A Bump, a Bob and a Buck

Oh good, the line at the bank is short. I scan the few customers - a lanky silver hair man of seventy plus at the teller window, a fellow retiree in wide corduroy pants one in front of me. It's the senior hour at half past nine in the morning. The senior in front of me turns and mumbles something about the weather and price of gas. I nod. He turns away, finished with his observations. The customer at the window fumbles with missing papers and whistles through missing teeth, "They must be in the car." He creaks out the entrance way to the parking lot. The stunned teller, speechless, with counter now empty of customer, passbook in hand-- waits. Okay, I have plenty of time for reflection. I laugh as I remember the Valentine's Day card I opened earlier in the morning. Single and exploring the dating pool, my friends have noted the seven Bobs on my dating roster. In my mailbox a card asks, "Thought you might like to do a little bobsledding this year", inside - a hunk of a Bob on a sled. In my mind I hear echoes of "Where's Cin?" "Oh, she must be out with Bob." "Yeah, that's it. She's out with a Bob." "Which one?" The comments and jests from my single pals all focus on the number of revolving Bobs. I chuckle silently while I wait for the aged one to return. I'm a Bob magnet. There is Bob the Whiner, Bob the Tinkler, Bob the Point and Shoot. I vow no more Bobs. To my right, another man toddles into the roped waiting area. The top of his head shines under the ceiling lights, his stretch about 5'8" listing in a slight bend. I guess him to be about eighty. "Look at the traffic out there." He points at the intersection blocked with cars. "They were four deep clogging up the spot." A sporadic breath escapes. "I had to fight to get through. What's the matter with those people?" "I guess they're just rude." I look at the crowded street and remember crossing the spot earlier. The glass door carries in a cool breeze and the senior with the lost information takes brittle steps across the carpet holding envelopes of papers high in the air. "Hey, why does that old goat get to go before us?" my new buddy, third in line from the next teller grumbles. "He was here first and forgot something in his car." I shift position and move forward. He's destroying my moment of peace. Satisfied with the attention, the senior of eighty years says, "Are you ready for Valentine's Day?" "Yes," there is no escape from this man, I might as well please, "and you?" "Yeah, I'm ready." I feel his body inch closer, his crotch touching my butt. No, this can't be. This old man is fondling me. Staring forward, blocked by the man of murmurs in hippie pants, I tighten my butt. Good, that moves it away. I take a glimpse around the room. Am I the only one under fifty in line? I detect another nudge on my backside. "Excuse me," I tilt towards the braided rail, re-establishing my territory. A customer rep motions for the next person. The rustling of corduroy answers the call. I am next. I distant myself from the groping man. Shuffling feet advance with me. My new-found-friend angles his face off side to my shoulder and sweetens, "What's your name?" Why me? I've had enough men this past year. I don't want another one and not this one, but I'm not designed to be rude, and love is in the air. Thanks, Hallmark. "I'm really in a hurry and," I send crisp, quick answers and flick my gaze away. My attempt to disengage from conversation goes unnoticed. "I'm Bob." A grin stretches his wrinkles. Bob? Oh, no--not another Bob. I try to contain the giggles mounting in my gut. God, we need to talk. Seven Bobs already. Is this all there is? I'm being hit on, in between the ropes, waiting in line at the bank, by an eighty year old man named Bob. What, God? I should check out his balance. No, not his wobble. His bank statement? You're so bad, God. I sneak a peek. Sorry, God. No, go. My face burns crimson, my insides exploding with laughter. I try to catch the eye of the teller to hurry this along. Warm exhalations cross my neck. I feel Bob's withered form nestle against mine; his chin rests on my shoulder, his crinkled eyes drawn upward. "You're nice." "I think that teller's ready for me," I ease away slowly afraid he'll teeter with the change of stand. I detect a slight bob as I pull my body from the contact sport. At the window, I fight to hold in my astonishment and look at the young girl behind the counter. I hand her my transaction slip, struggling to contain the snickers. With a swift peek, I spot my fancier still in line. A chuckle slips out, the teller leans over the counter and whispers, "Oh my God, that old guy was hitting on you, wasn't he?" The fire in my cheeks blazes. I am going to burst with embarrassment and giggles. "Was he really rubbing against, you know, your butt?" Her eyes open wide, her face glowing with gossip for the copy machine. I gather my dollars and stuff them into my pants pocket, "You know, the bank should consider installing support rails." The young girl hands me my completed transaction slip. I fold the paper, pause and ask, "Do you have kids?" "No, not yet," the teller shakes her head, "someday." "Well, if you ever have a son, whatever you do, please don't name him Bob."

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Authors Den author, Henry Lefevre