6 - The loan
I push the glass door open and step into the lobby; it closes behind me with a whoosh.
At the service counters, the bank employees are helping customers.
The machine spits out my number, and I make my way to the line, sweat sticking my shirt to my back.
The air smells like carpet and varnished wood.
A woman in black leggings is filling out a form at a desk. A buzz of voices overlaps with the intermittent ring of a phone.
The screen above the counter flashes one-three-two—finally, it’s my turn.
The banker, a man with a white beard tracing his jawline, finally looks up at me. “How can I help you?”
“I need a loan.”
He checks the computer screen. “You already have one.”
“I need more.”
The guy strokes his mustache. “I’m sorry, but your financial situation is already… difficult.”
“I can pay it back. I swear.”
He twirls his fingers around the tip of his mustache. “I understand, really. But the numbers don’t lie. Another loan could push you into default. We can’t take that risk.”
I pick up a brochure from the table. “You don’t understand.” I flip through a couple of pages. “I need that money. Without the car, I can’t work!”
He half closes his eyes. “The rules are the rules. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Please. Just this once. I’ll pay it back—I’ve got a job now.”
The man drops the mouse and leans back in his chair. “I really am sorry.”
“Liar. You don’t give a damn.”
I storm out of the bank and walk down the street. I stop and rest my hand on a lamppost.
Something sticky and disgusting clings to my skin.
I recoil—gross, it’s chewing gum. I peel it off and toss it on the ground.
I need that money. I need it now. Not in a month. Not even in a week.
How am I supposed to show up to management? To the players?
I look down at my jeans. These rags?
A dog rips open a trash bag, sending garbage all over the sidewalk.
I’ve got no choice.
It’s just a withdrawal—temporary. I’ll put it all back little by little with the money I’ll make coaching. Even if it’s not much.
Anna won’t even notice.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.
I start to cross the street and stop as a red Clio rushes past, nearly hitting me.
I weave through the parked cars, careful not to brush up against the dusty doors.
I pause for a second in front of the post office. The automatic door sensor catches me and the panel slides open.
It’s quiet.
A man rises up on his toes to reach the counter, tapping a pen on the partition.
I walk up. My reflection stares back from the shiny plexiglass—a face with a few days’ worth of beard.
The woman behind the window looks me in the eyes.
I glance around.
No. I can’t do this.
It’s Marco and Luigi’s savings.
I turn to leave and stub my toe on a chair leg. The tip of my right shoe splits open—I can see inside.
The sole’s come off. Shit. I don’t have another pair.
Now what? I can’t walk around like this.
Gavino’s just around the corner.
Guess I’ll have to ask him for one last favor.
The wind tugs at laundry flapping from balconies.
His door—faded wood set in a frame of red brick.
I open it. The smell of tanned leather and glue hits me.
Gavino, hunched over a boot, is working leather on his usual stool.
“Hey.”
He barely lifts his head. The wrinkles on his forehead flatten. “What do you want?”
I show him the shoe. “It’s torn... and I’ve got nothing else. Can you fix it?”
He arches an eyebrow and inspects it. “Nothing’s free, and you know it.”
“I’ll pay you as soon as I can. Please.”
His mouth twists into a sneer. “Upfront only. No credit for you.”
“You can’t do this to me.”
He shrugs and gets back to work.
I leave the shop—no other choice.
A cat crouches, body low, eyes locked on a bird skimming the ground.
“Come on, don’t give up—you’ve got this.”
Back to the post office. No one’s there. I head straight to the counter.
“I’d like to make a withdrawal.”
The clerk taps on the keyboard. “How much would you like to withdraw?”
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. “The maximum.”
A fly buzzes past my nose—I swat it away.
She counts the bills and slides them over.
It’s gonna be fine.
It has to be.
“Thanks.” I head for the door.
It’s my money, saved up when I was still a player.
So why do I feel like shit?
I clutch the green and orange bills in my pocket.
I wonder if that little bird made it.
Please note: I'm not a native English speaker. If you spot any mistakes or have suggestions, feel free to email me at p.rubiu@tiscali.it