Word count 2950

THE APPLICANT
by  Geddy Gibson

 Christ, what's THIS loser doing in here?
     The heavy glass door squeaks shut behind him. He stands there looking around the bank's lobby, seeming totally out of place. It's hot outside, but this kid's wearing a dingy black hoodie, torn jeans, decrepit sneakers. I’d be damned if he even has a checking account here.
     I see his head start to turn my way, so I look down, act like I'm looking at something on my desk. No point in getting mixed up with him. One of the girls at the teller desk can handle him.
     I see him walk over to the stand where people sign in to see a loan officer. I wonder whether he knows what it's for. I chuckle quietly—maybe he thinks he has to sign in to see one of the tellers.
     Just then, the front door opens again. A fat guy dressed like a middle manager comes up behind the kid, waits to sign in.
     HA!
     The fat guy's entrance reminds me that it's Velcek's turn to take the next customer, anyway. Since the kid's next on the list, Velcek has to deal, not me. He gets the freak, I get fatso.
     I spot Velcek heading back from the bathroom. He pauses when he spots the two of them near the sign-in roster. Velcek—the bald prick—stands there for a moment, adjusting the cuff links on his starched white shirt.
     It hits me too late: I should have already gotten up to go greet fatso. I feel my chest tighten with anger. Velcek grins and extends his hand as he walks toward Sir Lardsalot. 
     I clench my fists. The emo kid just stands there, mouth slightly open. Almost protests, but doesn't.
     Freakin' Velcek!
     I silently curse the tons of seniority he has over me. Not to mention the numbers he pulls in. But this is just like sitting on my face and farting. I vow to get him back somehow.
     I slam my pen down on the desk a little harder than intended. The sound seems to echo around the bank. Mary's head pops up at her lead teller station. She stares straight at me with this blank look. I give her one of those "yeah, yeah" head tosses. She walks over to one of the other tellers and whispers to her. I feel my face turn red.
     What, are they still in high school, or something? Jesus! What a day this is turning out to be.
     So, I look back toward the roster stand. Now the kid is staring at me. I glare at him for a moment. From fifty feet away I can see how sunken his eyes look. Almost like he's wearing eye make-up, or something.
     I have half a mind to just ignore him, stand my ground with Velcek. Velcek's the one who always holds me to this "take turns" system. But I glance over at Mary again just as she is looking back down. I figure I'd better help the kid, just in case Mary's trying to start some crap. I know she was the one who said something to Perkins about me taking "long" lunches. It’s always easy to scapegoat the young guy at work.
     Kid's still staring. I wave him over. He looks surprised, like he doesn't know whether I'm talking to him, or something.
     Yeah YOU, dimwit.
     I wave more vigorously this time. He takes a couple of hesitant steps, then ambles over slowly. His black jeans are baggy, almost blue-gray from being washed too often. He's got all kinds of stupid-looking necklaces on. Couple of weird pendants, black beads, a witch star. And yeah, I can see it now. He is wearing eyeliner. I don't hide my disdain as I extend my hand to him.
     "Zip Henderson"
     He stands there looking from my face to my hand like he's never given a handshake before. I chuckle and shake my head. I point toward the chair in front of my desk.
     "Alright…why don't you just have a seat, Mr...?"
     I lean in to try to hear what he is mumbling, nearly whispering. His lips barely move. It's like he wants to make sure no one else hears him.
     "Excuse me?"
     "Phelps," he says. "Francis K. Phelps"
     Kid's looking around the bank, like he's trying to figure out whether I’m the one he should be talking to. He finally sits in the chair. I sit, propping my elbows on the desk. I hold my gold pen between both fists horizontally, just below my line of sight. I stare at him until he fidgets. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Mary staring our way.
     "Okay then, uh, Francis, I'll go first. What brings you in today? Student loan?"
     "I, uh...n-no. A business loan."
     I drop the pen on my desk and flop back in my chair. I almost start guffawing, but I see Mary is still looking our way. She is staring hard at the kid with her head tilted down, pretending like she is straightening her station.
     "C'mon. Velcek put you up to this, right? He know your dad or something?"
     "Wha...? I, uh...Look, I think I'll just come back, um, some other...yeah."
     He takes his olive drab shoulder bag from his lap, starts to stand up. I'm surprised to feel a twinge of doubt. I glance toward Mary again. She's at the drive-up window, her back to us. I stare hard at the kid. He doesn't flinch, and starts to turn away.
     Jeez. Maybe he really IS here for a business loan.
    "No, no," I say. "C'mon. Have a seat."
     Now I'm curious. Slow afternoon, anyway. Could be good for a couple of laughs. Plus, I figure if I keep the kid here at my desk, I'll look busy if Perkins comes out.
     He stands there for a second, deciding. I point at the chair again.
     "Just sit down. Look, I just thought my, uh, my associate...was playing a, uh...Just have a seat please, Mr....Phillips?"
