Teller Counter

Who knows where I was. The gunner seat in a tank, perhaps. Inside a Corona commercial. Peeling that thin layer of clear plastic off a new microwave oven. In body, I was in a bank, elbow on the counter, temple resting on the knuckles of my fist, waiting for the lady to deposit my check, eyes on the ceiling somewhere. In the time it took her to take my account number and magically change a piece of paper into ones and zeroes, I’d already ordered and finished a juicy cheeseburger. Witnessed my parents’ murder and fought for vengeance in a bat suit. Toured the country with my alt-rock band, Field of Dreams. Invented a new type of Ray-Bans that only cost $20, in case you lose or sit on them. “All set, Mr. Kelley,” the teller said. My eyes, still freefalling off a waterfall in Costa Rica, took longer than they should have to adjust back to reality. They were miles from home, and that bank in particular. I’d stared at her for maybe three seconds, which is a very long time to look blankly at a stranger with daydreaming eyes. “Thank you,” I said, turning and walking and stuffing the receipt into my pocket, its inside filled with beach sand.