Change of pace: noir-ish...

He watches her. "All too often?" he thinks often. It's Autumn. But that doesn't really matter here. Everything remains green. She rakes the front of her father's bank in a mini-skirt. All pine needles. It takes her an hour to rake the needles which could be a ten minute job with a broom. She likes being out there, he knows it. He watches this every Tuesday. And he hates himself every day that he does. Expecting her to be out there to perv on. "How absolutely horribly sad," he repeats to himself; holding his whiskey. He looks down at his drink and promises himself that he will go back to Coors Light.

Slats of light shoot through his venetian blinds. The cigar smoke wafting from his ash tray further accentuates the harsh lines of sunlight. He finishes what's left in his glass, stands and turns on the light. He looks around the room for a reason to finish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle. There is a jug of grape juice in his cooler. He makes a few mix drinks and recycles both of the containers when they are finished. Waiting for the alcohol buzz to come on and not giving a fuck about what hours he needs to put in today, he exits his office. He smiles at Gladis at the reception desk on his way out and observes the flab on the underside of her exposed arm flap as she waves at him.

He experiences a sudden urge to run, contains it, and walks briskly over to pay phone. He looks at it and wonders... He wonders why he didn't have the impulse to make this phone call while still in his office. Why was it, that coming outside created the desire to call someone he has vowed never to call? What was it about leaving his office that gave him the craving for destroying his commitment to stay clean? And how the fuck does remaining in that sleep inducing computer chair keep him sober? He stopped thinking, and impulsively spoke out loud,"Fuck that chair."

He puts some coins in the pay phone, presses a few buttons and the phone is ringing. A rough voice picks up, "Yeah?"
The man begins sweating, "Yeah, uh... It's been a long time. Can I come by?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Harold."
"Harold? Who the fuck?!" The receiver buzzes with a dead tone.
"Damn it." Harold hangs up. He walks away. He wipes a forehead full of perspiration with his arm. It sticks and mattes down his arm hair. He also gets a nose full of his hideous body oder from exposing his arm pit to the air. He spits. Adjusts his crotch and leaves. Leaves the phone booth. Leaves his receptionist. Leaves his desk, his plant, his coffee pot, his cigars, his books and his shitty debt collecting job. He goes to the bank where the girl is raking wet pine needles and showing off her legs.

"Hi." the girl stands and straitens up to show off her enormous chest in a button down blouse. The top three buttons are left unbuttoned. He knows this because he takes time to shamelessly count. She smiles at him, then at the concrete, then back to him. "Good," he thinks, "I can still make'em nervous."
"Have a good day." She says to him as he walks inside the bank.
"Yup."

He opens the glass doors and is flooded by highly priced air conditioned air. He breathes it in. There is a nervous young man wearing glasses and a permanent smile sitting behind the teller counter. Harold shakes his head at the familiar nod he is accosted with from this little boy in glasses. He stops walking and thinks of going back out to flirt with the young girl outside. Possibly just kidnap her and drive off to Mexico. Keep her there until she learns to love him. Then when she is given the chance to go back to raking pine needles from the ground of her father's bank in this shitty town, she'll beg for forgiveness that she ever teased the idea of leaving him.

Harold walks to the teller and smacks the counter top with the palm of his hand, "I wanna take it all out, Jimmy."
"Got your ID on you today, sir?"
"Fuck you, Jimmy. Give me my money." He tosses his ID on the counter. The boy nervously reads the name.
"Sorry, mister Travee-err."
"It's Travier. No 'r.' Jimmy, god damn it."
"Sorry, sir."
"It doesn't fucking matter."
"How much would you like to take out Mr. Trrav..."
"EE- AA."
"Mr. Trav'ee-aa'." Jimmy puts his shaking hand in his pocket to hide his embarrassment.
"All of it, boy."
Harold looks around as Jimmy tries to make up for being inept; fumbling with his keyboard and mouse. Harold thinks of buying a gun. "Why not?" he considers to himself. "20,000 in my pocket, I'll die before it runs out. Might as well protect my self on the way to the end."
"Wow, that's a lot, sir."
"Jimmy, the amount doesn't concern you. Just give it all to me."
"How would you like it, sir?"
"What'd'ya got? A bag or something?"
Jimmy responds by nodding and then turns around to grab a tote bag from behind him. Harold smiles and nods to Jimmy. It takes a minute for Jimmy to talk to his supervisor. Then it takes another minute for Jimmy to fill the bag with the man's money.

Harold walks out of the bank with a sack of money and a refreshing smile on his face.
"Good-bye, sir." Jimmy meekly says to him.
"Yeah." Harold swings open the front door and back into the sweat conducing thick heat. He sees the buxom bankers daughter continue her exhibitionistic raking routine.
"Tha's a big bag you got there."
Harold stops to count the buttons on her blouse again. "OK."
"Where you going with all that money?"
"Mexico, or Equador, or Cuba maybe."
"Is that so?"
"Don't know. Might change my mind."
"When'll you be back?"
"Don't imagine I'll be back."
"What about your business and all that mister? How will you run your business?"
"Shit. Well, I guess it'll run itself out."
"What about Gladis?"
Harold looks across the street to see Gladis, like a drone, plucking at the keys of her computer.
"She's a big girl, she'll do fine. She's a big girl."
The buxom daughter looks to the needles on the ground and her tone shifts. She's not even posing anymore. Now, instead of being this untouchable icon, she suddenly becomes cute, interesting, vulnerable, and very very touchable.
"Well, I might as well say it. I've been waiting for you to take me out one of these Friday nights."
He looks at her blouse again, and this time nearly laughs, "yeah?"
"Yeah." She rocks on her heels. "And seeing how this is the first time we've talked since you got that place over there... It'll be sad if it's our last."
"Hmm..." he sighs and watches her continually grow younger as her honesty makes her more human, "Well, you're plenty pretty. You'll do fine with out me." He turns and walks.
She calls after him, "Mister." He turns around to see her half exposed breasts bounce their way towards him. She rushes up to him nice and close and then grows increasingly nervous by the moment. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips purse. She rubs his right hand with her left. He grimaces. She looks to him. They share exact opposite gazes. Hers, loving and romantic. His, confused and annoyed.
She takes the opportunity with this proximity to plant a kiss on his cheek, then backs off immediately and exudes an expression as if she's just been slapped. Harold shakes his head, "What the fuck?"
"I love you mister."
"You're confused little girl. You need to get the fuck away from that bank."
He turns, and despite the blubbering jaw of the softly crying girl, leaves at the bank.
He walks to the rear of his office building where his car awaits. He takes the time to put the top down to his convertible Mazda Miata, hops in the front seat with out opening the door and starts her up. He lights a cigarette and takes off around to the front of the building. He stops. He sees the chubby receptionist typing away at some legal paper. He reaches into his bag of money and removes one of the thousand dollar wads of cash. He throws it at the window and scares the piss out of the receptionist when it hits the glass. Startled she brings her hand to her chest. Then, assuming it's a joke she waves at Harold.
"Fuck you, Gladis!" He speeds off in his Miata with his middle finger in the air.