The Boy and the Bank Officer Philip Ross

I have a friend who hates banks with a special passion. "A bank is just a store like a candy store or a grocery store", he says . "The only difference is that a bank's goods happen to be money, which is yours in the first place. If banks were required to sell wallets and money belts, they might act less like churches."
I began thinking about my friend the other day as I walked into a small, over lighted branch office on the West Side. I had come to open a checking account.
It was lunchtime and the only officer on duty was a fortyish black man with short, pressed hair, a pencil mustache, and a neatly pressed brown suit. Everything about him suggested a carefully dressed authority.
This officer was standing across a small counter from a young white boy who was wearing a V-necked sweater, khakis, and loafers. He had sandy hair, and I think I was especially aware of him because he looked more like a kid from a prep school than a customer in a West Side bank.
The boy continued to hold my attention because of what happened next.
He was holding an open savings-account book and wearing an expression of open dismay. "But I don't understand," he was saying to the officer. "I opened the account myself, so why can't I withdraw any money?"
"I've already explained to you," the officer told him, "that a fourteen-year-old is not allowed to withdraw money without a letter from his parents."
"But that doesn't seem fair," the boy said, his voice breaking. "It's my money, I put it in. It's my account."
"I know it is," the officer said, "but those are the rules. Now if you'll excuse me."
He turned to me with a smile. "May I help you, sir?"
I didn't think twice. "I was going to open a new account," I said, "but after seeing what's going on here, I think I've changed my mind."
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Look," I said. "If I understand what's going on here correctly, what you're saying is that this boy is old enough to deposit his money in your bank but he's not old enough to withdraw it. And since there doesn't seem to be any question as to whether it's his money or his account, the bank's so-called policy is clearly ridiculous."
"It may seem ridiculous to you," he replied in a voice rising slightly in irritation, "but that is the bank's policy and I have no other choice but to follow the rules".
The boy had stood hopefully next to me during this exchange, but now I was just as helpless. Suddenly I noticed that the open savings book he continued to grasp showed a balance of about $100. It also showed that there had been a series of small deposits and withdrawals.
I had my opening.
"Have you withdrawn money before by yourself?" I asked the boy.
"Yes," he said.
I moved in for the kill.
"How do you explain that?" I zeroed in on the officer. "Why did you let him withdraw money before, but not now?"
He looked annoyed. "Because the tellers were not aware of his age before and now they are. It's really very simple".
I turned to the boy with a shrug. "You're really getting cheated," I said. "You ought to get your parents to come in here and protest."
The boy looked destroyed. Silently, he put his savings book in a rear-pocket and walked out of the bank.
The officer turned to me. "You know," he said, "you really shouldn't have interfered."
"Shouldn't have interfered?" I shouted. "Well, it damn well seemed to me that he needed someone to represent his interests."
"Someone was representing his interests," he said softly.
"And who might that be?"
"The bank."
I couldn't believe what this idiot was saying. "Look," I concluded, "we're just wasting each other's time. But maybe you'd like to explain exactly how the bank was representing that boy's interests?"
"Certainly," he said. "We were informed this morning that some neighborhood bully has been shaking this boy down for more than a month. The other guy was forcing him to take money out every week and hand it over. The poor kid was apparently too scared to tell anyone. That's the real reason he was so upset. He was afraid of what the other guy would do to him. Anyway, the police are on the case and they'll probably make an arrest today."
"You mean there is no rule about being too young to withdraw money from a savings account?"
"Not that I ever heard of. Now, sir, what can we do for you?"

