He took Spencer Cowleys check with him, tucking it into his shirts pocket; and thinking to visit the bank, later in the day. The check was not for a lot, and he didnt imagine it would take him quite far. So he definitely needed to get a job really fast, primarily because the rent needed to get paid by the first day of each month, which was just about a week away. The last thing he needed at this time was to have himself thrown in the street. Frank thought the check was mischief really because he usually got paid by bank transfer. It occurred to him that Spencer intended to make a statement with the check - like he didnt want to have anything more to do with Frank.
Hey, here is your pay you fucker; now get the hell out of here and dont ever come back.
Frank hated visiting the Jobcentre, primarily because as everyone knew, it was the place where you went in hopeful and came out hopeless. There, as he expected, he found himself in the company of the drunk, the druggies, and the born layabouts-, all waiting to be fed into the omnivorous mill of the unemployment benefit processing machine.
He made a quick start at the job search computer, and it confirmed because that seemed its only purpose for which it seemed to have been made, that there was no job available for journalists within 50 miles of Hackney. Not about to completely lose hope though, Frank joined the queue to see an employment officer.
What kind of job are you looking for? the lady asked. Frank had a feeling that she didnt care, and was just going through the rote.
I am a journalist, Frank told her. She tapped some keys on her computer, and ruefully shook her head.
No journalist job here, she said.
I know that; I just checked from the computer by myself and couldnt find any listing. I thought maybe you had some other jobs that havent been yet listed. Frank replied, mildly annoyed.
Would you be willing to consider any other job?
Frank had a fleeting thought that having a full-time job as a disc jockey would have been so cool but he didnt think they made jobs in that model yet; at least not in London.
Yes, depending on what you have available. I really must pay my bills somehow, Frank replied. Humming gaily, she tapped some more on her computer.
I have got some vacancies for truck drivers. Do you have a license?
No I dont have a license to drive anything on wheels, Frank laughed; thinking he had no desire to drive a fucking truck.
Door security? She again suggested.
I have a problem standing for long, Frank told her.
You wouldnt consider a street cleaning job either I guess because of your disability? Frank imagined she was mocking him, with the way she said your disability. Nevertheless, he just shook his head, thinking no way was he going to be scooping dog poop for anybody.
Traffic warden? She asked. Again Frank laughed and shook his head. As far as he knew, nearly everyone who owned a car was looking for a traffic warden to murder.
Okay then, could you check back next week and we might hopefully have something along your street. In the interim would you like to sign on to receive unemployment benefits?
At this time a mail boy passed probably sixteen years old or so.
Get off that chair and go do some work like a man you lazy motherfucker; his disgusted eyes seemed to say to Frank.
No I dont want to sign on for anything, Frank told her.
Suit yourself then, she said.
Franks bank was only a hundred yards down the street, and it took him less than five minutes to get there. A small bus with BBC stenciled on the sides was parked outside the bank, but he didnt really pay attention to that.
The bank was a little crowded which didnt make sense, not so early in the morning.
Whats going on? hed asked the door security.
A little bit of equipment malfunction, but I am sure all will be back to normal in a few minutes. We were alerted, the tall happy Nigerian told him. Frank seated himself near an old West Indian granny while he waited for the queue to get moving once more.
Hello my dearie, I am Mrs. Williams. , the granny told him. Frank shook her hand and told her his own name.
My name is Frank. I learn the computers have gone funny, thats odd, isnt it? he asked.
Nothing odd at all dearie; the bank is full of funny business these days, arent they? Last year me bring me check here. You know we old citizens get some allowance for our heating equipment and stuff. Now me hand me check over to this rass teller over there you see, and next time I look back he gone. Went away with my money; old woman money. And so about an hour later he back again, and me kick a fuss and lick him on the head with me bag. Give me back me money you thief me shout at him. And his supervisor come and beg me cool doun; cool doun he say because all the man do is go for break. Cool doun, bloodclat say to me. Can you believe that, young man? Idiot boy go for break with me money.
