Letter to the Bank #40

Dear BB,

This is how I will be referring to you from now on. Addressing you as BM could be somehow misconstrued as an insult and the last thing I wish to do is drive you away. You are so much more than my financial advisor or bank manager, more than just a suit. You are my guru, my therapist, my inspiration, my life. You are occasionally dim but you are always full of optimism. Nothing gets you down not even a lousy economy. You are the shade in my light and it is to you, chief executive officer of the Mine’s Eye Bank, that I turn whenever my world stops doing so for however brief a moment. Seeing as your bank exists only in the realms of my imagination it is one I can certainly relate to if not trust. Only you can fully appreciate the fact that my letters do not simply address matters of personal finance but take on the ever more important issue of a lack thereof. I take on the trenchant concerns of one who lacks what might be termed any real personal finances to speak of. Considering everything I earn, and all that I serve as guardian to—be it my art books or the seeds of my loins—in the end belong to the Brotherhood of Bouncy Bankers.

You own me and I, unfortunately, owe you.

Despite this painful, though by no means recent, revelation my letters will remain, as always, packed with wit and satirical asides. In my efforts to get to you I find myself tripping over syntax and sentence construction assaying to employ every trick in my toolbox. Getting to you is what this is all about and this is why:
As a family man approaching his post middle years shouldn’t I be bounding out of bed of a morning full of vim and vigor, shouldn’t I be singing a little ditty as I brush my crooked teeth? Instead I ache. I roll over rubbing my stiff neck. I gulp down a glass of stale water to assuage my parched throat. Why is it parched? Because I do not have the time to get to a water fountain, a cooler or even the Red Bar (and the Red Bar requires money). My body aches because I do not find the time to do the stretches recommended by my physical therapist to help me with my back that is chronically uncomfortable which causes disrupted sleep and thus a tendency to flop somewhat inertly out of bed of a morning. No time. No money. I’m a visionary trapped in a dualistic universe. This also causes chronic pain, low level, perpetual discomfort.

On an entirely different note why is it that those who fail to make a ton of money are considered the greatest criminals of all? If you rob a convenience store you go down for a good five to ten I’ll bet. A white collar criminal, on the other hand, caught bilking the average Josephine of her meager income by persuading her to make financial decisions she is not equipped to handle, usually waltzes away with all blame placed squarely on the little old lady’s stooped little shoulders. She should have known better. As to the matter of bonuses—I’ll do the decent thing and skip lightly away leaving that whisper in your ear. I know eventually you will do the right thing. But my admiration for yoy knows no bounds. Despite these issues that continue to undermine your good name you remain undaunted. Your good cheer, your bounce is ever an inspiration.

Most sincerely,

K. W.