Message of the Land Pira Sudham

Yes, these are our rice fields. They belonged to my parents and forefathers. The land is more than three centuries old. I'm the only daughter in our family and it was I who stayed with my parents till they died. My three brothers moved out to their wives' houses when they got married. My husband moved into our house as is the way with us in Esarn. I was then eighteen and he was nineteen. He gave me six children. Two died in infancy from sickness. The rest, two boys and two girls, went away as soon as we could afford to buy jeans for them. Our oldest son got a job as a gardener in a rich man's home in Bangkok but later an employment agency sent him to a foreign land to work. My other son also went far away.
One of our daughters is working in a textile factory in Bangkok, and the other has a job in a store. They come home to see us now and then, stay a few days, and then they are off again. Often they send some money to us and tell us that they are doing well. I know this is not always true. Sometimes, they get bullied and insulted, and it is like a knife piercing my heart. It's easier for my husband. He has ears which don't hear, a mouth which doesn't speak, and eyes that don't see. He has always been patient and silent, minding his own life.
All of them remain my children in spite of their long absence. Maybe it's fate that sent them away from us. Our piece of land is small, and it is no longer fertile, bleeding year after year and, like us, getting old and exhausted. Still my husband and I work on this land. The soil is not difficult to till when there is a lot of rain, but in a bad year, it's not only the ploughs that break but our hearts, too.
No, we two haven't changed much, but the village has. In what way? Only ten years ago, you could barter for things, but now it's all cash. Years ago, you could ask your neighbors to help build your house, reap the rice or dig a well. Now they'll do it only if you have money to pay them. Plastic things replace village crafts. Men used to make things with fine bamboo pieces, but no longer. Plastic bags litter the village. Shops have sprung up, filled with colorful plastic things and goods we have no use for. The young go away to towns and cities leaving us old people to work on the land. They think differently, I know, saying that the old are old-fashioned. All my life, I have never had to go to a hairdresser, or to paint my lips or nails. These rough fingers and toes are for working in the mud of our rice fields, not for looking pretty. Now young girls put on jeans, and look like boys and they think it is fashionable. Why, they are willing to sell their pig or water buffalo just to be able to buy a pair of jeans. In my day, if I were to put on a pair of trousers like they do now, lightning would strike me.
I know, times have changed, but certain things should not change. We should offer food to the monks every day, go to the temple regularly. Young people tend to leave these things to old people now, and that's a shame.
Why, only the other day I heard a boy shout and scream at his mother. If that kind of thing had happened when I was young, the whole village would have condemned such an ungrateful son, and his father would surely have given him a good beating.
As for me, I wouldn't change, couldn't change even if I wanted to. Am I happy or unhappy? This question has never occurred to me. Life simply goes on. Yes, this bag of bones dressed in rags can still plant and reap rice from morning till dusk. Disease, wounds, hardship and scarcity have always been part of my life. I don't complain.
The farmer: My wife is wrong. My eyes do see—they see more than they should. My ears do hear—they hear more than is good for me. I don't talk about what I know because I know too much. I know for example, greed, anger, and lust are the root of all evils.
I am at peace with the land and the conditions of my life. But I feel a great pity for my wife. I have been forcing silence upon her all these years, yet she has not once complained of anything.
I wanted to have a lot of children and grandchildren around me but now cities and foreign lands have attracted my children away and it seems that none of them will ever come back to live here again. To whom shall I give these rice fields when I die? For hundreds of years this strip of land has belonged to our family. I know every inch of it. My children grew up on it, catching frogs and mud crabs and gathering flowers. Still the land could not tie them down or call them back. When each of them has a pair of jeans, they are off like birds on the wing.
Fortunately, my wife is still with me, and both of us are still strong. Wounds heal over time. Sickness comes and goes, and we get back on our feet again. I never want to leave this land. It's nice to feel the wet earth as my fingers dig into the soil, planting rice, to hear my wife sighing, "Old man, if I die first, I shall become a cloud to protect you from the sun." It's good to smell the scent of ripening rice in November. The soft cool breeze moves the sheaves, which ripple and shimmer like waves of gold. Yes, I love this land and I hope one of my children comes back one day to live, and gives me grandchildren so that I can pass on the land's secret messages to them.

Going Home Pete Hamill

They were going to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, and they got on the bus at 34th Street, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags. They were dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the grey, cold spring of New York vanished behind them. Vingo was on the bus from the beginning.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a plain brown suit that did not fit him. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he chewed the inside of his lip a lot. He sat in complete silence and seemed completely unaware of the existence of the others.
Deep into the night, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnson's restaurant and everybody got off the bus except Vingo. The young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain; maybe he had run away from his wife; he could be an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls became so curious that she decided to engage him in a conversation. She sat down beside him and introduced herself.
"We're going to Florida," the girl said brightly. "You going that far?"
"I don't know," Vingo said.
"I've never been there," she said. " I hear it's beautiful."
"It is," he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
"You live there?"
"I was there in the Navy, at the base in Jacksonville".
"Want some wine?" she said. He smiled and took a swig from the bottle. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others as Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning they awoke outside another Howard Johnson's and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they got back on the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again. After a while, slowly and painfully, he began to tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the last four years, and now he was going home.
"Are you married?"
"I don' t know."
"You don't know?" she said.
"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife. I said, 'Martha, I understand if you can't stay married to me.' I said I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. Get a new guy—she's a wonderful woman, really something—and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write to me or anything, and she didn't. Not for three-and-a-half years."
"And you're going home now, not knowing?"
"Yeah," he said shyly. "Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through I wrote her again. I told her that if she had a new guy, I understood. But, if she didn't, if she would take me back she should let me know. We used to live in Brunswick, and there' s a great oak tree just as you come into town. I told her if she would take me back, she should tie a yellow ribbon to the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didn't want me, forget it, no ribbon and I'd understand and keep going on through."
"Wow," the girl said. "Wow."
She told the others, and soon all of them were caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children. Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the young people took the window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment. Then it was 10 miles, and then five, and the bus became very quiet.
Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances, shaking clenched fists in triumph and exaltation. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree through his misty eyes. The tree was covered with yellow ribbons, 30 of them, 50 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome, blowing and billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat, holding himself tightly, and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.

