Home Loan

It finally happened. I can’t fuckin’ believe it. I won the fuckin’ scratchies. Bye-bye streets and shit-smelling underpass! Goodbye M1 traffic sounds! Goodbye uppity coppers!

First thing I did when I won $20,000 was go and get myself a nice suit. I’m wearing more money right now than I’ve seen in almost two decades. I also got a haircut and some nice body-wash and a real fancy Dior cologne. I’ve never had cologne before, but I have to say, it’s doing wonders for me.

But there’s one thing I’ve been fantasising over forever. One thing that will fix my whole life, and I’m shit-scared right now.

‘Mr. Tiernan, please,’ a very sharp-looking assistant called my name and beckoned me into an office with floor to ceiling glass walls, frosted for privacy. What a waste of money. Why frost glass?

I walk in. A stone-faced young guy with a strong chin and a holier-than-thou expression flashes a smile at me and wordlessly beckons me to sit. This is a bad start. I sit down as meekly and unobtrusively as I can. I need this more than anything and I’m willing to beg. I mean, you have to be when you’re in my position. People rarely beg these days, it’s its own type of pathetic.

‘Mr. Tiernan, what are you after?’ says the bank man.

I want a place to live. ‘I’d like to apply for a home loan.’

His face lifts slightly. Oh yes, this suit is doing its job. ‘That’s great news, mate. Got a place in mind, or are you browsing at the mo?’ says the bank man.

I’ll take what I can get. ‘Aw, yeah… browsing a bit.’

A pause. ‘fair enough,’ says the bank man, ‘well, the bank doesn’t just hand out money, have you got bank statements, pay slips, tax returns?’ why would I need bank statements? Isn’t this a bank?

‘No, I - I don’t have anything like that,’ come on suit, do your magic.

The bank man’s mouth goes tight and he looks at me right in the eyes. I realise that that’s the first time he’s actually looked at me directly since I took a seat. He looks away and kisses his teeth. His hands rub his lap. He swishes his coat. He shuffles in his seat. He folds his arms in front of him and opens his mouth to say something—

Fuck, please, ‘But I’ve just come into a lot of money, and I think I ca—’

‘Look,’ says the bankman, he sighs and kisses his teeth again, ‘we don’t run a charity here, and just having money isn’t going to guarantee you a—’

‘Please,’ my voice stammers, the familiar lump in my throat that chokes me when I’m begging on the streets risks pushing me over the edge. It’s usually easy to push it down, but somehow, this room is worse than the streets. It feels even less dignified, even more helpless. ‘Please, I don’t have a place to stay,’ begging; my forte, but I’m fuckin’ up, come on, more, pull at his heartstrings, ‘please, I—’

His right nostril flares a fraction of a millimetre on his face, but I know the expression: contempt. ‘Calm down, Mr. Tiernan,’ he’s stonewalling, fuck, what do I do? ‘We can’t discuss anything more until you can come back with the documents I’ve mentioned, and from what you’re telling me, I’m not sure we’re in a position to help you anyway, because we have to know you can pay us back. So, if you would, please,’ he gestures at the door. All I can do is open and close my mouth like a stupid fish.

Shoulda known. The only people I’ve known to hand out money were my mates who live with me under the bridge. Figures. What use is money to people like us?

I move in my seat. I’m about to get up, and then I’m not, and then I am. The bank man eyes me angrily. He looks at me as he goes into a drawer under his desk and pulls out a small black book. On the book there’s masking tape with ‘Time wasters’ written on it in black marker. He opens it to a page somewhere in the middle and clicks a ball-point pen. He scrawls ‘Jon Tiernan’ onto the page and then claps it shut. He hasn’t said a word to me. I just watch him. I want to say something. I want to beg him, but there’s something about this room, about this man who hates time wasters. There’s something about the fucken’ frosted glass. Maybe it’s frosted so the people in the reception never need to see the black book. Maybe it’s frosted so that the bank man never has to be seen doing to people what he’s doing to me.

I get up and walk back through the city to the M1 overpass, leaving my suit in a bin.