefs shoulder to shoulder and just enough tables to eke out a salary, but I loved that old rickety place.
It’s a juice shop now, but I wonder: If I went back to that concept, if I traded the Lasky Steak empire for a tumbledown bistro in Peachtree Hills, would I be happier? Would Jade love me as much if I wasn’t Atlanta’s Steak King?
What the hell happened? When did I lose my way?
By now, the woman to my left is gone, and the teller is punching in numbers and counting out cash with an accountant’s efficiency. Before too long, it’s one last straggler and me, a man in dark blue scrubs.
Approximate hold time...three...minutes.
Keys rattle in my other ear, the security guard flipping the locks on the doors behind me, a jingling that alerts me to closing time. Five o’clock on the dot. I peel the phone away from my ear and check the notifications.
Still no response from Ed.Goddammit.