Help Me LaShonda!

Do NOT cry.

Do NOT cry.

I'm sitting in front of my bank manager -- well actually, the woman who has been reassigned to me as my "bank representative". Apparently the bank isn't too keen on the lack of funds I'm making as a writer, and would prefer that I go back to the days when my lines of credit weren't maxed out.

She's talking. I know she's talking. I can see her lips move. She's a nice dark skinned Jamaican woman with a very thick accent and really really pink lipstick. I'm distracted by her outfit. Very summery. Bright green. Is that Chartreuse?

My mind wanders to just how sucky my life is at the moment. I stepped on the scale this morning, and despite running my ass off almost every day; I haven't really budged. Still fat.

So, I'm fat...oh, and heartbroken...and broke. And now I have to sit in front of this woman who doesn't want to give me money. She's offered me some overdraft, but it won't even cover my rent -- or the minimum payments I have to make on all my outstanding debts.

I'm starting to have a new appreciation for the homeless people in the parkette near my house.

"Sow...Kahran," she says through a big smile, "Ya know deer, if you could just saign here un here, den we can give you da ovahhhdrahhft."

I do love her accent.

I smile, and start to think that under a different set of circumstances this conversation could go very different. Now, close to tears, and destitute -- I'm insignificant to her. But the potential I have is worth millions...if someone would just friggen give me a chance.

I take a deep breath and try to alleviate the knot between my shoulders. It's been there for months now. My blood pressure is high -- I can feel it throbbing on the left side of my neck. I start to feel nauseous...

"Kahran? Ya OK?" she says, and jolts me back into the conversation.

"I'm sorry," I say to her "you were saying? My mind is a bit preoccupied at the moment."

Preoccupied is an understatement. My mind is whizzing at the speed of light in fourteen million directions as to how horrible the next few weeks of my life will be. Will I be homeless? Will I be fighting with crazy crackheads for the good benches in the wee hours of the morning?

I hate my life.

And then, I start to cry. But I don't just pretend that there's dust in my eye, or that my contact is irritating me. I wail, because if LaShonda the Bank Representative is going to single handedly spin me into the depths of poverty, I want her to know exactly how I feel.

And so, I wail. In the bank, in front her little desk -- near the front foyer for everyone to see.

"Kahran?" she says.

"Look, LaShonda" I begin, "I know you're just doing your job. I get that. But here's the thing: your decision to not extend my line of credit -- to not flow me an extra $5,000.00 and help me get through the next two months is basically forcing me to reconsider if there is a divey strip club that takes overweight strippers with bad hair. And why is my hair bad? It's bad because I DON'T HAVE ANY FRIGGEN MONEY. I used to have nice hair. I used to have people wait on me, with fancy teas and shoulder massages. But now, now... now I'm lucky if I have the energy to let the drug store conditioner stay on my head for more than a minute. And you know what really pisses me off? What really pisses me off is that banks like you weighted their odds on some money-making hedge fund scheme for people who couldn't afford their mortgages, and now responsible and reliable clients like myself who DIDN'T live above their means are suddenly without jobs -- and do you want to know why?"

LaShonda is speechless.

"I'll tell you why. It's simple. The mortgage crisis in the States caused a recession that led to an air of pessimism, which led to a lot of corporations pulling out of advertising, which led to them buying less commercial air time, which led to broadcasters, my former bread and butter, to file for bankruptcy and stop commissioning new shows. Did you even look at what I used to pull in? Do you even care, that despite the fact that I feel like a bag of useless shit because no one will hire me because their companies are collapsing, and despite the fact that I have no money to go out with friends, or even go see a FRIGGEN MOVIE; in spite of all that I somehow mustered up the energy to work my friggen ass off, and write and create quality television programs. I have written through tears, and loneliness, and despair because my stupid ex-boyfriend couldn't be bothered to love me -- which is something I have realized as of late I need. And so, despite the fact that my life sucks because of something that was completely out of my control -- the recession -- brought on by YOU, I am now sitting here asking you to throw me a bone. Which you won't. You offer me some stupid useless overdraft that won't even cover my rent and as a result I am having serious heart palpitations. I AM A HUMAN BEING LASHONDA! I AM HAVING A BAD REACTION TO THE PREDICAMENT YOU HAVE PUT ME IN. AND IF I HAVE TO GO DOWN IN FLAMES I WANT YOU TO KNOW JUST EXACTLY HOW I FEEL, BECAUSE IT SUCKS. I'M EDUCATED. I WAS A CHILD GENIOUS. AND NOW...NOW I AM ABOUT TO LOSE EVERYTHING I HAVE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T FLOAT ME SOME CAPITOL FOR TWO MONTHS WHICH YOU KNOW I AM CAPABLE OF PAYING BACK!"

The security guard starts to walk towards us, but LaShonda waives him away.

I take a breath.

LaShonda passes me her box of Kleenex and I blow my nose. And then I slump my head on her desk and wail even harder.

LaShonda comes around from behind the desk and rubs my back. "It's gonna beeee ok," she says.

"He's going to Montreal with someone else," I say and sit up. She gives me a hug.

"Child, you can't let no mahhn treet u dis way." she says as she passes me another Kleenex before returning to behind her desk. "When my Jerome - dat bahhstaahhd, he left me for dat hoozy next door; it broke mah heart. But look at me now! I have a nice jaahb in a nice bank. So you too will beee ok. Don't worry."

"But, LaShonda, I really need you guys to float me or I'm screwed." I say as honestly as I can.

"Child. Der is nothin' Ah can do, ya know dat! You are smart! You are pretty! You must find another way, a'right?" she says with a big smile and then approves my overdraft.

I stand, grab my copy of the slips, and walk towards the exit.

I try not to look at my reflection as I approach the glass doors. I've hit rock bottom. The low point in my E True Hollywood Story. I don't need to be reminded of how fat I am.

Not today. Not right now.