Anti-Christ Teller Machine
new fiction
Anti-Christ Teller Machine
by Adam Voith
My mom said, “Perfect, perfect," as she pulled headfirst into a curbside spot early Saturday morning. The street was empty, and she didn’t need to sing the song. When parking was hard to find, she sang a prayer to the melody of "I'm A Believer” by The Monkees.
Lord of the park-ing space
will fiiiiiind a space for me
Not a trace
of doubt in my mind
She sang these lines repeatedly, weaving the lanes of the mall or a restaurant parking lot until an empty space near the entrance miraculously appeared. Whether it took thirty seconds or seventeen laps, God intervened.
"This is perfect," Mom said again. "They won't see us, but we'll have a great view." Across the street was Barrington Union, the first bank in town to have an ATM. They built a second drive-thru lane next to the one with the live teller. The new machine sat in a wall of masonry the size of a Fotomat.
"The other night, your dad and I came for the evening one. It's seven o’clock in the morning, on the dot, then again at seven at night. We parked over there. It was fine, but the view's better here. They'll pull up in a sec. Watch." It was 6:58am.
This was week two of ATM worship. Or at least, it had been two weeks since a teacher at my school happened to see it and told some other teachers, including my mom, who taught Third Grade Science. This was Heritage Elementary. We had outfits; navy polyester pants, a matching polyester vest over a baby blue button-up and, I swear to god, an American flag clip-on tie. I would often meet Mom in the Heritage staff lounge after school where she gathered her Tupperware from the drying rack and chit-chatted with her co-workers. One day they were all talking about the ATM lady, and for the next several days, after school, Mom talked to the teachers on the phone, and I heard many one-sided conversations.
"It can't be real."
"Have you seen it?"
"Three times!?”
"Dennis Buckner’s telling everyone it's demonic, of course."
“Do you think it’s demonic?”
"Is it dancing?"
"What's she wearing?"
"Like, normal?"
"Does she look kinda poor?"
“But I heard it's old. Like an old station wagon?"
"She said it's funny?"
"Not funny? Oh."
"Sounds funny to me. I gotta see it.”
The teachers tried to keep it from the students and not make a big deal. Mom asked me to keep my mouth shut, but eventually kids in class started asking about it.
Heritage Elementary used the PACE learning program, accredited by Who the Fuck Knows. Our learning was done with rub-away markers in laminated booklets you erased before passing them off to the next kid. Heritage, indeed. We sat in plywood pods built for each kid. These, too, were baby blue, painted to match our getups.
Each student had two tiny flagpoles on top of their pod wall. If you had a question about schoolwork, you raised the American flag. If you had a question of faith, you’d hoist the Christian one.
In class, Landon put the Christian flag up and said, "This is more of a statement than a question, but ATM Lady is actually evil—like evil for real. She's dangerous, and we don't think anyone should go there to watch. The Devil’s going to count that as participation." Landon was Dennis Buckner’s son, but more and more people were going to see it. My mom went, and now she had opinions.
“Well, I heard maybe it’s the husband. Like he’s making her.”
“Oh, I couldn’t stop laughing the first time.”
“I remember when I went to a Catholic funeral. Have you been to one?”
“Crazy. Totally crazy.”
“Do you know they burn incense?”
“They're speaking in Greek or something. The priests are wearing all this wild stuff.”
“These hats."
"Oh jeez. How many times has she gone?"
“Has anyone talked to them?”
“I wonder if we should talk to them.”
"Right."
"Right. That's true."
"I wonder what the bank’s doing."
“I think so. Like, rebuking."
"I don't know. I don't think anyone knows."
“Debbie’s got vigils going. They sit in rotation. Just know if you go, someone from Debbie’s group is parked nearby, praying in their car."
Finally, Mom agreed to take me, and by then she’d gone five or six times; an expert. "Okay, okay. Here they come," she said. A car pulled around but stopped short of the ATM. The driver kissed a woman in the passenger side, then reclined his seat and vanished. The woman—normal clothes, normal hair, normal height—got out and walked to the machine.
"That's her,” Mom said. “Doesn't she look normal?"
I asked if we should roll the window up.
“I need to hear, in case she says something,” Mom said. “Just whisper.”
The woman put a card into the machine and punched in her PIN. Beep Beep Beep Beep.
"So, she puts in her card. She puts in her code. Like normal. Like anyone." My mom was narrating. The lady pushed a few more buttons. "She pushes more buttons," Mom said. "And then, okay, look. Look look look."
The lady did arm circles. I don't know what else to call them. She did some leg stuff, tapped on her thighs and forearms, then clapped a couple of times. She reached over and pushed buttons between her moves. Beep beep.
“Wait,” Mom said. “She's going to repeat it." The woman pressed buttons, wiggled, smacked, and tapped around again. It was like a dance, but it was extremely slow. She did the routine a third time and then, warmups over, she started again, only fast.
She was on fire or swatting a swarm of bugs, but the slapping, the shuffling of her feet, and the sounds from the machine all made a beat; they made music. She went on for a while, maybe a full minute, then the machine spit out a receipt. The woman grabbed it, looked at it, folded it, put it in her pocket, and walked back to the car.
"No money,” Mom said. “She never gets any money.”
"It sounded cool," I said.
“No money,” Mom said. “No money, and the bank’s always closed. Who’s she doing this for?”
"Mom, did you hear how it made a song?"
The woman was back in the wagon. The man brought his seat up behind the wheel again.
"That's it," Mom said. "She's done."
"Until tonight," I said.
“Until tonight, you’re right,” Mom said, but she shook her head no. “You know what?” she said, "I don't want to come back here anymore."
The wagon pulled out of the bank lot. A little kid's head—looked like he was maybe five or six, younger than me—popped up from the backseat as they passed by us.
"You see that?" I said.
But Mom didn’t see. She rolled the window up, started the car, and drove home.
a version of this story appears in the Rose Books Reader Vol. 01