It's amazing how self-conscious and paranoid you get when you have a few hundred dollars in cash on you. I tried to minimize my "target-ness" by nixing the purse. Instead, I carried my wallet, personal phone, work phone, and iPod (which holds my spare key to the house). Might have well taken the purse...I was practically begging to be ripped off with bulging pockets and a phone and iPod in hand.
Whatever. I was a badass on my way to get cash to drop on a motorcycle...I even scoffed at some little bitch-man riding a vintage bike no better than a scooter.
God. I'm already a snob about it!
I had half the cash on me already in 20 dollar bills. My little pocket-sized yellow Target wallet was bursting. If you know anything about women's pants, you know that our pockets serve no real function...They're barely deep enough to fit my fingers past my second knuckle. My wallet was so conspicuous it might as well have been advertising its hiding place. "Is that your wallet, or are you just happy to see me?"
I swear to God every single person who crossed my path was a mortal enemy. They knew my secret, and they wanted what I had! Feigning calm indifference, I strutted along with a high chin and long stride, looking just past them through my VonZipps. My ruse worked time and time again. Damn I was good. Lucky them, because I know Krav Maga.
Three blocks down; ten to go!
Three blocks down; ten to go!
As I approached the bank on Pennsylvania in SouthEast close to the Capitol building, I noticed more people looking my way. It was like "Inception" ...you know, the scene where Ellen Page realizes all the people in Leonardo DiCaprio's dream are looking at her with distrust and hostility. Only this time, it was with the thirst for all the green pieces of paper just under my lace tank top.
Ariadne: Why are they all looking at me?
Cobb: Because my subconscious feels that someone else is creating this world. The more you change things, the quicker the projections start to converge on you.
Before they all converged, I was able to make it to safety...aka, Wells Fargo. SANCTUARY!
The line was purgatory. Not quite the agonizing hell I endured outside, nor had I achieved my goal. It pretty much did take an eternity. No hyperbole this time. There is nothing slower than waiting for other customers to finish their transactions so the teller can call you up with a sickeningly sweet greeting.
I noticed the jar of dum-dums on the counter with a sign that read, "We value our customers." I snickered. Why not Smarties?
I noticed the jar of dum-dums on the counter with a sign that read, "We value our customers." I snickered. Why not Smarties?
Anyway. I get up to the counter and tell the bank teller that I want to trade in a bunch of the cash in my wallet for big bills, and I also want to take out additional money in large bills. She handed me the exact amount in those awesome fake-looking $100 bills. That shit is crazy looking, by the way.
So I fold up my hundred dollar bills, adjusted on those VonZipps, and walked out with all the faux confidence I could muster. "Faux is a French word. Got an x in it, but you don't need to pronounce the x. How do you like that for prestigious?"
I decided to let my boyfriend know I had gotten the cash I needed, and at great peril in the wilderness of Capitol Hill, I pulled out my phone to gchat him.
Me: It's weird having all of the cash on me.
Him: Hahah. You baller, you. You should have seen how nervous I was when I bought my Suzuki for 3500 cash.
Suddenly I felt childish. I had a measly $500 on me ready to purchase a 1978 Kawasaki KZ650 in boxes.
Whatever. The dramatization is better than reality. That's why Hollywood exists. Would you rather watch the Scots trudge through fields and forests and prepare to fight King Edward for independence, or would rather watch Mel Gibson paint his face blue, deliver an inspiring speech for the ages, and immediately get down to killing bitches?
That's what I thought.
Whatever. The dramatization is better than reality. That's why Hollywood exists. Would you rather watch the Scots trudge through fields and forests and prepare to fight King Edward for independence, or would rather watch Mel Gibson paint his face blue, deliver an inspiring speech for the ages, and immediately get down to killing bitches?
That's what I thought.
So that is how this project and epic quest began. I will be building a vintage motorcycle from just a frame, engine and boxes of hardly-organized parts.
(This is my theme song for this post)
