86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,29

guy in front of me turned and shot me a look, then saw my eyes and wisely began to mind his own business.

My deposit and check-cashing took a total of thirty-one minutes. My sanity was gone.

On the way back to the office I got into a yelling beef with a motorcycle needlehead on a Harley who’d cut me off in front of Hollywood High, so to soothe myself a stop at the Liquor Mart on La Brea Avenue was inevitable.

I picked up six cheapo champagne bottles to replenish the office fridge and also purchased three pints of Hiram Walker for my personal relief and comfort.

By the time I reached the office I was four fingers down on pint one and had dropped two vikes to further take the edge off. My sanity was returning.

Three drivers were in the chauffeur’s room reading newspapers and watching Dr. Phil while Portia yapped away on the phone with another driver, oozing hyper-anxiety.

I went upstairs, closed the door, and turned on my computer. I was still fuming about the bank. I needed to write something. It didn’t matter what. Then the idea came: a love note to Wells Fargo Bank. Here it is:

Wells Fargo Bank

6320 Sunset Boulevard

Hollywood, CA 90028

Attn: Mr. Ignacio Jones

Branch Vice President

Dear Ignacio:

We have never met but I am pleased—no, proud—to announce that I am a longtime Wells Fargo Bank financial patron. Fact is I have been stuffing my paychecks into your bank on and off for around five years. Ha-ha. So I guess that makes me an A-1 client. I am also a citizen of the United States of America and though I have never personally spilled blood for my government, let me assure you that I hold the cause of freedom as a sacred trust and a highly elevated big deal. I say God bless America to myself at least five times every day. No kidding.

But here’s the reason for my letter: As I said, I use your bank a lot, especially on Mondays, and it was during this morning’s visit that something especially stimulating caught my attention. So much so that I wanted to take time out from my daily schedule and write you a letter. Fact is, Ignacio, my helmet’s off to you and the marketing guys at Wells Fargo Bank, Hollywood Branch, because after waiting in line the normal thirty-five-plus minutes to transact my banal business snot, when I actually did get face-to-face with one of your clerks and handed that human my deposit, your trained, grinning operative looked me dead in the eye, then asked, “Have you heard of Well’s Fargo Bank’s new ATM Rewards Program?”

Wow! Talk about impressive! I mean, even before I could start to conduct my own banking, your rep had me right by the short hair delivering a full two minute sales pitch.

Yes indeed. A walking, talking, real-life banking commercial! I was rendered speechless. I actually had the sensation that the teller’s boot was right there on my neck the whole time. It made me wonder; I’d even be willing to bet that you and the crack marketing dudes at Wells Fargo often become aroused while you brainstorm new ways to present financial promotions to your captive and squirming clientele.

As I sit here at my desk I can close my eyes and visualize you standing at the conference room table dramatizing an all-important new sales spiel to your team of salivating operatives—then bending one of the younger trainees over a nearby typing table—his slacks and skivvies down around his ankles—while you deliver the full measure of your insight to the pink-cheeked fellow one mighty stroke at a time.

Anyway, I know you’re busy. All I can say is: God bless America and God bless the banking industry.

Sincerely,

Bruno Dante

thirteen

The sex thing with Portia continued and I was becoming more crazy and edgy and angry with myself. The brutal mind attacks and the messages of stupidity and self-judgment were relentless. It was far worse in the morning after a night of booze. Jimmy’s voice screaming at me: “Coward! Fool! You screwed that skinny, crippled bitch again! You’re using her. You’re a pussy. A needy cheesedick. You can’t manage this company. Koffman knows it and Portia will know it soon too and even your drivers think you’re a nutjob. Just wait. This’ll cost you. I promise. You’re on your way over the fucking edge!”

We were having sex three or four nights a week but I had to be buzzed to do it so the drinking and madness