...and Smell the Coffee

Because my mother will kill me. If I do not take care of this today.
I need a loan. My first ever.
I am lucky compared to most, I have come to realize.
Deadlines are my kryptonite. My mother knows this.
I was born two weeks late.
I need this loan.
I hate filling out applications.
Marie and I discuss our shared distate for them (we enter incorrect information, we invariably always need a second form after the first is ruined. We spill coffee on them.) as we are en route.
I need only drop off a signed form.
Marie is effectively my blind seeing-eye dog on this excursion.
She is very unbothered by the fact that part of our day together involves a visit to a loan office.
We enter the building.
Many, many people are sitting.
There is a "please take a number" device.
I do not like these devices. I do not like taking a number unless I am buying a loaf of sour dough, or beef in waxed paper.
Behold my mighty jaws!
Anyway, everyone is waiting with their numbers.
There is a 'drop box'. I do not trust drop boxes.
My laughable, non-existent luck demands I not trust drop boxes.
I place my form in there and the building will end up burning down overnight.
Or, someone steals the drop box because they desperately need SIN numbers for some scam they're running.
A week from now I get picked up in Mt. Pearl for extortion.
Fuck that.
Marie has run into someone she knows. She is engaged in chitchat.
I sympathize, but lose interest.
I observe everyone.
"It's like a doctor's office, but no one is sick," I say audibly.
In stuffy places like this people have no sense of humour.
I am introduced to Anne-Marie's friend.
Clearly, I forget his name. Sorry buddy.
I offer a greeting and immediately ask him if I'd be safe dropping my form in the drop box.
He seems optimistic. But then, he's just met me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see. I can tell.
The whole room is eavesdropping.
I turn to everyone: "What do you guys think? Can this form go in the drop box?
Should I give it to someone at the counter?"
I used to love doing public interactions like this.
Somewhere along the cart path I stopped.
Sarah Turpin reminded me that I used to love doing it.
A fellow answering loan questions takes the form for me.
I like the man because of this.
We leave.
"Why is your trunk open?" Marie asks.
I have no idea why. I do not know how long it has been open.
I close the trunk. We leave.