     "Phelps."
     "Phelps, right. Okay, Mr. Phelps, you, ah, you said something about a business loan?"
     A lock of stringy black hair is now hanging over his right eye. His left eye bores into mine. The eye is gray and set deep. The skin immediately around it is dark from the eyeliner, but the rest of his skin looks like something you'd expect to see in a casket. 
     There is something almost mesmerizing about that eye, just staring. A coldness. We just sit there—not sure how long—before I notice he hasn't answered me.
     "Let me give you my materials," he says.
     He looks down. He methodically starts to unlatch his shoulder bag. For a moment I'm a little nervous about what he may pull out of that bag. I glance around for witnesses.
     The kid pulls out something white and rolled up and thrusts it toward me. I take it, relieved. It's nothing but three sheets of paper stapled together. 
     As I look over his "materials," I feel myself having to suppress a grin, then laughter. The top page is a hand-drawn and -lettered cover sheet. A shrouded figure is sketched in the middle, surrounded by crudely drawn symbols. The figure is reaching toward the top of the page, where these hand-lettered words appear: Ghosts Spiritual Counseling and Readings.
     I decide to act offended by this amateurism in order to keep myself from laughing. I glare at him across the top of the papers. Then I drop them on the desk in apparent exasperation.
     "What does this even...? I mean, are you saying you have ghosts for sale? Or, or, that you are counseling ghosts, or—"
     "No, no, it's—"
      "Shouldn't there be some commas here, too? I mean, look, this just isn't very prof—"
      "No, I'm Ghost."
      I stare at him blankly for a moment. Then I slump back in my leather chair again. I feel a bit of real anger welling up now.
     "C'mon. Level with me, kid. This is Velcek, right? I mean—"
     "What?"
     I lean toward him. The single gray eye looks even more dead up close.
     "What do you mean 'What?'"
     I glance toward the teller desk again. Mary is facing our way, but it looks like she is counting cash. I keep my voice low.
     "You come here, into a bank, asking for a loan, and you, you say you're a freakin' ghost? That's just—"
     "No, I—"
     "You're lucky I don't call the guard, have you thrown—"
     "No, no, listen. Dude, it's my nickname. Ghost."
     I feel my face go slack.
     "It's what all the kids called me since, like, sixth grade," he continues. "The white skin, my interest in the occult, all that? You know. Kids."
     I look down at the cover sheet again. My face feels slightly flushed. I look for something else to nitpick so I can regain hand in the situation.
     "So, so...you left off the apostrophe, then. Should be: Ghost's Spiritual Counseling and Readings?"
     "I always did better in Art than English."
     I look at a random swirl of hash marks that is apparently supposed to represent the shrouded figure's hair.
     "Oh, yeah, I can really see that. So, ah, so then, you are...what? Basically a palm reader? Or, what exactly is the nature of this, uh, business you want to set up?"
     The gray eye transfixes me again. Everything else seems slightly blurred around it. Feels kinda like I am seeing it through a tube. I try blinking a couple of times.
     "I suppose the best way to think about it is that I help people deal with the loss they feel after they…I mean, after a loved one dies."
     "How? You're not old enough to be a licensed therapist."
     "I contact their loved ones with them. You know the term 'medium,' of course."
     "Seances? People sitting around a table with candles, all that?"
     "Well, those trappings are a little nineteenth century. But yes."
     A thought hit me. I clapped my hands together.
     "Oh, oh. So, are you are like one of those TV guys? Edward Johnson, or whatever his name is? 'I am sensing a J over here. Or is it a B...?'"
     That damned left eye seems to darken a bit. He just sits there for a sec, the eye boring into mine.
     "I'm not in the business of selling dish detergent and term life insurance. The hocus-pocus stuff you see on TV is geared toward hawking ad time. It's ultimately entertainment. I am interested in helping people."
     "Right."
     I shoot him a skeptical look and settle back into my chair. I flip through his "prospectus" absently.
     "Frankly, Gho—Mr. Phelps, I'd feel better if you were just out to pull a few parlor tricks. Or, like, willing to admit that your business simply provides widows with a good cathartic cry over their dead husbands. Otherwise..."
     "Now hold up, I don't...Otherwise what?"
     I lean closer to him again.
     "Well, let's be honest, Francis. Shall we?"
     The blank stare continues. I cough, preparing to butch up to my authoritarian voice. Bury this whole thing.
     "You aren't prepared to offer us proof that you can actually do the things you claim, right? Talk to ghosts, conjure up grandma from the grave, all that. Right? So, even if you came across as..."
     I gesture toward him, invoking his appearance.
     "I mean, you don't even look like you’d inspire any confidence in anyone. You don't dress professionally, you sit here mumbling—I can barely even hear you speak. But, look, even if you had some, ah, business experience, we—United Equity, I mean—couldn't be expected to extend a loan to you without some indication of your ability to...well, deliver."
