“Ugh! My freaking bank, Marcus! Sheesh. Why can’t they get things fixed?”

“What is it now?” Marcus asked, glancing over the top of his laptop screen. Marcus was a screenwriter for Netflix, trying to develop a script for a pilot television show. The cursor was angrily blinking at him, not that it mattered much. He wasn’t into writing at the moment, instead listening to his coworker Jerry complain about his financial instution. Jerry Flanigan started out as a working actor and narrator for several animated series, landing a few roles here and there. He wasn’t the best actor and didn’t have much of a voice, much less a commanding stage presence, severely limiting his casting. The one thing he did have, the thing that separated him from all the others? His ability to change his voice makes some of the strangest, wackiest, and most creative characters come to life on the animated screen. For the last ten minutes, Jerry was cussing out his laptop, sitting on the other side of a shared desk in a communal office space the pair shared.

Marcus was regretting his decision to share the office with his longtime friend. They met in college, and while Marcus educated himself on screenwriting, creative content, short stories, advertising, and the like, Jerry was doing his best to audition for many parts. He landed four short roles in major motion pictures, the last of which was a creative endeavor from a mutual friend. The title of the student film was Nevermore: Blackbird Unleashed, a modern creative take on Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poem. Before reaching the ten-minute mark (the film was a little over half an hour), Jerry’s character died at the beak of the raven, the pivotal character. Only one other person was killed in Emery’s short film. He did his best to tell Jerry it wasn’t a big deal; the role would be a blip on the radar screen of any other working actor. But not Jerry. He was insistent that he was the only person who could do it.

And now he was sitting on the other side of a giant shared desk, his friend growing increasingly impatient with the bank. So Marcus gave up writing for the moment.

“Tell me why I can’t get my money today instead of waiting for them to clear the accounts for the day?”

“How do you know that’s what they are doing,” Marcus asked. “Have you asked them?”

“Asked them what exactly?” Jerry flopped down on the small loveseat occupying the far wall of their office. It was a small black felt or velvet-covered loveseat. It was slightly worn, right where the previous owner sat and played World of Warcraft for hours and hours until the cushions gave out under his girth. Marcus made sure it was professionally deep-cleaned and dry before moving it up to the sixth floor of the Gunderson building. It was light enough for one person to shove into the freight elevator. He was grateful for the furniture dolly the building provided him or anyone moving in and out of the Gunderson. “It’s not like a financial institution would actually listen to me, a small account holder,” he said, covering his eyes with his arm.

Marcus knew there was some truth to Jerry’s statement. Financial institutions typically didn’t listen to their customers’ concerns or complaints unless they had thousands of dollars in cash in their accounts. If you were one of those people? Then the bank president knew you by name, otherwise? They couldn’t care less.

“I wonder if this is a communication problem,” Marcus said, thoughts swirling in his head. On his way to the office earlier that morning, he was summarily cut off by not one, not two, but four cars in a hurry. At least karmically speaking, the last of the vehicles, a new candy-apple red Corvette, was pulled over two blocks before Marcus had to turn into the building’s parking garage. “What if it’s a matter of miscommunication?”

“I didn’t miscommunicate anything!” Jerry shouted. “If anything, they are to blame!”

“Sure. We’ll go with that, at least for now. Now, you say First National is at fault. Why is that?”

“Because I can’t access my money. I can clearly see a transaction that hasn’t cleared my account,” Jerry pointed at his laptop, “that’s pending and not showing in my balance.”

“And that’s why you are frustrated, correct?” Marcus asked.

“Of course, it’s why I’m upset! Wouldn’t you be?”

“Probably. Unless I knew that First National needed to rectify their accounts before they could release the funds into your account.”

Jerry stared at his friend. “You seem to know a lot about the banking industry.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “No. Not really. But Deidra did.”

Jerry jumped off the loveseat. “Do you still keep in touch with her?” He grabbed Marcus by the shoulders, shaking him, “Tell me you still talk to her. Did she work for First National?”

Marcus slapped his hands away, pushing Jerry backward. “No, I don’t. I have a girlfriend, remember?”

“So she’s no longer your fiancé?” Jerry winked, smiling. “Think she’d go out with me?”

“Shut up, Jerry. Do you want to hear this or not?” Marcus pointed at the loveseat, directing Jerry to sit down. “Dee told me each bank needs to clear all accounts twice daily for insurance purposes. So, if you see a transaction that hasn’t yet cleared, it means it’s there – just not yet. Does that help?”

“Not really.”

“You know I think this is your problem with women.”

“Oh, I don’t have a problem with women. Women have a problem with me,” Jerry pouted. “I communicate just fine, thank you very much.”

“Um, right. About that whole communication thing. What would happen if you called First National and explained why you feel cheated and slighted?”

“Uh, they’d hang up on me, Marcus.”

“Mhmm, okay. What if you did that with the next girl you dated?”

“What? And tell her that First National is nothing more than a bunch of greedy billionaires? Ooh, you know what? I’m going to use that as a pick-up line.”

“Yeah. Let me know how that goes for you, dude.” Marcus turned back to the laptop, ignoring Jerry.

“Wait? That’s it?”

“What?” Marcus said, looking up at his friend, frantically letting his fingers fly over the ergonomic keyboard. He didn’t even look at the screen. “It’s not like you were listening anyway.”

“I’m listening. I’m listening.”

“Communication is love. Love is communication. If you communicate clearly, then you love that person. If you are missing the mark, not clearly talking to the other person, then you are not and cannot love them.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it? What if the whole reason Adam and Eve were kicked out of the garden . . .”

“You know I don’t believe in that whole Bible-mumbo jumbo, right, Marcus?”

“Yeah, just hear me out. So, what if Adam and Eve were kicked out because of the love gene, a part of our entire DNA? And that’s what is missing inside all of us? Maybe the missing part of the double helix is love? What if we knew how to love, and the second humanity screwed up, that gene died inside of us? And all we need to do is get it back? And it only happens after we die?”

“Marcus, you know you need help, right?”

Marcus was busy staring at the screen, letting his fingers fly across the keys, not stopping for the slightest distraction.

“I take it you found your story idea?”

Marcus nodded.

“Whatever.” Jerry glanced at his watch. “Crap! I’ve got to run! I’ve got an audition for the part of a disgruntled bear in an animated short. Something about toilet paper, I think.” The door clicked shut, Marcus frantically writing his newest script: Communication equals love.