i

M.A. Istvan Jr
L. A. Transactus
We pulled up to the teller
at the L. A. bank of corpses,
my wife rolling down her window
to the pane of safety glass.
Blue vistas, the speaker crackled
from script, is sorry for your loss.
From the passenger seat, I strained
to meet the tellers eyes, but
he looked down when speaking
and then was busy with those
transacting at the remote lane—those
merelysigning the guest sheet
and air-tubing it back to him.
The automated door unfoldedstark
against the soothing lullaby tinkle.
My wife reached for the guest sheet
with no hesitation, as if
it were just some deposit pouch.
Still not looking, the teller told us
to take as much time as we needed.
As soon as the melody cut back in
from the intercom override,
my old friend rose, Nosferatu-style.
I leaned over my wife. I strained.
But that was not much help to see.
Do let us know when youre ready,
the teller said, all to trigger, it seemed,
that drive-through anxiety to hurry up—
anxiety that such polite words,
taken literally, should allay. Were—.
Were still looking, said my wife
at me. Take your time, the response.
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