deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sevens
"I think in terms of sevens..." I let out an exasperated sigh, trying desperately to explain the "sevens concept" for what feels like the seven-hundredth time in the past twenty-one days alone.
Such conversation is always a struggle.
This time my explanation is to a bank teller, who fails to appease my budding frustration with a trace of understanding; donning, instead, a half-blank, half-suspicious stare.
"I still don't really see how you could have mistaken a $46 deposit for a $322 deposit." She eyes the transaction slip in question and shakes her head. "...The digits really look nothing alike."
I know she is trying to remain professional; courteous even, but thus far, she appears just as clueless as my other morning subjects - the grocery clerk, the gas station attendant, the overly-talkative, balding man behind me in line for coffee...
"46 times seven is 322." I approach the matter cautiously, knowing full well she won't follow; nor will she simply chalk my calculative mishap up to numerical insanity and let me escape with the extra $1,932. But I continue nonetheless:
"My brain works in sevens. It groups in sevens... and it is very easy for me to make mistakes amidst interactions with the working world, which groups in ones. And sometimes twos. And on rarer occasions, fives and tens."
She eyes me curiously, and -likely glad that no line is piling up while I detail the inner workings of my brain patterns- raises seven eyebrows, suggesting I continue.
I smile.
Patience -however little one exhibits- is always gracious.
"One is seven..." I begin again. "Two is fourteen. Three is twenty-one. Four is twenty-eight. Five is thirty-five, and so on and so forth until you reach your forty-six - my three hundred and twenty-two. Everything is pre-multiplied, and in order..."
Perhaps I am talking too fast, or perhaps my "sevens concept" really is just too difficult to follow, but I can tell that I've lost her. She is running twenty-one fingers through her oversized mass of curly brown hair and looking back down at the transaction slip - avoiding eye contact.
"Forget it." I ease her anxiety by tearing the transaction slip in question into twenty-eight pieces. "I'll have to start over..." My words come out snappier than intended, as I glare into her wavering line of sight.
The tolerant side of my mood has dwindled, along with my motivation for morning errands. I spin around, initially making it appear as though I am reproaching the entry-table to fill out a new deposit slip; but, instead, I walk out the door, making no effort to glance backward in sincere or embarrassed apology for my sudden, rash series of actions.
Per a paranoid -and now compulsory- habit, I get into my car via the passenger's side, climb across the center console and position myself behind the wheel. I turn the radio's volume up to an unnecessary high decibel and tear out of the parking lot at a speed much too accelerated for the 70 mile-per-hour posted limit.
I nearly hit fourteen teenagers attempting to cross a brick walk-way between the bank's backside and a newly-opened breakfast cafe.
They jump back to the curb, frightened by my engine's increasing roar and my coupe's inappropriate-for-a-parking-lot 280 mile per hour speed.
They wave their arms angrily and sputter words that would've sounded like curses had I stopped to listen.
But I don't stop - or even slow down.
I must keep driving -moneyless and on the daunting edge of frustration- until I find a bank.
A bank...or someone who understands me.
Whichever comes seventh.
Such conversation is always a struggle.
This time my explanation is to a bank teller, who fails to appease my budding frustration with a trace of understanding; donning, instead, a half-blank, half-suspicious stare.
"I still don't really see how you could have mistaken a $46 deposit for a $322 deposit." She eyes the transaction slip in question and shakes her head. "...The digits really look nothing alike."
I know she is trying to remain professional; courteous even, but thus far, she appears just as clueless as my other morning subjects - the grocery clerk, the gas station attendant, the overly-talkative, balding man behind me in line for coffee...
"46 times seven is 322." I approach the matter cautiously, knowing full well she won't follow; nor will she simply chalk my calculative mishap up to numerical insanity and let me escape with the extra $1,932. But I continue nonetheless:
"My brain works in sevens. It groups in sevens... and it is very easy for me to make mistakes amidst interactions with the working world, which groups in ones. And sometimes twos. And on rarer occasions, fives and tens."
She eyes me curiously, and -likely glad that no line is piling up while I detail the inner workings of my brain patterns- raises seven eyebrows, suggesting I continue.
I smile.
Patience -however little one exhibits- is always gracious.
"One is seven..." I begin again. "Two is fourteen. Three is twenty-one. Four is twenty-eight. Five is thirty-five, and so on and so forth until you reach your forty-six - my three hundred and twenty-two. Everything is pre-multiplied, and in order..."
Perhaps I am talking too fast, or perhaps my "sevens concept" really is just too difficult to follow, but I can tell that I've lost her. She is running twenty-one fingers through her oversized mass of curly brown hair and looking back down at the transaction slip - avoiding eye contact.
"Forget it." I ease her anxiety by tearing the transaction slip in question into twenty-eight pieces. "I'll have to start over..." My words come out snappier than intended, as I glare into her wavering line of sight.
The tolerant side of my mood has dwindled, along with my motivation for morning errands. I spin around, initially making it appear as though I am reproaching the entry-table to fill out a new deposit slip; but, instead, I walk out the door, making no effort to glance backward in sincere or embarrassed apology for my sudden, rash series of actions.
Per a paranoid -and now compulsory- habit, I get into my car via the passenger's side, climb across the center console and position myself behind the wheel. I turn the radio's volume up to an unnecessary high decibel and tear out of the parking lot at a speed much too accelerated for the 70 mile-per-hour posted limit.
I nearly hit fourteen teenagers attempting to cross a brick walk-way between the bank's backside and a newly-opened breakfast cafe.
They jump back to the curb, frightened by my engine's increasing roar and my coupe's inappropriate-for-a-parking-lot 280 mile per hour speed.
They wave their arms angrily and sputter words that would've sounded like curses had I stopped to listen.
But I don't stop - or even slow down.
I must keep driving -moneyless and on the daunting edge of frustration- until I find a bank.
A bank...or someone who understands me.
Whichever comes seventh.
Published 5th Dec 2012
| Edited 10th Dec 2012
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5th Dec 2012 5:29am
6th Dec 2012 1:03pm
