Transaction

Tchocky

The first time I saw Arthur McKechnie, he came into the bank to cash some checks. I was chewing on a cookie and trying to outlast another cup of weak coffee. Across static-ridden gray carpet he shuffled, his feet never seemed to leave the ground. I wanted to hug him and see if my hair stood on end. With any luck, an orchestral swell would break through AM radio, separating guilty bystanders from core participants. The credits would roll over a frozen shot, sunshine flames growing from my upturned locks.
The teller tore herself in half looking for the cause of my laugh, and staring at the rigidly sleepy face that approached her window. He leaned forwards on the counter, as if he was dying in slow motion. His voice robbed him of his grace, a thin wheeze that barely cleared the air-conditioning and died at the armoured glass.
I studied him intently as he spoke. His face was long and thin, like a classroom skeleton finely layered with dust. It's customary to mention how his eyes stood out like jade set in cinderblock, old hinges twinkling and creaking. But Arthur McKechnie had no such eyes. His forehead was the base of a loose inverted pyramid, a windblown facade receding downwards and onwards, disappearing past a narrow mouth and his inconsequential chin.
The teller had by now composed herself, She was ready to take on the pocket of Arthur McKechnie, to be his paid Angel. Arthur's parka had deep wide pockets, the old kind with a cover flap and two heavy sewn-in buttons on the inside. If you can't picture it, it doesn't matter. What's important is that it takes two hands to open them. Arthur's hands were cold and slow.
His breath rose in pitch as his fingers tried the rough fabric, the cumbersome circles broadcasting rising sighs and wheezes. The teller flicked her bangs and waited. Arthur began to perspire, his widow's peak beset with sweat. Fingers found holes, but the tough plastic would not surrender.
Three after one, the buttons pulled through the twill. Arthur gave a gasp, looking up to the teller with a rainbow fistful of checks, before company policy raced his heart again.
“Can I help you, sir?”
She looked expectantly at him, through a layer of armoured glass. It wouldn't stop a bullet, but it would slow it down. God knows what a tumbling round running a shower of plexiglas would do to her smiling face. But that's not how it would go. These days it's a phone and a little girl, a Stanley knife to her throat. Or at least a story. A stylish thief. But always a young, white blond-haired girl. I suppose small boys just have to put up with it.
Arthur stuffed his motley checks under the grille like so much wastepaper. She squinted at the assortment, and asked his name. “Arthur..”, he rasped “..Arthur McKechnie”. Then began a process of stamps and signatures, the machinery of debt and loss, as I waited for my Angel to surface. Somewhere between D'Acchio and Davidson my account was lost. Arthur caught my gaze, and our eyes met, briefly. He accelerated in turning, nestled deeper into his coat, dulled skull receding into a field of green.
* * *
Beyond daydream fodder, I didn't think much of Arthur after that day. It came several weeks later, in the middle of what weathermen call an Indian summer. The kids were charged with sugar and youth, summer break only days away. Their focus was parties and hats, mine corrections and proud parents, never believing that Charles couldn't spell, he'd done so well last year with Ms Henrickson, don't you know? I set them to composition, four pages on summer plans. It was an easy task, and I felt appropriately guilty.
While I marked out the Lottery slip and pretended to be busy, a shuffling and muttering of feet filled the classroom. Forgetting their work and their place, several of the children ran to the window to watch the funeral procession pass. I walked to the edge and they went back to their desks, curiosity satisfied. It’s always better to let these things run out, a giddy classroom is migraine fuel.
I peered outside with mild interest. In a small town such as this, keeping up with the news is vital. Luckily I had twenty-five very talkative and very attentive eleven-year-olds on my watch five days a week, so I didn’t miss much gossip. But this was different.
Trailing the hearse, and well in front of the mourning crowd walked Arthur McKechnie, still in the same green parka. His back was straight, and his chin was held up. This was not the same Arthur who crumbled before a teenaged cashier. He looked towards the window, and held my gaze. This was not the same man as I had seen. For he had lost someone.