Runyard's

Harold sat at the bar of Runyard’s Restaurant before the early lunch crowd came in. It was a rather lame time to be sitting at a bar, Harold thought. He had placed his jacket rather lamely on the back of the chair, and crossed his legs rather lamely in the legs of the chair. His arms were laid rather lamely on the bar top and he stared rather lamely at the menu in between his arms, though he already knew what he was going to order.

The waiter at the bar glanced back at Harold, while he wiped a cup, waiting for the order he already knew was coming. There were other customers sitting at the bar, but they had already been served. Finally, Harold glanced up and smiled, rather lamely, at the waiter.

“I think I’ll have the chicken on rye, but with mustard, today,” said Harold, thinking he was being adventurous. The waiter simply nodded and took the menu from him, leaving him with his glass of water and lemon.

Harold looked around at the other patrons and smiled, trying not to appear too lame. He turned back to the bar top in front of him and wondered whether he should be getting on with his plans to surprise Mary for her birthday. After all, they’d been seeing each other for nearly three months. It was certainly time to make a good impression on her.

Sitting on the other end of the bar, were a pair of young women, a bit younger than Harold, but obviously making their way in the world. They were fashionably dressed, in the professional style, and were busily engaged in conversation with each other, as they twirled the straws in their drinks. Harold couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but there was nothing else important going on, so he couldn’t help but try to overhear.

“I heard there’s going to be a run on The Bank of Gidade,” Harold thought he could hear the girl with dark skin and toned arms saying to the other.

“I know,” exclaimed the other woman, with a shorter, lighter haircut. “They’re already asking for money to help.

Harold thought for a moment about what he had just heard, then his eyes popped wide open when he really processed it.

“Oh no! A run on the bank? The Bank of Gidade? That’s where I keep all my money,” thought Harold. He realized what he needed to do. Just as the door to the kitchen opened and the waiter came out with his food, Harold jumped up and grabbed his jacket, acrobatically knocking over the chair as he did so.

He made hurried apologies to no one in particular, righted the chair and hustled out of the restaurant, while the waiter stood with his plate of food, staring at Harold leaving and shaking his head.

Heading out to the street, Harold tried not to look too worried. The bank was 6 blocks away, in downtown. Coming around the last corner, Harold was too busy looking over his shoulder, worried about an oncoming crowd of people heading for the bank to take their money before he got there, to see the kindly older woman pushing her wheeled cart full of groceries.

Harold caught his feet in the cart and tripped himself backwards, uttering a rather vulgar swear as he landed on the ground. The woman pushing the cart jumped back in astonishment and put her hands to her face, as if to catch her cheeks from running away.

“Dear me,” she cried. “Are you all right?

“Oh, yes,” replied Harold, as he stood back up and reached to help right the cart. “I’m terribly sorry. I was looking behind me and, well, seemed to have tipped over your groceries.” Harold was caught in a conundrum. He was in quite a hurry to get to the bank, but he couldn’t very well leave this poor woman with her groceries all over the pavement. As there didn’t seem to be a rush of people running them over on the way to the bank, Harold offered to help the woman pick up the mess, seeing as the mess was, in fact, his fault.

“What were you hurrying off to in such a rush, if you don’t mind me asking,” spoke the rather plump woman.

“What? Oh, no. Nowhere, really. Just, you know, to the bank,” stuttered Harold, trying to organize the zucchini back into the cart, but really just shuffling things around a bit.

“Oh, I see,” continued the woman. “But why go in such a bustle? I know it seems they only open for ten minutes a day, but, I say, you seem worried? Are you sure you’re alright?"

Harold stared tight-lipped at her for a moment, before blurting out, “It’s just that they’re going to run out of money, and I want to get mine out before there’s no more.”

As soon as he said it, Harold clamped his hand over his mouth and he stood up straight in embarrassment. If Harold could have simply melded into the brick wall of the building next to them, he would have.

The woman’s mouth gaped open. “The bank is going to run out of money,” she shrieked and turned, looking at all the people who were now looking at the two of them. “Well,” she said determinedly, while straightening her cart and ignoring the four cans of meat that were still rolling on the ground. “Thank you very much for your help. I’ll be off,” she suddenly pushed against Harold and started bustling down the street, shouting behind her, “to the bank!”

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The lobby of the National Bank and Trust of Gidade was the type that wasted a lot of space to look like there was more space than there really was. It was full of marble and tall plants with large leaves and the queue was placed at just the wrong number of steps away from the tills.

There were only a small handful of people in the lobby, the manager’s receptionist was sitting coyly on the edge of the loan officer’s desk, and the sun was gently streaming from the high windows at just the right angle to glare into the patron’s eyes as they were filling out their slips.

Suddenly, a middle aged man, dressed in a rather lame sport coat, came rushing through the door with a panicked look on his face. As the door opened, the staff could hear the hustle and bustle of the walkway outside, but there was an extra loud shout, as Harold tried to push the door closed behind him.

“It's right here! Hurry! Before all of the money is gone,” a shrill, harried voice yelled outside the door.

Harold, being the middle aged man who rushed through the door, glanced at the lone security guard standing by the door, then began walking as calmly as he could to the front of the queue. He stood with a placid face as the teller called him up to the window, as there was no one else in line.

