Medium: An Excerpt from a Novel in Progress

By: Jacob Greene

He sat down on the right-most of the two settees positioned on either side of a small circular side table complete with ornamental lamp and cream-colored lamp shade, something withdrawn directly from his grandmother’s house to make him feel at home. The settees were exquisite too: hard mahogany back splats shimmering as if taken straight from the menuisiers in eighteenth-century France, an oceanic high-back arching in waves that crashed down smoothly, flowing onto the cushioned bench that rested in cabriole with dancer’s poise atop four thin legs, all garnished proudly by the bands of dark stained wood cut into elaborate flowers. Oz crossed his legs to remain composed as his belly and upper torso hummed with the simple initial pleasures of being in such a stately place, this scene giving him manhood. This scene a physical manifestation of that winking woman’s voice. 

His preliminary joys, though, soon gave way to frustrations, when after thirty minutes of waiting, the muzak floating down from the overhead speakers began to overlap with the sounds of the television mounted across the room that repeatedly vocalized the many benefits of reaching Gold status with TowneBank and utilizing the bank’s Member Stock Purchase Program, the harmonious, xylophonic voice of the screen, tweeting and retweeting notes of a mortgage paid off and a brand new Mercedes Benz S-Class in a freshly pressure-washed driveway. 

He began to clench and unclench his fist. Oz, unsure if he was imagining things or not, heard the muzak speed up, garbling the words of the screen until they too sped up and became a current of glossolalia that made his skin itch and he stood up and sat down and stood up and adjusted his shirt and sat down and stood up and he looked out the door to see if the lady was watching before he sat down and maybe this room was what was wrong with the world and maybe the effects of this room were what was wrong with himself and then he stood up and then sat down and put a mint from the complimentary mints jar in his mouth and pinched his leg until the muzak returned to normal speed like a turntable being slowed and the silvery notes of the TowneBank voice came gently back into auditory focus and the hot redness of his face receded into the aura of composure he had so trained to emerge in situations such as this. 

The clacking of high heels echoed in the broad hall as the honey-mouthed woman returned and looped her slinking neck around the door, bulbed earrings bobbing like ornaments on a tree, to tell Oz that Darlene was ready at her table out front. 

Darlene was thin, wiry in that way brought about by being an elderly person who still works out. She had her hair cut incredibly short, a feminine bowl cut of sorts, and blonde and dark dyes and highlights made any would-be grayness absent from her hair. She wore clunky jewelry around her slim wrists and around her leathery neck. Her wrinkles shook a little when she spoke, so they quivered constantly, because she talked with such speed that words blended into one another and overlapped, a speed so fast, too fast, fast like if she stopped to breathe, a secret might be detected on that quiet breath.

“Mr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes, you are Mr. Barnes. I have to confirm, honey, that you’re Mr. Barnes because if you weren’t that would cause such problems, I can’t even begin to go over all of the problems that would cause if you weren’t Mr. Barnes but actually someone claiming to be Mr. Barnes; I’m sure you see how that could cause such problems.” 

“I see how that would not be ideal. Then I wouldn’t ever get my money.” He enjoyed being called ‘mister.’ He hated when his masculinity was in question.

“That’s right, that’s exactly right, and then someone else might get your money, your money that your dad made, is that right, your dad made? Someone might get that money that your dad made and gave to you and that he did not make for them, but if they lied and tricked us and we did not check I.D.’s then absolutely they might get that money. Can I see your driver’s license please?”

Oz removed his license from his wallet and placed it on the table. She lifted it and examined it, press-ons clicking as they stroked the name and the birthday and the eye color and the address. Inspection complete. 

“I can see right here that you are Mr. Barnes. That is splendid news because that means I can help you.” And she said this matter-of-factly, like the possibility of her assistance was actually in question before she had rubbed her knobby fingers over the laminated plastic. 

