A day in the life of Frank Stallone.

Went to cash my boss' check that was bad last time I tried, insufficient funds and such, and was unpleasantly surprised. Not having an account with that particular financial institution, I had my license out and was prepared to stamp a thumbprint on the check as is sometimes required; this would not suffice anymore, however. The teller had the nerve to informed me that there would be a fee of six dollars to cash the check, at which point I told her how I felt about said monetary penalty. "No other bank has ever charged me for cashing one of their own checks. You mean to tell me you can't honor this piece of paper with your bank's logo on it without charging me six bucks?" It seemed like a reasonable question. "Unfortunately, sir, we just adopted this policy." It seemed like a cop-out of an answer, but I knew it wasn't her fault so I scapped up the money she had laid on the counter and walked out. If she had given me all twenties instead of large bills there would've been another problem, though.

Headed over to the Chinese food joint to place a take-out order for lunch. "Ten minute," the clerk said right before yelling something far more vulgar sounding in her native tongue at the downtrodden cooks in the back. I went for a walk since I'd left my book at home and didn't feel like sitting a table without some form of entertainment. A few shops down in the strip mall was a mattress store. Strolling past the large display windows it dawned on me to walk in and pretend to shop. The salesman paid no mind to me since he was closing a deal with a young couple. I found a nice specimen in a back corner of the large open showroom and proceeded to lay down. My eyes had just closed when I heard the front door open and close, presumably that couple walking out of the store. Cheap shoes on cheap tile headed my way told me that I was next on this guy's list, or so he thought. "Sir, can I help you find something you like?" His voice was so plaintive and weak that it made me wonder if this was his first day trying to sell anything at all. "No thank you, I'm doing fine shopping on my own," I replied as I removed my hands from their folded position behind my head and rolled over on my side to face the wall in the hopes that this schmuck would walk away for nine more minutes while I copped a quick nap. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to..." but he didn't quite make it that far before I faked some snores and he sauntered away, the rough friction sounds of his cheap suit almost audible. I thought I'd won. I thought that for a good thirty seconds until I was roused from a dream state by a firm poke in the shoulder. "Hey, I thought I told you to..." but that sentence didn't get finished either. I opened my eyes to a large bald-headed man in a form-fitting black T-shirt three sizes too small, the word "SECURITY" printed in white block letters on his chest. "Come on, buddy. Don't make a scene. We get your type here all the time." My type? And is it really such a crime to take a rest on a display mattress for ten minutes?, I thought to myself as I was escorted to the door. Do homeless men and teenagers too tired to ride their bikes home just yet really resort to this strategy often enough to warrant having a security guard present? The neckless wonder walking next to me must've read my mind somehow. "Don't worry, that Chinese food place is fast. Your order's probably on the counter already."

And he was right. The woman at the register motioned with her hand in my general direction as soon as I walked through the door as if to insinuate that I had been gone for hours and better get up there and pay already. I whipped out my wallet and forked over the cash, not worrying about the change at that point, and carried the hot paper bag out of the restaurant. My first total success of the day, and for a mere five dollars. That price was even less than what it had cost me to cash my paycheck! I grumbled obscenities to myself over the first few encounters of my day all the way home, and Stop signs seemed to read more like Yields. Sitting down at the table to eat calmed my nerves a bit. There was no soy sauce in the bag, but that was probably my fault for not asking. I chalked the loss up to experience and chowed down. Just as I went to scoop up one of the last stalks of broccoli in the container I noticed something wrong with the scenario. A small, curly black hair about an inch in length was beckoning to me from its hiding place in my food. I plucked it out and wondered what else I had already eaten, and tried to remember if any of those distraught looking Chinese men in the kitchen had curly hair or not. Not remembering for sure, but admitting that the Chinese are a fairly homogenous race and I've never seen a Chinaman that didn't have straight hair on his head, I confessed to myself the probable source of the hair in my food. Alas, even the exchange of the day which I thought had gone well had ended in my defeat. Maybe something could be salvaged after all if I'd only adhere to the advice inside the unopened fortune cookie sitting on my kitchen table in front of me. "Avoid taking unnecessary gambles," it read, and I tried not to choke with laughter as I swallowed the dry semisweet bits of ironic wafer. Maybe I wouldn't be venturing back out to the grocery store that day after all.