Behind him, the woman he had bumped into outside had followed him in and was bringing a throng of people with her. Most were simply following to see what was happening, but several were livid over the idea that the bank would run out of money.

Harold tried politely to greet the teller, a young man, well kempt and with a welcoming smile, but the commotion behind him became impossible to talk over. The teller’s smile dropped and became more worried, as more people filed into the door.

“Here they are!”

“Hey, get in line!”

“I was here first!”

There were now at least 30 people milling about the lobby, and even more looking through the window outside. The crowd was becoming rowdy towards the front of the queue and now the manager was coming out to see what all the fuss was about.

The woman who had started the commotion was tussling with a rather dowdy man of about her same age at the start of the queue. He had tried to step in front of her, and she responded by hitting him with her large purse and giving him a mean side eye.

The manager and the security guard managed to get the front door closed and, with a loud voice filled with authority, the manager quieted down the crowd.

“What is the meaning of all this,” he asked rhetorically.

The woman in the front of the line spoke up, rather indignantly, “We're here to get our money! They said you were going to run out and we want to get it before it's gone!”

The manager looked incredulous. “Who told you we're out of money?”

The woman stammered for a moment, then looked at Harold and pointed a chubby finger in his direction. “It was him. It was him that told me the bank was going broke.” She spoke hesitatingly, now showing fear of embarrassment in her eyes.

Harold, standing at the till, looked at the woman, then at the manager. All he could manage to do was swallow, as if that would justify all the fuss.

--------

For the next two hours, no one could leave the bank. Shortly after the manager had tried to explain that they could honor any requests to withdraw funds, he went further to explain that he thought most people would do best to leave their money with the bank.

This, of course, incensed the crowd, as they thought the bank was coercing them away from their money. The turmoil was picked up by the mob now locked outside the building and, by and by, the police came by to see if they should be involved.

Once the crowd saw the police, the block around the bank became bedlam. Chants were shouted, rocks were thrown, arrests were made. It was clear that no one in the area had anything better to do than make trouble, and so, trouble was made.

Harold found himself sitting on one of the overstuffed, green leather benches that was strategically placed along the walls of the lobby. The crowd in the lobby, still restless and now agitated at not being able to get out of the bank they were so keen to get into in the first place, was finding ways to keep itself entertained until the police would let them out.

Some had found their way into the offices to look at bank reports they didn't understand. Others had found the break room and were valiantly liberating the coffee and bagels, you know, for the greater good. Still others, like Harold, decided that, while discretion is the better part of valor, apathy is the better part of discretion, and they would do best to sit down and wait out the shenanigans.

Seated next to Harold was a pleasant looking woman of similar age, with large, bright eyes and long dark hair. She turned a charming smile to Harold and said, “Well, this has all been quite exciting, but do you think it's all been a little dramatic?”

Harold, who had been staring at the floor self-consciously, and was not really aware that she was sitting next to him, startled up and said, “Oh, well, I suspect most of the people here are just looking for an excuse to faff about out of the office.”

The woman nodded intelligently about his answer and the two fell into awkward silence for a bit. Harold decided that staring at the ground wasn't going to ease his mind, so he asked, “Were you here about the money, too?”

“Do you mean everybody trying to shut the bank down? No, as a matter of fact. Maybe the opposite.” She patter her small black purse and continued, “I have the deposits from last night to bring in. Just happened to get caught up in the rush, is all.”

“Well, I suppose you'll have a good story to tell when you get back to work, ay?” Harold tried to give her a warm smile, but his feelings that somehow this was all his fault, kept him from being as genuine as would have liked.

“I suppose so,” she answered. At that moment the door opened and a rotund police officer, red in the face from shouting down the mayhem outside, entered the lobby and spoke with the manager for only a moment. Then he turned and addressed the throng of people in the lobby.

“The bank is officially closed for the rest of the day. Any business you may have with the bank will have to wait until tomorrow. I suggest you all carry on and go home.”

“Well, doesn't that just take the biscuit,” scoffed the woman next to Harold.

“I know, unbelievable,” replied Harold, half-heartedly. He really was at a loss to explain his position. After all, he was sure that there was going to be a run on the bank. The women he had overheard at Runyard's had said so. But the bank didn't seem to be in any trouble, except for the trouble that Harold had inadvertently caused.

“Listen, I know this is rather forward of me, but this all been such a bother. If you'd like to get a drink with me, I know a place just a few blocks from here.”

Nothing sounded better to Harold at this moment than a drink with a nice woman. “That sounds nice. I'd really like that.”

“My name is Margie, by the way,” she said, standing up and sticking her hand out.

Harold, still rather lost in his thoughts, gave her an anxious smile and shook her hand.

“I'm Harold. Where were you thinking of going?”

“Do you know Runyard's? It's nothing much, but it's comfortable.”

Harold laughed louder than he meant to, then apologized and said Runyard's would be a fine place to go.

As they walked through the lobby, they passed a signboard covered in flyers and banners.

“Are you a runner, by the way,” asked Margie. “It says here that they're having a charity run by the bank. Looks like they're asking for money.”