The shredded cuffs of his acid-washed jeans dragged behind his heels as Andy entered the bank. He took a deposit slip from the counter, scribbled a note on the back, and slid it under bullet-proof glass to the young brunette. She squinted and slowly read it aloud.

	“’Give me all your money. Their is a stick of dynamite in my pants.’ You’re using the wrong ‘there.’ It’s T-H-E-R-E, not T-H-E-I-R.”

	He leaned forward and whispered. “You know what I meant. Don’t play games. Lives are at risk. And don’t even think about tripping the silent alarm. I’ve seen movies, I know how this works. Keep your hands where I can see them and no one gets hurt.”

	“You’re gonna get me in trouble. Listen, I go on break in fifteen minutes. Park out behind the Chinese place and I’ll give you a hand-job, okay?”

Rust burned the body of the dusty white car where the two teenagers sat, parked in the rear driveway of a strip mall. Margaret pulled down the sun visor and cursed, remembering there was no mirror on the back.

	Andy’s sweatshirt, “Fort Madison High Class of ’92,” was pressed against his crotch. “Damn, baby. Fuckin’ drained me good. I think I blew a nut out. But that’s cool, I got one left. Can you pass me the bag? It’s in the glove box.”
“I think you got some in my hair. You see anything?” She handed him the plastic bag containing a joint and continued combing through her hair with her fingers.

	Andy flicked his lighter a few times, caught a fire, and then inhaled and held his breath. Margaret rolled down the window. “Fuck, Andy. I can’t go back to work smelling like weed.”

	He held out the joint. She hesitated and then took a long, slow toke.

	“I checked the bus schedules,” he said as he puffed. “It’s about eleven hours to Cleveland, counting about an hour of waiting in Columbus. So I figure I’ll be out there most weekends, if we don’t have a gig. Or maybe I’ll just come out in the middle of the week and surprise you.”

	“Andy, I don’t know, I’m gonna be pretty busy.”

	“But who’ll take care of my hog?” He gestured towards the stained sweatshirt covering his lap.

	“I have classes, and I’m gonna have a lot of homework. And probably a job, too.”

	“Don’t worry babe. We’ve got a few weeks, we’ll figure out a routine. I’ll talk to the guys in the band and—“

	“One week. I fly out of Des Moines on Monday morning.”

	“Damn. Well then, we’ll have to make it the most memorable week ever.”

	“I have to pack. And I have a bunch of family shit.”

	“We’ll do something classy. I’ll take you to that new steakhouse.”

	“I don’t know, Andy. Look, we really need to talk—“

	“Are you sure this is the right move, like, right now.”

	“Dammit, not again. We’ve been through this.”

	“You work at a bank already. Why do you need to go to school so you can learn how to work at a bank? Bunch of Jews.”

	“So?”

	“I’ll never forgive them for what they did to the Titanic.”

	“The Titanic? What the fuck are you talking about?”

	“Ice-berg,” he said, giving no credit for a joke he had heard on the radio.

	“Jesus.”

	“Are you on your period? You know what Eisenhower told me? He said college is a waste of time. He was reading something. Some report. I can get it from him so you can read it, too. It said that this capitalist system, it’s all random, who succeeds and who doesn’t.”

	“So that’s how you justify sitting on your ass for the rest of your life in this shit town?”

	“Shit town? You and me were pretty fucking happy here until you decided you were too good for it. You think you’re Hillary Clinton or something? Fuck that bitch.”

	“I need to get back to work.” Margaret pulled the door handle and shoved. It didn’t budge.

	“No, it stopped working. You gotta pull the handle on the outside.”

	Margaret sighed. “Shit, Andy. Yeah, you’re right. I am too good for fucking broken car doors.”

	“I know you don’t mean it. It’s cool. I’ll pick you up from work. Four-thirty, right? We’ll go back to my place, smoke a little, fuck a little. Talk about our future and shit.”

	“Can’t. My mom’s taking me shopping for new clothes.”

	“Alright, alright. You’re still coming to see us play at Quincy’s tomorrow night? We’ve got a few new songs, really sick stuff.”

	“Maybe.” Margaret escaped from the car and walked back to the bank.

	“I love you,” Andy shouted out the open window. Margaret didn’t reply. He assumed she couldn't hear him.