I can see the nervous eyes of the young woman standing inside, in front of the machine, as she glances back at the sound of my approach. She shifts slightly to the side, blocking the view of the keypad, as if I could decipher her PIN from outside the door.
The night is hot and muggy, the sky overcast, threatening to burst the humid air with one of those torrential summer downpours. The block of stores is set back from the street, and most of the light from the few working streetlights is absorbed by the large maple trees. Cars whizzing by at 40 or 50 miles per hour would not notice you if it was noontime and sunny and you were screaming bloody murder.
I hesitate, wondering if it is less threatening to wait outside the glass door or buzz myself in. I decide on the latter, stepping to the side near the deposit envelopes and other supplies. Fearful of what I might see, the woman scoots a little closer to the screen. She glances back and I avert my eyes, caught watching her as if there is something else to look at in this cramped, little space.
I cannot help noticing she is an attractive woman. She is dressed in a short skirt and silk blouse, and I find myself staring at her from behind. When the money comes out of the slot, she bends over; hiking up her skirt and revealing nicely tanned thighs. She is clearly nervous as she holds the money close to her, out of my sight, and counts the bills. I want to tell her not to worry. I am not going to assault her or take her money. In fact, I would like to strike up a conversation, offer to take her out for a drink, but I realize it would be inappropriate and would only frighten her.
Her wallet is sitting on the front ledge of the machine along with her car keys, checkbook, pen and cell phone. As surreptitiously as possible, she stuffs the bills in her wallet, goes to pick up her other belongings, but accidentally knocks her car keys off the ledge. Without thinking, I bend over to pick them up. When I straighten up and make eye contact, she looks scared. Simply trying to be polite, it did not occur to me that with her newly acquired cash, she might feel compromised in this small, locked space with a strange man holding her car keys.
I open my mouth to say something innocuous like “here they are,” but she quickly takes them from my hand, turns, says a strained “thanks” and hurries out the door. I am still wondering if I look like a scary person as I see her furtively glance back, making sure I am not following her.
I calculate how much cash I will need for a short business trip tomorrow and punch in 350.00. Then I hear a car pull up next to mine. Glancing back, I see a large man emerge from the car. He must be over six feet tall, wide, like a football player, with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He is wearing baggy cut-offs, like the kids wear, hanging down well below his knees, and a black, sleeveless, muscle tee. The car is an old Ford with the front fender drooping almost to the ground and gray putty spots pretending to hide body damage. He slams the door and approaches the ATM.
I wonder whether the man is going to enter the ATM or wait outside. If he comes inside, I will be trapped in this small space where no one can hear me scream. I would rather he wait outside, even though he would then be standing right by the door where I have to exit. At least I could try to run or yell loud enough that someone might hear me.
Checking or savings flashes on the screen as I hear the buzz that allows him entry into the ATM. I press checking. He does not walk off to the side but stands right behind me, towering over me. I picture him smashing my head against the steel machine. Why do I feel this way? He is probably just an ordinary guy. I have no reason to be afraid of this man, except his car and dress scream poverty. Poverty does not mean danger, I tell myself, but I am so anxious I can hear my heart beat.
The $350 comes out of the machine. Normally, I would count it to make sure the machine dispensed the right amount of money. However, I do not want to count so much cash in front of this stranger. I remove the wad of bills from the slot, quickly fold them in half and place them in my pocket. I collect my keys, my cell phone, my pen, my receipt, all of which are balancing on the thin ledge at the front of the machine. For the first time, I remember the young woman from a few moments before. Don’t drop your keys and have to bend over, I tell myself.
I turn around and squeeze past this much larger man, avoiding eye contact. Through the glass door, I see it is dark and quiet, and there are no other people in the parking lot. I can barely spot the headlights of passing cars on the parkway, and none of their occupants could possibly see me in this dark corner. As I reach for the door, a large hand grabs my shoulder from behind. “Hold it there,” a deep voice stops me in my tracks. My muscles tense. My heart pounds. I imagine the police finding me the next morning in a small pool of blood. “You forgot your card,” he says, handing it to me with a smile.
