"I'm somewhat disabled," I say, annoyed, unwilling to elaborate. To buttress my case, I hold up my cane for her to see and flick the handicapped sticker hanging from the rear-view mirror. I'm pleased to see the chagrin, now, slightly coloring her face; serves her right for that tone. If the check's somehow lost, I'll be absolved, and by default the teller will shoulder the old saw concerning rectilinear customers. In a huff of spontaneity, I back up before she can respond, hoping to rouse her remorse and cause maybe a run outside. Creating a forty-five degree angle that leaves my Altima diagonally exposed, since a parallel reverse is risky and might scratch the side of my leased car on the squares of fancy brick, I've backed up in my tracks about forty feet, having seen, in all its ignominy, the check's escape down the driveway like a recalcitrant child running from a slower parent and laughing, hoping not to be caught and washed. Or, the check could be a skiff swept up in a raging downstream current, headed pell-mell for the falls. I bite my bottom lip and remind myself it's not a time for metaphors, it's time for action.