Yellow, A Prologue
The first time I met him, there was hardly a thing that stood out about him. He was tall, but everyone was tall to me. He was dressed in clothes so plain that the only thing worth noting about them was their plainness. His eyes were small, dark marbles that pierced me over my computer screen.
The first time he walked into my place of employment he had a a fat manila envelope tucked under his arm. He was greeted by the security guard, as was everyone, with a careful, "Evening, sir," to which he did not respond. His hunched shoulders aligned with the others in the ever-long queue. Large hands grasped each other whilst he waited, beady eyes twitching.
We first met gazes when he was second in line. As I called forth the stout woman in front of him, I saw the whites of his eyes as they pierced and probed something above him. In the single moment it took for me to notice him gazing at the ceiling and shift my eyes to my new customer, he captured me in the first of many knowing glares.
It was then I noticed the man's… disfigurement. His Glasglow smile, as it were, was visible even from fifteen feet away courtesy of the haze of stringent overhead lighting.
My attention shifted to the stout woman in short. She could hardly see over the towering counter. "Hello, ma'am, welcome to Gotham National Bank. How can I assist you today?"
And so began the transaction, no different than any other. She explained from behind her set of horn-rimmed purple glasses that she needed a $100 bill to give to her grandson for his graduation. She delved into every imaginable crevice of her grandson's college plans as I pretended to listen intently.
I had become increasingly aware of a gaze threatening to skewer me from fifteen feet away. Without a speck of doubt, I knew to whom the gaze belonged. Glasglow. Hopefully, I thought, Dennis or Mark or one of those other shitheels down the line gets this creep. Am I imagining him glaring at me?
At some point, I thought I heard Anabelle's monotone voice ask after another customer and just out of the corner of my eye, I saw Glasglow usher the man behind him forward. In mild disbelief, I snapped my gaze from the woman's flapping pink lips to him ever-so-briefly and was met with a slanted grin and slitted eyes.
He knows I don't want him in my line.
I snapped my attention to the $100 in my suddenly sweaty palm. I was reluctant to hand to the woman and have her grandmotherly presence replaced with such an ominous one. But with no other option, I clicked 'EXIT' on her account screen and slid the bill to her over the desk.
"Thank you for choosing Gotham National Bank, ma'am. Have a nice evening and tell your grandson I said, 'happy birthday.'"
My fake cheeriness was pitched back in my face when I realized I'd not only cut the woman off mid-sentence but also confused her grandson's occasion. She corrected sternly, "Graduation," before gripping the bill and waddling off. I paled and resisted the urge to smack my forehead before a gawky frame filled my vision.
"Hello, ma'am," Glasglow cooed, bringing my full attention to his dingy yellow teeth. He pressed his elbows against the counter, seeming to take every opportunity to tower over me. His fingernails were long, yellow, sickly. He sucked in the bumpy lines of his scarred cheeks at me and released them with a moist slapping sound.
I cringed at the sound before redirecting my attention to my computer screen. "Welcome to Gotham National Bank, sir. How can I help you tonight?"
He let the silence proliferate to the point of awkwardness before mocking, "I just had some questions about your establishment here, Misses…" he exaggeratedly twisted this way and that to get a good look at my name tag, hidden by my left boob.
"Miss Blaze, sir. And do you have an account with us already or were you – "
"Blaze," his emphasizes in a deep, but oddly lilting voice. He made no move to disguise his inspection of the light scar on my mouth. My scar was a surface scratch compared to his gruesome marring. "Fitting for a beautiful, blooming redhead such as yourself. Is that a first or a last name, Miss Blaze?"
"First. Do you already have an account with us today, sir, or can I direct you to - ?"
"No, I think you've covered everything," Glasglow says. I feel him eyeing up my scar again and I find myself bowing my head on impulse. When he spoke next, it was the first time he sounded genuine, "It's pretty awful isn't it?" he gestured with an open hand to his own face and I immediately knew to what he is referring: coming into every conversation scar-first, seeing the question behind their eyes.
I plastered a tight grin on my face and stood to my full height, never breaking eye contact with him. "You have a lovely day, sir."
I slapped my "Next Teller, Please" plaque between his elbows. I stomped to the break room, my heels clacking ridiculously against the hardwood.
I ate my lunch in a furious haze, sucking on my spoon with peanut butter so hard it nearly snapped it in half. How dare he? I thought again and again. My hell was in people asking after my scars, of having to politely deflect their interest, of those few moments when their gazes sear into my eyes in an effort not to glance at it. There was a special place in hell for someone who knew that pain and still inspired it in others.
Soon, though, the incident with Glasglow faded from memory. The last time I thought of Glasglow that day was when I laid down in bed after snapping off my heels and wiping off the layer of makeup that blurred the redness of the scar. The white tissue ran halfway down my chin, dividing my bottom lip into uneven halves. I slid my tongue along the raised internal edge of it before let sleep find me.
The first day I met the Joker was also the first day of my last week at Gotham National Bank. Following the chaos created by Scarecrow, I, along with many of my fellow Gothamites, had decided that Gotham was no longer fit for inhabitants. I had Chicago in mind, already secured a bank manager's position at a smaller Illinois bank and put in my two weeks at National. I had no ties to cut, no family to coerce to help me move. The entire process took depressingly little time for me to finalize.
The first day I met the Joker was utterly normal. The second day I met the Joker was the last normal day I would ever have.