“Now Mr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes let me see those papers, if you don’t mind, of course, letting me see those papers you need notarized, and those signatures you need satisfied, and those areas where I need to cross t’s and dot I’s. Just slide that manilla folder over to me, honey, and lay those problems on my person because that’s what I’m here for. I’m here to help in any way I can. Really, I am here to notarize. I am a certified public notary.” 

Oz slid the manilla folder across. She opened it gingerly and it looked almost like she was salivating at the prospect of tearing into the pages, scrutinizing each and every line, word by word dissecting the very meaning of the financial document which could only, to Oz, mean the simple transferring of dollar signs and digits. 

“This is interesting, so interesting,” she moaned, “I have never seen this verbiage before. I have never seen something exactly like this before. This is something completely original and unique, something entirely unlike any document I have ever seen. Honey, there’s a lot to unpack here.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Fifteen years. I used to work at the Navy Federal, that one, you know, across from the Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“I know it.”

“This place is much better, don’t you think?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

She began to read the final contents of the folder, flipping from stapled page to stapled page. She reached the last two and began to flip back and forth, a look of confusion forming on her face and eliciting a popping tongue-clucking noise from her mouth. 

“Oh dear, oh my dear, honey, this just won’t do, this simply won’t do at all. Do you see here? Do you see right here?” Oz leaned forward as she waved her pen over the page, indicating something, or nothing, or the whole thing. Oz couldn’t tell. He squinted and followed her waving pen with his eyes and head. 

“I don’t understand. What am I looking at?”

“Honey, really it’s simple: you have come to TowneBank because you do business with TowneBank, you have an account with TowneBank, or at least your father has an account with TowneBank, and you have requested a certified notary, which I am, I am a certified public notary, and I am certified to notarize a variety of documents, but this here, this sheet here is remarkably confusing because it suggests to me that not only do you not need me, but you need a Certified Medallion Notary to look at this. A Medallion Notary can be hard to come by, you see, they are in very high demand, the highest demand. We only have one at this location, and she won’t be in until January 32^nd.”

“I’m sorry, when?”

“I said January 31^st. She just won’t be in until the 31^st,” Darlene said, shaking her head. “And honey this document,” she said, flipping the pages back and forth and back and forth in a flapping rhythm that grated Oz’s skull, “it is telling me that you need to bring in all of the account information, a certificate of the amount, one of the custodians of the account, this would be your father, and then it would not hurt,” she said, closing the folder and putting a hand to her temple as if deciding the fate of the universe, “to bring in a variety of other documents: passport, birth certificate, definitely want that social security number, etc.”

“I thought you could help me here,” said Oz. 

“It’s just a difficult thing honey, it really is.”

“I was told that this was all I needed.”

“Was this a financial professional that you consulted and who told you that? You really, honey, and this is so important, you really need to be sure you can trust who you talk to about your money problems.”

“I don’t have money problems.” He worried that one day, when he was out of the house, that money problems might find him. He had hidden from them for so long in the padded sanctuary of his parents. 

“Right, that’s entirely my misinterpretation. Misinterpretations are so dangerous, so dangerous.”

“Very dangerous,” said Oz, and his back ached from sitting for so long. 

His eyes tracked the room slowly, hunting for something. They settled on the bank vault. He briefly pictured someone coming in with a Glock or other weapon, a black mask on, shouting obscenities at the lady behind the center desk, at Darlene, demanding they be given all of the money in the teller’s station and behind the vault door. He saw himself standing beyond the rotating entryway, spying to see if anyone would be shot or if they would be in to help him on January 32^nd. He saw the man with the gun pull back his mask, and for a moment it was his face, but then he shook his head and reminded himself that it wasn’t him, it was some lunatic, and that he wasn’t like those nuts at all. He turned to Darlene and saw her smiling, and his imaginative episode subsided. He frowned at her and grabbed the folder from the desk and walked out without thanking her. He called his father in the car on the way home who cursed him for not remembering to bring the necessary information and for probably, he believed, acting rudely to the nice ladies at the service desks.