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     I get the number punched in and turn to the lady.  "Enter your PIN number, please."

     "PIN number?" she asks.  Stupid bitch.

     "The four digit number you have to punch in every time you cash a check."

     "I don't remember it."

     "Try the last four of your social security number," I suggest, knowing that it's the most common number used by the company.

     "Okay."  And she has to dig through her purse in search of her social security card since her brain is too small to store nine lousy numbers.  The line is growing longer and more impatient.  Finally, she presses the number into the machine.

     I reach over and press ENTER because she's too stupid to punch it herself.

     The machine beeps and runs through its thirty second ritual--speedy service my ass--then flashes WRONG PIN NUMBER.

     "That's the wrong PIN number," I say.

     "You said that's what it was."

     "No, I said to try it.  What this means is that you chose your own number.  Something you could remember."

     "I don't remember it."

     "I'm not surprised."

     "What was that?"

     "Just try a birth date or something."

     She tries two more times and can't get the right number.

     "Sorry, ma'am, the machine won't approve your check so I can't cash it."

     "You have to cash it!  Rent is due today and I don't have the thirty dollars!"

     "Thirty dollars?" I ask.  "You only pay thirty dollars for rent?  I pay over six hundred a month.  And I'll bet you're on food stamps, too, aren't you?  So you don't pay jack shit for a place to live and all your goddamn food is paid for--"  I stop myself because I need this job.  I shake my head, lean to the side and point to the man behind her.  "Help you?"

     But the welfare bitch isn't through yet.  "I need my money!  If you won't cash it, where can I take it?"

     I give her the dopiest expression I can muster.  "Gee," I say, "you ever thought about trying a bank?"

     "I'm going to report you!"

     "Have at it, bitch.  Next?"

     This big black guy steps up to the counter and hands me a check.  I'm nice to him and all, while I run the check through the system.  It clears with no problem and I give him the cash and tell him to have a nice day.  He's cool and tells me to take it easy.

     Next guy is a big, fat, ugly bastard.  He hands me a pack of cigarettes.

     I tell him, "I don't smoke."

     "No, shit-for-brains.  I want you to ring them up."

     I gesture around the counter.  "You see a cash register here?"

     He hesitates.  "No."

     "You know why?"

     "Why?"

     "Because this ain't a goddamn checkstand!"

     "But I waited in this damn line!"

     "And now you can go wait in that line right over there.  You know, the one that says 'check out'?"

     "Keep your damn cigarettes," he says and throws them at me.

     He's lucky my Beretta is out in the car or I wouldn't let him wait to die of cancer.  "Have a nice day," I say with all the cheer I can manage because I know that will piss him off even more.

     He turns and flips me off, spewing obscenities to let me know that my words have had the desired effect.

     "Next," I say.  I wish someone would come over and help me clear out this line, but I know that's about as likely as Malcolm X being elected Grand Wizard of the KKK.

     I'm already sick of the damn job, but the next guy is a young kid who wears his pants like a gangbanger.  You know the type--his pants look like they're falling down, damn near exposing the crack of his ass.  Maybe gangbangers are taught to dress by the same ignorant fucks who teach repairmen.  I guess the kid's age at eighteen.

     "Need to cash this," the kid says sliding a check across the counter.

     It's a payroll check, so maybe I misjudged him.  At least he's working.  But when I run the check, it comes back 007.  I'm thinking license to kill, but I look it up on the code sheet and see that it means the kid has a returned check.

     "You ever bounce a check to us?" I ask.

     "I don't even have an account, man."

     "Let me call on it.  Maybe you forgot to sign your last payroll check or something."

     I start to call security, but the phone rings.  Some asshole wants to know the price of sugar.  "Come down here and look for yourself," I say and hang up on him.  Then I call about the check.  I talk to the girl in security for a minute--she sounds cute--then hang up and turn back to the kid.

     "Turns out you wrote a personal check for $54.19 on April 7 of last year.  It's at a collection agency.  I'll get you their number."

     "But I never had a personal account."

     "According to security you have, so it'll have to be cleared up before I can cash any more of your checks."

     "You mean you aren't gonna cash my check?"

     "That's right."

     "Don't you know who I am?"

     "I don't care if you're the Pope.  I'm not cashing your check until you take care of the bad one.  Simple as that."

     "I got news for you, man.  I'm the head honcho of the 7th Avenue Crips.  You'll cash this goddamn check or me and my bad boys will pay you a little visit."

     "I don't entertain boys at my place.  Only girls."

     "You don't get it."  He leans over the counter.  "Cash this check," he whispers, "or I'll kill you.  Understand?"

     I lean over so we're face to face and I smile.  "Are you threatening me, little boy?"

     "Little boy?"

     "Answer me, punk.  You threatening me?"

     "It's a promise, not a threat."

     "Sounds like a threat to me.  See, I've been threatened before and what you just said, that comes off as a threat."

     "I'm serious, man.  I'm gonna blow you away."

     "Yeah, well, I get off at six.  You want my home address?"

     "We'll find you."

     "And kill me because I won't cash a Burger Barn check for 42.68.  I got it," I look at the name on the check, "Marcus."

     He grabs the check and storms off in a huff.  I don't help the next person right away, because I want to write down Marcus's address first.

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