Congratulations Fake Lime Salesman!

There are two kinds of lime salesmen: the kind who sell fruit and the kind who sell the sort of lime used for ruining yards, dissolving bodies and other stuff.  You think that’s bullshit, so today you’re going to walk into a bank and fill out a loan request form declaring yourself a “lime salesman.”  During the interview the loan officer will be puzzled.

“So which one will you be selling?” she’ll ask.

You’ll snort derisively at her question.

“I don’t go for labels.  I want to break down those bullshit barriers and explode the whole concept of selling lime.”  From there you’ll explain how, as a mixed race child in New Jersey, you grew tired of being called “half-black” and “half-white.”  You wanted to make a world where binaries and boundaries didn’t exist.

“This seemed like the best way to do that,” you’ll finish, tears welling in your eyes, scars from childhood fights eking out from just underneath your shirt cuffs.

The loan officer will nod, dabbing her eyes, smudging her eyeshadow in the process.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she’ll murmur.  You’ll beam at her like she’s just told you Christmas has come early as she leaves your office.  When she comes back she’ll announce that your loan has been approved and that you can pick it up in cash today.

You’ll thank her profoundly, shaking her hand, kissing her wrist, laughing uncontrollably.  You didn’t think that some dumbfuck sad sack tail about being between worlds and coming up with insanely unprofitable businesses would ever work quite so well as a scam, but hey, turns out that it works just great, as long as you have an elderly shut-in’s social security information and target loan officers who look emotionally vulnerable.

After you get your bag o’ cash and hit the road, you’ll feel a twinge of guilt, but when you think of that woman’s quivering lip, you’ll reflect on her desperate desire for your story to be true, so desperate that she didn’t bother to check and see if any of the personal information associated with your loan request matched up with who you are and what you look like.  That’s the sort of desire a guilty person has, someone who’s done wrong and knows it.

“Fuck that lady,” you’ll murmur to yourself as you drive off in your Mazda Miyata, never to return to Fargo, North Dakota again if you can help it.

Congratulations Fake Lime Salesman!