The night is hot and muggy, the sky overcast, threatening to burst the humid air with one of those torrential summer downpours. The block of stores is set back from the street, and most of the light from the few working streetlights is absorbed by the large maple trees. Cars whizzing by at 40 or 50 miles per hour would not notice you if it was noontime and sunny and you were screaming bloody murder.
I hesitate, wondering if it is less threatening to wait outside the glass door or buzz myself in. I decide on the latter, stepping to the side near the deposit envelopes and other supplies. Fearful of what I might see, the woman scoots a little closer to the screen. She glances back and I avert my eyes, caught watching her as if there is something else to look at in this cramped, little space.
I cannot help noticing she is an attractive woman. She is dressed in a short skirt and silk blouse, and I find myself staring at her from behind. When the money comes out of the slot, she bends over; hiking up her skirt and revealing nicely tanned thighs. She is clearly nervous as she holds the money close to her, out of my sight, and counts the bills. I want to tell her not to worry. I am not going to assault her or take her money. In fact, I would like to strike up a conversation, offer to take her out for a drink, but I realize it would be inappropriate and would only frighten her.
Her wallet is sitting on the front ledge of the machine along with her car keys, checkbook, pen and cell phone. As surreptitiously as possible, she stuffs the bills in her wallet, goes to pick up her other belongings, but accidentally knocks her car keys off the ledge. Without thinking, I bend over to pick them up. When I straighten up and make eye contact, she looks scared. Simply trying to be polite, it did not occur to me that with her newly acquired cash, she might feel compromised in this small, locked space with a strange man holding her car keys.
I open my mouth to say something innocuous like “here they are,” but she quickly takes them from my hand, turns, says a strained “thanks” and hurries out the door. I am still wondering if I look like a scary person as I see her furtively glance back, making sure I am not following her.
I calculate how much cash I will need for a short business trip tomorrow and punch in 350.00. Then I hear a car pull up next to mine. Glancing back, I see a large man emerge from the car. He must be over six feet tall, wide, like a football player, with broad shoulders and a shaved head. He is wearing baggy cut-offs, like the kids wear, hanging down well below his knees, and a black, sleeveless, muscle tee. The car is an old Ford with the front fender drooping almost to the ground and gray putty spots pretending to hide body damage. He slams the door and approaches the ATM.
I wonder whether the man is going to enter the ATM or wait outside. If he comes inside, I will be trapped in this small space where no one can hear me scream. I would rather he wait outside, even though he would then be standing right by the door where I have to exit. At least I could try to run or yell loud enough that someone might hear me.
Checking or savings flashes on the screen as I hear the buzz that allows him entry into the ATM. I press checking. He does not walk off to the side but stands right behind me, towering over me. I picture him smashing my head against the steel machine. Why do I feel this way? He is probably just an ordinary guy. I have no reason to be afraid of this man, except his car and dress scream poverty. Poverty does not mean danger, I tell myself, but I am so anxious I can hear my heart beat.
The $350 comes out of the machine. Normally, I would count it to make sure the machine dispensed the right amount of money. However, I do not want to count so much cash in front of this stranger. I remove the wad of bills from the slot, quickly fold them in half and place them in my pocket. I collect my keys, my cell phone, my pen, my receipt, all of which are balancing on the thin ledge at the front of the machine. For the first time, I remember the young woman from a few moments before. Don’t drop your keys and have to bend over, I tell myself.
I turn around and squeeze past this much larger man, avoiding eye contact. Through the glass door, I see it is dark and quiet, and there are no other people in the parking lot. I can barely spot the headlights of passing cars on the parkway, and none of their occupants could possibly see me in this dark corner. As I reach for the door, a large hand grabs my shoulder from behind. “Hold it there,” a deep voice stops me in my tracks. My muscles tense. My heart pounds. I imagine the police finding me the next morning in a small pool of blood. “You forgot your card,” he says, handing it to me with a smile.
