…

Richard’s eyes were shut with concentrated self-denial when she finally entered. He first noticed her perfume, a mysterious combination of sweet vanilla, brackish seaweed, and smoky ink. She walked briskly, passing his seat before Richard could brace the armchair to stand. 

“Mr. Thompson,” she waved a hand. “Stay seated.”

She appeared to be in her early forties and wore her blond hair in a neat, tight bun. Her make-up was simple, clean, and professional. Not too much. Not too little. She had small, graceful wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and had not had any work done. Her excellent posture filled out a well-fitted pink pantsuit of a shiny, high-quality fabric, one that Richard’s wife would have been able to identify. She held a designer pen (also pink) in one hand and nothing in the other. She wore no rings. The only jewelry she did wear happened to be the one element that struck Richard as out of balance with such a refined, professional look: colossal silver hoop earrings.

The manager placed her pen adjacent to the laptop, straightened the picture frame, and adjusted the angle of her laptop screen. Only after organizing her workspace did she finally make eye contact with Richard. Her eyes were an arresting blue, like a deep dark hole in the ocean. 

“I assume, as a professional courtesy, that you have many pressing responsibilities. As such, I will aim to be more direct than my counterpart, Mr. Strom. However, if this curt disposition discomforts you, you need only say so.”

She paused. Richard was still a bit lost in her eyes, so she waited. 

“That’s fine,” he said with a dazed tone. Only once he spoke did Richard realize the full effect of her stunning beauty. 

“My name is Sharon Charon. I manage this branch, among others in the Western Pennsylvania and Ohio region.”

She paused again.

“That’s Sharon, as in share-in. Charon, as in sure-on. Not share-in share-in, as many a low-life tormenter has cat called. It’s extremely important that you understand this detail, Mr. Thompson. Sharon Charon. I am not a slut, especially not because I wear big hoop earrings. Is that clear?”

Richard nodded. Or had he shaken his head?  

Slut? What was she talking about?

“I’ll take that silent, confused nod as an indication that you’ve never worked with a woman like me before. So be it. To demonstrate your compliance, please say my name.”

Richard correctly said her name.

“Very well. Now that we’ve established the parameters of our working relationship, let’s cut to the chase.”

Sharon Charon slid a small orange piece of plastic across the desk. It was half of a debit card with the name Ricardo on it. In the space between the first and last name, the card had been sliced in two, as if by a precise laser. Richard picked the card up and ran his thumb over the partial black magnetic strip.

“Thanks to the diligent work of Mr. Strom and several hours of concentrated effort on my part, I was able to locate and retrieve half of your debit card from our machine.”

Richard turned the card over again and again. He kept saying the name Ricardo in his head.

“This isn’t my card.”

Sharon Charon arched an eyebrow.

“Not your card?”

“My name is Richard. Not Ricardo.”

Sharon Charon narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She turned to the laptop and ran her fingers across the keys.

“Ricardo Thompson,” she said, following with his account details: current address, phone number, date of birth, occupation, Social Security number.

Richard’s stomach turned.

“Most recent transaction…a withdrawal,” she named the amount, “transferred to your son’s account, also a customer of this bank.”

Sharon Charon turned the laptop toward Richard.

“Withdrawals and deposits of similar amounts over the past three years,” she stated. “I’m assuming based on your son’s age in our system that you are supporting him through college, Mr. Thompson?”

“My name is Richard Thompson,” he said. “Richard.”

Sharon Charon exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Mr. Thompson, I am a busy woman, and while I am by contract dedicated to providing exceptional service, my resources are limited, particularly my time and patience. The supervisor of this branch, Mr. Strom, one of my most promising direct reports, called me in especially to handle your case. Only at considerable expense to our institution and through the sweat of my finely threaded eyebrows have I been able to recover half of your debit card from our machine. This half,” she held up the orange plastic, “matches the existing account number and personal information linked to your checking account. Do you deny the transactions between you and your son?”

“No.” How could he deny them? Richard had felt fatherly pride with each deposit.

“What you are then implying, Mr. Thompson - and rest assured I take this implication bordering on accusation very seriously - is that there is a critical flaw in our machine, one at a deeper level than that to which my initial search penetrated.”

Richard was too confused to speak.

“You’re implying that our machine not only snatched your card and failed to dispense your funds, but that it also somehow altered your legal name in the process?”

“Yes,” he said hurriedly. “That must be the case.” 

Though how could he be sure of anything anymore? The transfers were irrefutable. 

Sharon Charon wheeled back and laid her palms flat on the desk. Richard felt her gaze pierce his flesh. The air in the room grew stuffy, and the lights dimmed. Slowly, deliberately, she removed one hoop earring. Then the other. She undid her bun, allowing the long blond strands to fall over her shoulders.

“Well, Mr. Thompson,” said Sharon Charon, sucking her teeth. “Looks like I’ll be sticking around this branch longer than I anticipated.”

She placed the earrings in a bottom drawer and removed a slender ergonomic pillow, which she inserted between the small of her back and the swivel chair. She stretched her neck, exhaled, and slid the laptop square between the pointy padded shoulders of her pretty pink pantsuit. 

“We’ll be happy to have you back tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Thompson,” she said with a sarcastic edge, “by which time I will have an update on your case.”

Richard wanted to say something, to yell maybe, or plead for an audience. He wanted to tell Sharon Charon that she had been far too direct, even mean. He needed more of her time, some compassion, and a bit of respect, too. But she had already begun furiously typing.

“As ever,”  said Sharon Charon, eyes on the screen, “our bank is dedicated to your belief and will stop at nothing to provide you with the most excellent service as is within our power.”

“I…”

“Have a nice day.” 

…