Fuckedville

           The rents due in two weeks, I'm a month behind on my credit card and they've raised the interest rates, inflations up, can't get a raise from my boss and no one's hiring. Great. I need to get money for food and rent first. Fuck the credit card companies since they're going to fuck me over anyway. Interest rates. I drive up to the ATM, by the way my next $100 payment on the car is due in a week too. Got to pay the fucking insurance and gas for this piece of shit, too. 1998 Ford. Not to mention the phone bill, the electric, gas, etc. Welcome to Fuckedville since I'm totally fucked. I go up to the ATM to deposit the check from my employee: McDonald's.   “What you want is what you get at McDonald's today.” What I want is a fucking raise, to win the lottery, to get out of debt.  That's what I want; I want a house, two cars, kids, pets, paid vacations, sick days. You get the drift. So, I drive up to the ATM to deposit this $346.00 check. Big deal. So, I do what I always do, I put in the debit card and it asks for my PIN, which is RICH.  Then, I check the account balance. That way if the bank fucks me over I can show them the billion and a half ATM receipts proving them wrong. I look at the screen. Doesn't make sense.  “Account balance: $2,658,485,562,987.07”. That can't be right. I wish it was right. My life'd be great if that was right, but I hit cancel and it barfs up my ATM card and beeps at me. So, I take the card out and put it back in, type in RICH and push the bottons for the Account balance and again it says “$2,658,485,562,987.07”. So, I make the ATM barf my card out again, park my car, and go in the goddamn bank. There's a line. Big suprise. There's a line at banks as often as there's a goddamn waiting room in a dentist's office. So, after fifteen minutes of waiting for these geniuses to complete their transactions, I get up to the counter and the middle-aged Caucasion woman asks the same questions these geniuses always ask: “Hi, Sir. How are you doing today?” One day I'll tell one of these idiots I'm pregnant and see what they say next. “Fine,” I say. “And how can I help you today?” Got a winning lotto ticket? “There's something wrong with the ATM outside, it's giving me the wrong balance.” She asks to see my card and I push in RICH. She writes something on a sheet of paper for a long time, hands it over the counter, and says, “Here's your balance, sir” with the usual fake smile. I look at the post-it: “$2,658,485,562,987.07”. I feel puzzled then ask, “Are you sure?” Then think, “What were my last transactions?” She goes through the transactions and an anonymous source deposited the money. What? My guardian angel won the lottery and gave it all to me? What? They didn't want to pay the tax on it? I don't know. Doesn't make sense. What if it's stolen and someone is using my bank account to launder the money? Do I know someone rich who's passed away? It doesn't make sense. Then, I think. Why am I bitching? I'm rich. This is what we all always wanted. God has answered my prayers and God works in mysterious ways. I order a new check book and leave the bank.

*

           The first thing I do is pay off my debts. I pay three months ahead on rent and contact a realtor. Then, I pay my utilities and keep track of my balance. I don't know why. Old habits. Then, I pay the rest of my debts and it feels liberating. No more worrying about being evicted or the lights or gas turning off. I can probably sleep tonight. Probably sleep. I'll need to change my telephone number later, but I decide to treat myself to a restaurant I've always wanted to eat at called The Melting Pot. I must be dreaming. I must be dreaming, but there are two ways to tell if you're dreaming: 1) Look for a clock on the wall. Clocks aren't in dreams. The other is to wear jeans in the shower and turn on the water. Our imagination can't fathom that. The clock's there and the jeans feel heavy after the shower. So, I'm not dreaming. Still doesn't make sense: Why would someone I don't know put $2,658,485,562,987.07 in my account. Maybe they typed the wrong routing number or account number in?  Maybe I showed put the money in a ROTH IRA or an IRA, depending on which is less tax. Maybe I'm high. Go to a clinic. Get a drug screen. I'm clear. 

           So, I call up my girlfriend and take her to the Melting Pot. I dress up in a suit I got from my parents when I was young and she wears a suit and she makes sure I can afford this. I tell her I'll talk to her about it over dinner. The food and the service is incredible. The meat is tender and the sauces are juicy. The dark beer goes down smooth. I get the bill from the waiter: $325 and it says the recommended tips and I pay with a 25 percent tip. I drive her home and we make out since she enjoyed dinner so much. I explain the SNAFU with my bank account and she says to count my blessings and enjoy it before the shit hits the fan. Then, she invites me in and I accept. She closes and locks the door and we start making out again. I ask if she has protection and she says to fuck protection. If I'm that rich we can have a baby and get married. God bless whoever put this money in my account. Unless the bank fucked up.

           I kiss her soft, but crescendo. My tongue going deeper into her throat and I suck on her tongue. She likes that. Instead of her sucking me, I suck her. I can taste the wine on her mouth and the filet mignon she ate and I can feel the pharimones. I lift her shirt up while we make out and unstrap her and she lets me. I feel up her stomach and grope her and her nipples are hard. God bless whoever put this money in my account. God bless the bank. God bless.