Up the elevator

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The desire to be seen as a smart person is helped when you point a shotgun at the listener. She was one of those people who you felt you had known for years, and not because of some nice nostalgia, like oh, you remind me of my best friend from grade four, but because it was an act that you had already seen, talking too much icing and not enough cake, commenting about people they hadn’t met, criticizing things that felt unfamiliar, like sitting in the corner of a dark room to talk shit about strangers at the bar, over there, people you didn’t know anything about, let alone everything about, who gave you the feeling that you didn’t know everything, reminding you that you were imperfect and had to go through that awkward learning phase with a new person, a prospect that made her feel inexperienced, limp, frustrated, and then defeatist, relieved after giving up the idea of starting something new: It was so much easier to say something that sounded authoritative and trick a few people, if, in the least, yourself. You’ve met these people. They chat up cashiers, police officers, dentists, hold relatives at functions for twenty minutes too long, stay up to the last minute at a house party. It’s safe to say that black people should be feared, or pitied, and I don’t care where you’re from, if you get what I’m saying, am I right. They don’t come to mind when you think of the word “thief.” The United States is so dangerous. Her favourite conversations were with hands-in-the-air-tellers, who were careful to agree with the person aiming the shotgun at their chest. Well, I voted Green, so it doesn’t surprise me, and I completely agree with you, that makes complete sense. It’s as if she’d never heard of a silent alarm, strolling around to create conversation, going on without a pause at the sound of sirens. The Third World would be smart to learn how to sell their resources, like us, to make their water glow in the dark. Some of the tellers felt genuine empathy for the woman, and might have agreed with her without the shotgun, to be nice. I’ve never visited Africa, but what you’re saying makes sense: Working harder could certainly help. Others felt that her attitude aligned more with The Joker than the Mark Wahlberg robber, scenes that never ended too well. But that was Hollywood, they thought. Those things don’t happen- maybe the gun isn’t loaded- only in Hollywood- the police will be here soon. And they did, breaking in tactical with guns drawn to interrupt spirited debates between handcuffed tellers, as if they had made a mistake with the address and invaded a fetishistic book club. By the time they got answers- that the woman had taken the elevator- crucial time was lost.

Check out the next scene here

art by Benjamin Garcia 

words by Liam Lachance

Author: Word and Colour

words inspired by colour wordandcolour.com

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