Insert card, and remove as quickly as possible.
Miss on the first try; then succeed on the second.
Enter your pin number now.
7575
<— Withdrawal?
<— Deposit?
<— Balance Inquiry?
Transaction interrupted. –A knife presses into Hal’s back.
“Listen and you won’t get hurt.”
“Alright, look, I don’t have any money.”
“You’re at an ATM asshole, don’t lie.”
<— Would you like to print a receipt?
“Shit.”
The knife nudges through the first few layers of skin – piercing through his twill coat and into the dermis. He turns; hands held so you can see them. A twenty clutched in a sweaty white palm. The serrated knife is readjusted, positioned and pressed firmly into an over-indulged gut. Hardly a wince as it pierces through the first few layers of soft-belly skin.
“Pull that goddamn thing out!”
“What? Pull what out?”
“The knife – you asshole.”
“NO!”
“Why not?”
“Because it fits so nicely there.”
“Where?”
“There, in your stomach.”
“I don’t think it fits at all.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it’s starting to really hurt.”
“Ahh bullshit, look: your intestines revel and embrace it. They’re all wound up and happy to be there.
“Where?”
“There around that knife.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You’re the pot calling a kettle black, sir.” The knife slides in farther.
“You might be right.”
“ Good luck asshole,” as the knife prances, twists; dances in circles
- lets life onto porous concrete,
- clotted happiness,
- eviscerated silence.
<— Would you like to make another transaction?
In Minnesota, Christopher Glazer sometimes happily writes stories, poems and other things in the snow, that is, when he isn’t mulling over his school books. He is a newly wed, with a beard, and hopes to hell that one day he’ll have the pleasure of traveling in space. Till then, he can be read or contacted at www.myspace.com/deadgnome
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