ABC Ficlet: 'Quixotic'
Quixotic
It all began, naturally, with a bank.
Poirot had endured his share of difficulties with banks in the past. Banks were insufferable, bureaucratic agencies, with a level of disinterest and ineptitude sufficient to drive even an average man to distraction.
Poirot, of course, was far from an average man.
And so he was explaining carefully and precisely to the teller why he had been obliged to leave his tisane half-finished and come to the bank himself.
"I send to you my secretary Miss Lemon. Nothing. Then I send my estimable colleague, Captain Hastings -- a most, I must stress, agreeable soul -- and, mademoiselle, he comes back to me cursing your name."
The girl just blinked at him. She was wearing far too much rouge.
"It should be, mademoiselle, quite the simple thing," he said. "Opening the safe deposit box, it is, I understand, rather common."
She blinked again. How completely maddening.
“Mademoiselle-“ he began again.
“The manager,” she said.
“Mademoiselle…”
“You’ll have to see the manager. I don’t think I can help you.”
“You do not think? Or you cannot?”
“I cannot- can’t… I can’t help you.” She shoved a stack of papers at him. “Fill this out. Sit over there. The manager will be with you shortly.”
Sighing in defeat, Poirot took the forms and found a seat in the waiting area. The clock ticked loudly and finally Poirot laid his pen aside. A long line had gathered before the only open teller’s window.
Poirot frowned.
There was something wrong with the tableau. Poirot adjusted his pince nez and looked around at his fellow customers.
A sailor and his young lady. A young mother struggling with three rambunctious boys. An American businessman. A middle-aged woman in an inappropriately frilly dress -- what Hastings might call the mutton prepared as lamb. But that wasn’t it; there was something else.
Poirot leaned closer and looked again.
The sailor was wearing work boots. And the young lady was, on closer inspection, not a young lady at all, but a boy in a blonde wig and a dress that was too formal for daytime wear.
How curious.
Poirot sat back down, his interview with the bank manager forgotten.
Perhaps, his afternoon was not wasted after all. for device55
It all began, naturally, with a bank.
Poirot had endured his share of difficulties with banks in the past. Banks were insufferable, bureaucratic agencies, with a level of disinterest and ineptitude sufficient to drive even an average man to distraction.
Poirot, of course, was far from an average man.
And so he was explaining carefully and precisely to the teller why he had been obliged to leave his tisane half-finished and come to the bank himself.
"I send to you my secretary Miss Lemon. Nothing. Then I send my estimable colleague, Captain Hastings -- a most, I must stress, agreeable soul -- and, mademoiselle, he comes back to me cursing your name."
The girl just blinked at him. She was wearing far too much rouge.
"It should be, mademoiselle, quite the simple thing," he said. "Opening the safe deposit box, it is, I understand, rather common."
She blinked again. How completely maddening.
“Mademoiselle-“ he began again.
“The manager,” she said.
“Mademoiselle…”
“You’ll have to see the manager. I don’t think I can help you.”
“You do not think? Or you cannot?”
“I cannot- can’t… I can’t help you.” She shoved a stack of papers at him. “Fill this out. Sit over there. The manager will be with you shortly.”
Sighing in defeat, Poirot took the forms and found a seat in the waiting area. The clock ticked loudly and finally Poirot laid his pen aside. A long line had gathered before the only open teller’s window.
Poirot frowned.
There was something wrong with the tableau. Poirot adjusted his pince nez and looked around at his fellow customers.
A sailor and his young lady. A young mother struggling with three rambunctious boys. An American businessman. A middle-aged woman in an inappropriately frilly dress -- what Hastings might call the mutton prepared as lamb. But that wasn’t it; there was something else.
Poirot leaned closer and looked again.
The sailor was wearing work boots. And the young lady was, on closer inspection, not a young lady at all, but a boy in a blonde wig and a dress that was too formal for daytime wear.
How curious.
Poirot sat back down, his interview with the bank manager forgotten.
Perhaps, his afternoon was not wasted after all. for device55