Half a Day Naguib Mahfous

I walked alongside my father, clutching his right hand. All my clothes were new: the black shoes, the green school uniform, and the red cap. They did not make me happy, however, as this was the day I was to be thrown into school for the first time.
My mother stood at the window watching our progress, and I turned towards her from time to time, hoping she would help. We walked along a street lined with gardens, and fields planted with crops: pears, and date palms.
"Why school ?" I asked my father. "What have I done ?"
"I'm not punishing you, " he said, laughing. "School's not a punishment. It's a place that makes useful men out of boys. Don' t you want to be useful like your brothers?"
I was not convinced. I did not believe there was really any good to be had in tearing me away from my home and throwing me into the huge, high-walled building.
When we arrived at the gate we could see the courtyard, vast and full of boys and girls. "Go in by yourself, " said my father, "and join them. Put a smile on your face and be a good example to others. "
I hesitated and clung to his hand, but he gently pushed me from him. "Be a man, " he said. "Today you truly begin life. You will find me waiting for you when it's time to leave. "
I took a few steps. Then the faces of the boys and girls came into view. I did not know a single one of them, and none of them knew me. I felt I was a stranger who had lost his way. But then some boys began to glance at me in curiosity, and one of them came over and asked, "Who brought you?"
"My father, " I whispered.
"My father's dead, " he said simply.
I did not know what to say. The gate was now closed. Some of the children burst into tears. The bell rang. A lady came along, followed by a group of men. The men began sorting us into ranks. We were formed into an intricate pattern in the great courtyard surrounded by high buildings; from each floor we were overlooked by a long balcony roofed in wood.
"This is your new home, "said the woman. "There are mothers and fathers here, too. Everything that is enjoyable and beneficial is here. So dry your tears and face life joyfully. "
Well, it seemed that my misgivings had had no basis. From the first moments I made many friends and fell in love with many girls. I had never imagined school would have this rich variety of experiences.
We played all sorts of games. In the music room we sang our first songs. We also had our first introduction to language. We saw a globe of the Earth, which revolved and showed the various continents and countries. We started learning numbers, and we were told the story of the Creator of the universe. We ate delicious food, took a little nap, and woke up to go on with friendship and love, playing and learning.
Our path, however, was not totally sweet and unclouded. We had to be observant and patient. It was not all a matter of playing and fooling around. Rivalries could bring about pain and hatred or give rise to fighting. And while the lady would sometimes smile, she would often yell and scold. Even more frequently she would resort to physical punishment.
In addition, the time for changing one' s mind was over and gone and there was no question of ever returning to the paradise of home. Nothing lay ahead of us but exertion, struggle, and perseverance. Those who were able took advantage of the opportunities for success and happiness that presented themselves.
The bell rang, announcing the passing of the day and the end of work. The children rushed toward the gate, which was opened again. I said goodbye to friends and sweethearts and passed through the gate. I looked around but found no trace of my father, who had promised to be there. I stepped aside to wait. When I had waited for a long time in vain, I decided to return home on my own. I walked a few steps, then came to a startled halt. Good Lord! Where was the street lined with gardens? Where had it disappeared to? When did all these cars invade it? And when did all these people come to rest on its surface? How did these hills of rubbish find their way to cover its sides? And where were the fields that bordered it? High buildings had taken over, the street was full of children, and disturbing noises shook the air. Here and there stood conjurers showing off their tricks or making snakes appear from baskets. Then there was a band announcing the opening of a circus, with clowns and weight lifters walking in front.
Good God! I was in a daze. My head spun. I almost went crazy. How could all this have happened in half a day, between early morning and sunset? I would find the answer at home with my father. But where was my home? I hurried towards the crossroads, because I remembered that I had to cross the street to reach our house, but the stream of cars would not let up. Extremely irritated, I wondered when I would be able to cross.
I stood there a long time, until the young boy employed at the ironing shop on the corner came up to me.