Frank nodded miserably and agreed with Mrs. Williams that yes, all bank workers were thieves and must be put in prison. But she was not even halfway done yet. Mrs. Williams proceeded to recite her biography and especially the rather touching bit about her granddaughter Harriet, whose picture she carried around in her handbag and was pleased to show Frank.
You know Harriet, poor girl who shouldnt have married the goat goes by the name of Winston who cant keep a job and all he do is play trumpet in a reggae band as if he in Jamaica. This is sad because living in London is hard man; not like back-a-yard in Jamaica.
It made Frank guilty that this nice lonely lady Mrs. Williams actually thought she was talking to a nice young white man who had his life altogether. Nevertheless, he obediently nodded and agreed to all she said.
In an open cubicle, a dejected Antipodean was trying to convince his personal banker that he qualified for an overdraft, but from the look on his face, he was not making any progress at all. The banker punched some keys on her computer, made some busy humming noise, and came to a final verdict, or more correctly the computer came to a final verdict. She shook her head.
But Ozzie was not giving up easily His life depended on getting the overdraft, this being perfectly understandable since he had just lost his job, was living in a rented house with a pregnant wife, and his immigration status did not qualify him for unemployment benefit.
For three years I have faithfully made this particular bank home to my salary, and if not for this unfortunate incident I wouldnt need an overdraft, he desperately pleaded his case; but the bank computer remained merciless.
Frank eventually had a chance to cash his check. He thought he should have just paid the check into his account, but another thought came to him to cash the check first.
In another part of the bank, a camera crew of four from BBC had been interviewing the bank supervisor, who was happily enjoying the show and describing how the bank security system worked. The camera crew from BBC was now leaving the bank. They were leaving with a box which looked full of money and yes it was. The supervisor grinned at the camera, enjoying the show and explaining how the security system captured this sort of situation. Out went the camera crew into a van that had pulled up in front of the bank. The supervisor waved them away. The agreement appeared to have been for the van to drive around the block for five minutes or so and come back with the box of money, and then for the camera crew to see in the banks security office how the whole event had been faithfully recorded.
Hey your bank has been robbed, Frank told the supervisor who patiently paced the banking hall, waiting for the camera crew from BBC that failed to return.
Of course not, they are from BBC, he scolded through a mind which was clogging up with fear.
But you have been robbed, those blokes left with your money.
I know sir, but they will be back in a minute. They are doing a documentary on bank security for BBC.
Ill be fucked if they come back, Frank told him.
Now very sweaty the supervisor disappeared into his office. A couple of minutes later, two police squad cars wailed to a stop in front of the bank and three officers hasted toward the supervisors office.
The bank has been robbed, Frank told Mrs. Williams.
Really? Praise the Lord, serve them right for a change, Mrs. Williams was joyful. Struck with joy, the Australian loan-seeker, proudly stood from his chair in front of the personal banker and her evil computer; his face ecstatic.
The bank has been robbed, Ozzie joyfully muttered over and over as he left the bank. Finally outside he couldnt contain his happiness anymore. He went leaping like he had experienced a profound miracle. And off he went, broadcasting the triumph of justice over greed straight into the path of a speeding Bus 242. And even as he breathed his last, a rapturous expression rested on his face.
The fucking bank has been robbed, he silently shouted.
Who said that? asked the supervisor who again returned to the banking hall this time in the company of the three unsmiling police.
I did Frank volunteered.
Can you step this way for a minute please? one of the policemen beckoned with his head. Frank found himself hustled into the supervisors office.
How much do you know about this? he was asked Nothing more than I saw with my eyes while standing to cash my check, Frank told them.
You dont know any of those men from BBC?
Of course not; any fool could have seen that heist coming Frank chuckled.
The supervisor glared; he clearly didnt like being called any fool. But in any case, he knew that in a matter of hours he was likely to be without a job and quite likely to need a lawyer to save his behind from prison. His wife and children were going to be angry with him for a long time. They finally let Frank go after taking his identification.
