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was, “I’m tired, Doreen,” and rolled over on my stomach and pretended to snore.

    * * * * *

    I watched Doreen in a slip and bra run in and out the room getting herself and Lewis ready for the day. She caught me looking and said, “You need to get up, you got a busy day ahead of you.” In the same breath: “Lewis, are you brushing your teeth?”
    An uh-huh came from the bathroom.
    Hanging on the closet doorknob was my blue pinstripe suit, black Stacy Adam shoes under it.
    “I’ve already laid your clothes out,” Doreen said, buttoning up a light-blue blouse. One blue high heel on she went into the hallway, told Lewis to wash his face again, came back and said, “John, honey, remember to look the interviewer in the eye when you speak. Don’t look at the floor--you got a habit of doing that. If you’re not sure of a question say so.”
    She went out again, this time both shoes on. Before I could muster the strength to get up, she came back. “One question I’m sure of: Why do you want to work here? You oughta study on that before you go in. Don’t say for the money. Say…uh…say I’m looking for employment in a reputable company where my talent and services will be mutually beneficial to the company and myself.”
    What?
    “Or something like that,” she said.
    The whole thing made me tired, made me not want to get out of bed.
    Doreen came over and grabbed my arm. “Get up, sleepy-head,” she said, pulling me to my feet. A split second I thought to push her away, hard.
    Ignoring the suit I put on a pair of jeans, and retrieved a T-shirt.
    Before Doreen could protest I said, “The interview isn’t till two, ain’t no need of missing a whole day, is it?”
    “You’re right,” Doreen said. “I’m running late.” Kissed me. “I’ll be praying for you.” Stopped at the door. “John, be conscious of how you talk. Ain’t isn’t a word you use in a professional environment. I love you.”

    * * * * *

    Three white men were standing around a long conference table when I entered the room. Nervous. Not two hours ago I’d almost lost a finger, not thinking about what I was doing, reaching for a strip of white oak close to a rotating head when Hank grabbed my arm and asked was I crazy.
    One of the men, the one in the gray business suit, the other two in white shirts and black ties, introduced himself: Dale Gray, he said, smiling, vice president.
    We shook hands and I looked him in the eye as Doreen had told me. The redheaded, freckled-face man was Ronnie Myers, the vault manager. He and I shook hands. Larry Gaines, a loan officer, whose red nose and bloodshot eyes read drunk, didn’t shake my hand, only nodded and half-smiled.
    Once we were all seated, Ronnie took over.
    “This is an entry-level job. The pay is twelve dollars an hour. You’ll be responsible for wrapping and bagging coins for the main bank and all its branches. Time to time you’ll be asked to assist one of the other tellers in the vault and that’ll put you in contact with large sums of currency. Utmost honesty is expected at all times. You see where that might be a problem for you?”
    In other words, do you steal? “No,” I said. “Not at all.”
    From there Ronnie asked of my hobbies. Not having a single one I lied and said fishing, bicycling, jogging…almost said rappelling but knew that was a stretch.
    “Why do you want to work here at SouthFirst Bank?” That was Dale Gray, asking the one question Doreen had warned me.
    I tried to remember what Doreen had said, something about mutually benefiting each other. Damn! They were waiting.
    “SouthFirst Bank is a positive entity in this city,” I said, “and I would like to be a part of that.”
    Smiles all around; they probably knew that that line of bull surprised even me.
    Dale Gray told me to step outside for a minute. Ten minutes later, Ronnie Myers came out and gestured me back in.
    Before I could sit down he said, “Congraulations, Mr. Dough, you got the job,” and