The Schlicken Empire

Jon always hated waiting in line, really who doesn’t, but some lines, you’d have to admit, are worse than others. I guess the line becomes more bearable if the perceived rewards out ways the consequences. Waiting in line to redeem your winning lottery ticket, for example, would be a ten; versus waiting in line to be shot, would be a zero. Today, for Jon, there would be little reward and the consequences would be quite expensive yet Jon would, most likely, be breathing afterwards, so we will rate it at a three. One thing you could say for the situation was that at least his surroundings were comfortable.

Jon was in the Metropolitan National Bank of Little Rock, Arkansas. Met Bank, as it is some times called, was the 5th largest bank of Arkansas. It was bought in 1983 by Doyle Rogers, the current chairman. Rogers had run the company and overseen the expansion of Met Bank to more than 10 times its original size.

Jon had never been to the bank before but he was impressed at how nice it was. The bank was located in the heart of down town Little Rock, in a 40 story towering skyscraper named after the bank itself. It was the tallest building in Little Rock and gave an impressive view of the city, especially towards the west, where the capital stood tall and proud a mere 10 blocks away. The actual room Jon was in was the first floor lobby, a large vaulted ceiling masterpiece. The walls arched downward from the ceiling to the floor giving the room a curved feel. Large, roman style pillars lined both sides of the room dividing it into three main parts, on the left the teller stations, on the right open offices, and down the center a white marble walkway. Light poured in from several large windows that spanned the entire length of each side of the room giving the room a bright open airy aura. It was a gorgeous room, overall, and had it been any other time in young Jon’s life, he may have spent more time admiring its fine workmanship, but for now, the main thing on his mind was the large woman behind the old wooden door.

The bank was alive this morning with people coming and going from place to place. It seemed like every employee was working diligently at his task and yet there were people waiting in line at every counter. Most people in the bank seemed to be older men, businessmen at that. They were dressed in the finest clothes, mainly dark black or gray suites. As they would pass Jon they would look upon him with disapproving looks. This didn’t bother Jon though; he had long since stopped caring what people thought about him especially old farts like these. This was the epitome of what he hated, old town, old money, and old farts. He liked to do things his way and on his own terms. Most of all he liked being comfortable. If comfortable meant a few stares from some old rich aristocrats then so be it.

It’s with the law of averages that this story begins. It starts with an average man or boy depending on your point of view. I mean who really is the ultimate authority on the date manhood is reached. Although, many would say that each individual is different there are several groups that take a hardline stance on the subject. Take the government for example; it seems to have taken several conflicting positions. They say you are almost a man at 18 but everyone knows you’re not really until you reach the age of 21. Yet another profession, the wonderful world of car rental tends to think you need to be just a little bit older. Most of them believe 25 is the proper age. Interesting how life progresses. First you can smoke, vote, and die in a war; next you’re able to drink; and lastly you can rent that blue midsize sedan for your roadtrip.
So, now that we have explained the levels, you decide where this 20 year old should be squeezed in.
“My name is Jon Rigsby.” Jon leaned on the black and white marble counter stretching his neck to make sure the lady was getting it right. “No it’s just J-O-N, no H.” He always hated the fact that his parents hadn’t spelled his name the way every other person in the world did. He always found it amusing how people would name their kids in the most unusual ways for the sake of tradition. Jon was named after his great grandfather Mathew Jon Collins from his mother’s side. No one seemed to know anything about the man except that he once spent a night in the county jail with the man who invented Coca-Cola. No one knows why they were in jail exactly although I like to think it was for the fact that they were selling Coca-Cola for its wonderfully magical medicinal qualities.
“You’re sure there’s no H, It doesn’t look right with out an H.” The lady looked up from her computer screen and then down at the form. She read the name again with a somewhat disbelieving look on her round face. I’m pretty sure maim, said Jim, and as he realized the Lady wasn’t paying attention he mumbled on, “but if you like I can scribble the H in for you on my drivers License here if you think there’s been a mistake.” Jon cockily pulled out his wallet and began to reach for the pen chained on the counter in front of him. The Lady still didn’t seem to be listening to him, she continued to type his information into the sleek flat panel screened computer in front of her. This lady was the classic behind the counter type. She spent her entire day sitting and typing and eating. One could tell this by just looking at her face. It was a plump round cinnamon roll, and I say cinnamon roll only to illustrate the amount of rolls there were. There were chin rolls, cheek rolls; there was even what seemed to be a forehead roll. Jon stared at the lady just long enough to once again assure himself that he hated fat people and then glanced down at the card in his hand.

Jon chuckled slightly when he realized just how geeky he looked in his driver’s license picture. He never had liked it although he never knew anyone who ever did. He never was as bothered as the girls though who would spend hours at home getting ready, just to take their picture. He couldn’t have imagined spending all that time getting ready especially being that you don’t even know if you are going to pass it. Most believe that this would be an easy task but Jon never harassed anyone for failing their written tests. The reason being that it took him 4 tries to pass his, and that fourth time was by the skin of his teeth. He never liked to talk about it although if ever the discussion did ensue Jon would inevitable begin recounting the numerous questions that he found utterly ridiculous.

The round faced lady slowly stood up from her computer and stapled a handful of papers together and disappeared behind a large wooden door.