. Outside Frank found the building cordoned off behind police tape. The bank was now a crime scene. A large crowd had gathered to learn what had happened. Mrs. William was there right before them all; basking in the spotlight as a witness to the crime. A smaller and now dispersing crowd had gathered to see the remains of Ozzie being taken away by an ambulance.
Frank usually went to the Hard Luck Café on Lower Clapton Road to catch up on the latest news and stuff. Usually never before sundown, but today he needed somewhere to go, was short of ideas, so he ended up at the Hard Luck Café for an early lunch.
What is the matter Frank, youre not at work? Lester Bowie asked. Lester was the waiter at the Hard Luck Café once a temporary draft from the Dinosaurs Over-50s Employment Network. Lester always kept the customers irritated or amused but never alone, so Maureen Smith the owner of the café had retained him now for more than two years. At fifty-two Lester still didnt really know what his life was about and appeared not to care anymore.
None of your businesses, Frank told him.
Well, since when have you ever come into here at a quarter past noon to order Bubble and Squeak and a Guinness? So I say what ales you Lester chuckled, putting a pun on the ale.
Fuck off and do your job Lester, Frank told him.
He had picked up a copy of the Sun at a newsstand near Hackney Central, and he dived lustfully into the page three half taken up by a topless model.
Nekkid girl, what she selling den, Maureen laughed behind him.
Hi Maureen, Frank flashed her smile. Maureen was the owner of Hard Luck Cafe, forty-something full-breasted beauty with a motherly smile. Maureen always minded her business and didnt hassle you with questions. Lester came back with Franks food at last and set it on the table with a wink.
Dirty newspaper pictures make you go blind you know? he said.
Fuck off, Frank waved him away, and silently ate his food while reading the paper.
Become a Private Investigator.
Somewhere in the last pages of the paper Frank again saw a small advertisement that he had noticed the previous day. It was about a private detective course or something like that. There was a phone number at the bottom of the advertisement, and having nothing else to do after his meal, he called the number.
The call was taken by a giggly girl who answered, Hi my name is Mandy, and how may I help you? .Frank extracted the address of Eagle Detective Training Institute from Mandy. It was somewhere near Elephant and Castle, and since it was the right day for time-wasting, Frank thought why not check it out.
While making the call to Eagle Detective Institute, Frank found that he had a missed call, and so he called his voicemail. Nancy had left another message.
Nancy. He hadnt seen her in years and wondered what it was she wanted. Frank and Nancy had together kept a single-bedroom apartment together for almost a year. It had been so wonderful initially, two kids just having fun in all possible ways. Then Nancy had started to want more, hinting at marriage. For a guy without a steady job getting hitched wasnt a thought that Frank thought he wanted to mess with, so he had persistently navigated away off the topic as well as he could.
But Nancy had also remained persistent, and it soon became that the only way to avoid talking about getting married was to avoid speaking with Nancy and eventually to avoid seeing Nancy, which was pretty difficult, for two people living together in a single bedroom flat.
Then Thomas had appeared on the scene. Frank had initially become sure that Nancy was seeing someone else. How else to explain that some weirdo kept sending in flowers every day
Hey, whats with all these flowers; the flats like a fucking undertakers, Frank complained to Nancy.
None of your business, she had tersely replied; which was partly correct because even though they shared the rent, the lease of the flat was in her name. And even though Frank was relieved that Nancy was no more discussing marriage, the flowers still kept him freaked; like they forebode someones funeral.
Frank came in one night to hear moaning noises from the room which he used to share with Nancy before the living room couch became more comfortable for him.
The bedroom door was open, and on the bed, he found Nancy with one of his friends, Thomas Pawney; both of them naked. Angry from both the effrontery and the betrayals, Frank hauled Thomas naked out of the flat. Nancy had also done the expected and thrown Franks stuff out of her flat that very night.
Looking back, Frank thought that was the best thing that happened to him and Nancy. He remembered sleeping on the buses that night. Well, there wasnt really much sleep. He just got himself on whichever bus was going the furthest distance and tried to get some sleep during the journeys. And at the terminus, he changed into another going the other way and got a bit more sleep on the way. That was how that night had passed.