Short Story: Wait In Line

Short Story: Wait In Line

You don’t often see a clown waiting in line at the bank. Truth be told, he spooked everyone, from the tellers to the security guys to the customers in the queue with him.

It was a full clown suit, too – greasepaint, red nose, “bald” wig, big shoes, kipper tie, crazy polka-dot pants, green corona of hair round the back of his head. Some people don’t go for clowns. All to do with that Stephen King business, I guess. Or maybe a hangover from that last Batman movie.

So, me and young Billy, we engage the guy in conversation. He’s pleasant enough. I don’t know what we were expecting – jokes, I suppose, or an offer to shake hands with a buzzer, or maybe a quick squirt of water from that suspiciously large flower in his lapel. But he’s just a regular fella, looking to ask about a loan. On his lunch break from rehearsals, he says. Big performance going on downtown at the arena. I should take my kids, he insists - kids love clowns. Never mind all that Stephen King stuff, he says.

So we’d processed all that, and I know I was already thinking up jokes for later – hey babe, you shoulda seen this clown that came in today – when a bald guy wearing leopardskin outfit joins the party – about 6ft 8in at a rough guess, bald, maybe 250lbs of mostly muscle – and he looks like... well, it turns out he is a circus strongman. Moustache that twirls at the edges, and such. To be honest, he looks more like a gay biker after a particularly exciting weekend, but it’d take a brave man to suggest this to the guy. He nods at us as we talk among ourselves. And he gives a wave to the clown, who waves back.

It seems like a bar-room joke made flesh, red serge and silk when the ringmaster comes in, hat in hand, mopping his brow, to stand at the end of the queue. It’s a real comical sight, I got to say. By now, most of the customers are doing double takes, and lots of jokes on the go. Rising chatter, the kind of hubbub you get before the curtain goes up at a show. Bring on the dancing girls, some old rogue says, and we all fall about laughing.

And then... oh, it gets priceless. A full troupe of acrobats comes in, in full costume. The boys are wearing purple silk and tiny little rhinestone-studded waistcoats, and the girls are in skimpy little numbers that show much more than they cover. Some of them bring out apples, oranges and bananas, and while they’re waiting in line with the customers, they start juggling. Some of it’s real hairy stuff – a couple of times I have to duck as some fruit flies over my head. Some kid in with his mother even goes over and starts making requests.

What’s going on here, pal? I ask the ringnmaster.

He shrugs. Wages day, he says. What did you think?

And that might have been the end of the story, the punchline, had it not been for the old lady. We can see her now, looking back over the security footage, again and again and again. I want to say I can remember her face, but I can’t, of course. Just a little old dame with a big shopping trolley, trundling it across the floor to the business banking counter. Two-wheeled, tartan on the sides, black leather covering. Young Billy, my colleague, even offers to help her with the cart, but she refuses. Quite alright, young man, she says to him.

It’s funny - Billy can’t remember her face, either. She was old, is about all he can say. Like, real old. Then, on the video screen, you can see Billy watching the acrobats form a human pyramid in front of the help desk, and applauding along with all the customers waiting in this once-in-a-lifetime bank queue. I’m busy, o’course – talking to the strongman about protein shakes and how much he can bench.

And no-one notices the old lady trundle past with her shopping trolley. There’s no sign of the stun gun she used to put the teller to sleep; on her way back, there’s no hint that the trolley’s filled with bills, lots and lots of bills. The business desk had just taken two big payments, an hour before – pay-ins from a bookie.

So she just trundled on out of there, into a waiting car, and away. By the time the alarm was sounded, the clown and the strongman and the acrobats and the ringmaster were gone, too.

Not a one of ‘em had paid anything into the bank, or carried out any transactions that might have identified ‘em in any way. And there was no sign of any circus performing in town. Funny, that.

Reminds me of an old joke – two cannibals eating a clown. One turns to the other and says...