     His eye seems to darken again. His brow furrows, ever so slightly. I press on.
     "Right? I mean, just think about the, the legal exposure alone. Charges of ‘exploiting the bereaved.’ It's just, it's..."
     I lose my train of thought. The left eye has me transfixed again. But now this slight smile flashes across his lips for an instant. Almost undetectable, but it's there.
     "You think this is funny?"
     There's a quiver in my voice when I ask the question. I feel like kicking myself. The smile reappears and stays put.
     "So," he says. "You want a demonstration."
     I lean back again, place my arms flat on the armrests of my chair.
     "Look, kid, all I'm saying is—"
     "So, what do you say we call your wife?"
     I bolt forward toward him, slamming my fist on the desk in a hammer motion. I bring it back up with my finger pointing at his nose.
     "Now, look here, you little fu—!"
     I catch myself, freeze in mid-sentence. I hold the scowl for a second. Then I try to peer toward Mary out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, she's standing rigid, looking our way. 
     I ease back into my seat, trying to take deep breaths.
     "Alright, Francis, I get it. Not bad. I can see you think you are really clever for knowing to mention my wife, right?"
     He's just staring at me again. No smile now.
     "Yeah, she lost her grandfather a couple of months back. But, for one thing, you could have just gotten that little tidbit from the newspapers, though, right? I mean, you find out who works at this bank, you could have just searched the online obits for our names…"
     I'm trying to keep my voice down, keep it even.
     "But, number two, what you didn't know, smart guy—and here's where you blow your claim about being a psychic, or whatever—what you didn't know, is that my wife is having trouble with her pregnancy. And that it would really piss me off for you to bring her up."
     I’m too mad now for his gray stare to get to me. My anger is the buildup of hours sitting here, picturing Catherine moping around the house, bawling. Sometimes I can see it so well, like I am there in the room with her. Like I can even feel her sadness.
     "That's right, Francis. So, see, not only do you apparently suck at the psychic racket, but you’ve also proven my point about being in over your head. Say the wrong thing around people having problems, and suddenly BOOM! It all blows up in your face. The lawyers swoop in, eat up your business like live prey. Or, in this case, you blow your loan application."
     He holds my stare, somehow. I feel my resolve weaken as I try to figure out why this isn't hitting home for him. His will seems too strong for some wimpy recent high school graduate.
     "Humor me," he says.
     "What?!" I hiss.
     "Call her."
     "This is just...I'm calling security. You—"
     "No. Call your wife. I will give you your demonstration."
     I pause. The situation is beyond the pale. I feel myself being fished in by my curiosity. By my inability to figure out what his angle is, where his confidence comes from.
     "When you get her on the line, I'll feed you a question for her. If you are not convinced by what happens, I leave. If you are..."
     I look around the room. Velcek is sitting there talking up a storm with his hands. Probably raking in a huge commission. Mary's on drive-through again. I look back at "Ghost."
     "Fine," I say, trying to sound dismissive. "I'll give you another shot."
     I jab the speakerphone button. The whine of the dial tone shatters the quiet of the lobby. I lower the volume a bit and begin dialing.
     One ring.
     I see Velcek look our way. His customer, too.
     Two rings.
     Mary and the other tellers are looking now. I give a wave to the room and dial down the volume even more.
     "Hello?"
     "Catherine. Hi, it's Zip. Listen—"
     "Hello?!"
     She sounds like she's getting upset. I shoot a deadly glare toward the kid.
     "Catherine? It's Zip, can you—?"
     "Hell-O? Who is this?"
     She is starting to sob.
     "Catherine! CATHERINE!"
     I start pushing buttons, trying to figure out what is wrong with the damned phone. The volume goes up all the way.
     "Why are you doing this? I can see your number, I can even hear the music in the bank. Who is this?"
     "CATHERINE! IT'S ZIP! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
     There is a click and then the dial tone screams out of the phone again.
     "What the hell...?"
     I punch the release button to shut it up. I look up and freeze. Velcek is standing right behind the kid's chair.
     "I need you to get up, right now, and leave, or I'll have security make you leave."
     Velcek's tone is acid. The kid just looks at me, smiling. It is unnerving.
     Why couldn't Catherine hear me?
     "We can't have customers sitting in here playing with the phones, all right?" Velcek says. "Worse, this was Zip Henderson's desk."
     Was?
     I can't look away from the kid's eye. The room starts to slowly swirl in a vortex with that damned gray eye at the center.
     "I'm sure his widow didn't appreciate getting a prank call from the bank where he worked. Jesus. Now, out! C'mon. Move, punk."
     Widow? Oh, God...
     The sound of Catherine's sobs, and her pain, fill my consciousness. The vortex swirls faster and faster. I feel everything coming unhinged. Then I feel myself beginning to let go of her pain.
     “Yes,” says the kid’s voice in my mind.
     I let myself dissolve into the whirling morass. Into the center. It pulls me in, and away...