Funny Papers

Chapter One

"Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Proctor!"
"Anytime, Mr. Patterson. Just remember me when you're halfway across the world."
     The two men then exchanged a farewell--a firm handshake and nod--as Mr. Patterson exited.
     Byron Proctor sat back into his chair, letting his body sink back into its mold. He proceeded to let out a small exhale as he admired the aged photographs on the wall. Pictures of his business's original building, famous consumers posed along the walls, and even a framed photo of the first check ever received stared back at Byron. They served as permanent reminders of his biggest accomplishment: taking Dickinson Digits from a small-town bank to the best in the country.
     Dickinson Digits had been in the worst years of its life when its founder, Byron's father Walter P. Proctor, passed unexpectedly--burned to a crisp in his own woodland cottage. The air reeked of ineffable grief, but Byron firmly believed that his father would have wanted the company to prosper. Out of respect for his father, he took over the business and hauled it from the deep depths of hell it had sunken into. In a matter of years, Dickinson Digits prospered. It became known as one of the most successful establishments in the United States, resulting in Byron earning the status of a renowned entrepreneur. He was well aware of his greatness; he associated with the best of the best, treating the bank as nothing less than his child. There was not a single soul who could make Byron believe that he was anything less than phenomenal.
     It was hard to believe that Dickinson Digits was nearing its one hundredth birthday. A large "birthday" party was to be thrown at the end of the week in celebration. Until the night of the party, several smaller events would honor the event. For one, an editor from the beloved town newspaper, The Honest Abe, offered to conduct an interview with Byron himself. He agreed, of course, and had marked the event onto his calendar.
     As the event crossed Byron's mind, he struggled to remember when the interview was actually supposed to take place. His mind had been occupied for the past week with party plans and wealthy clients. Comparably, the date was a small fish in the depths of the vast ocean which was his mind. He tapped his finger against his chin as if it was a line being cast into the ocean, narrowing his eyes slightly as his mind raced.
Brrrring! The office phone cried out, alerting Byron and disrupting his thoughts. He reached over and grabbed the phone, holding it directly to his ear.
     "Mr. Proctor?" Bonnie Lowden greeted him. She was one of Dickinson Digits' newer secretaries, but her inimitable, soft-yet-gravelly voice distinguished her from her co-workers.
     "Yes, Bonnie?"
     "There's a woman up here with The Honest Abe. She says she's here to interview you for the paper."
     Well, there was the answer to his previous question! It was today! Interviews never intimidated him--just a few, relatively easy questions that he could spiel answers to in seconds flat--but he could not believe that he'd forgotten! This was so unlike Byron; it made him want to smash the office phone against his head and call it a day. "Oh, I see. Well, send her in."
     "Will do, Mr. Proctor. Bye, now." And, with that, Bonnie was gone.
     Byron folded his arms neatly, as if they were laundry, and patiently waited for his visitor. He could faintly hear the soft clicking of heels over the moderate voices of the workplace. The sound grew closer and closer, until he heard:
     "Byron Proctor?"
     "This would be him." He replied, peering in the direction of the voice.
     A woman entered the room, giving him a pleasant smile. "Hello. I'm Beatrice Bungalow, founder of The Honest Abe. I'll be conducting your interview today." She extended her hand for a shake.
     "Charmed." Byron said, shaking her hand as he was prompted. "Ah, a firm grip, I see."
     She simply chuckled in response.
     Beatrice Bungalow was good-looking, but not particularly special. She had long, dark-chocolate hair that appeared crazy and curly, yet well-maintained in her half-back hairdo. Small, rectangular spectacles dangled on her slim face, shielding primary blue eyes from the world. Her figure was somewhat voluptuous from what Byron could see--her body was strategically covered by a long, black jacket--and she stood a good eight inches under him. Byron concluded that she was no stunning model, but enough to make you look twice.
"Well, now, where should I sit?" Beatrice inquired. She had a lovely, mellow voice that flowed like a gentle stream. It felt as if she spoke in an italic font at all times.
"Right here, Ms. Bungalow." He smiled and gestured to a dark black, sturdy chair that sat before his desk.
She nodded and sat, crossing one leg over the other. "Thank you." A large, yellow notepad slipped into her lap.
Byron watched as she slipped the pad onto her lap, a bit intrigued with her choice. "Ah, a good, old fashioned notepad!"
"Why, yes." She confirmed. "I quite prefer writing. It's very therapeutic."
"I see." He smiled, making his way over to his seat. He sat in his trusty swivel chair, folding his hands.
Beatrice clicked her pen. "Are you ready, Mr. Proctor?"
"Ready when you are, Beatrice."
"Alright." She scribbled a couple of words onto her notepad in a striking black ink. "Who are you?"
He chuckled at the question, a bit taken aback. "Is that really necessary?"
"Is what necessary, Mr. Proctor?"
"Well, Beatrice, I--"
"Ms. Bungalow...please."
He smiled and gave a quick, firm nod. "Right. Ms. Bungalow, I don't see the need for such a question.
"Mr. Proctor," She maintained her calm, wavy tone despite her irritation, "in writing, you have to assume that your audience won't know the answers to certain questions right away. Similarly, I'm sure that there will be some people reading this interview who won't have a clue who you are. After all, there are plenty of successful people such as yourself that still aren't known by every face on the other earth. Now, seriously, who are you?"
What was she, Byron thought, a high school English teacher? "Well, I'm Byron Proctor. I'm thirty-three years old, and the president of Dickinson Digits banks. Banking has been my life since...well, since birth. Ha! My father got me involved at an early age. I was learning about finances at five years old."
"Did you go straight into banking, then?"
"Why, yes, I did. I was a simple teller throughout high school. At nineteen, I'd worked my way up to becoming an assistant operations manager. Not long afterwards...my father passed. I decided to take over the bank--which plenty of people thought was absurd, of course--but, now, here we are."
The questions continued for another fifteen to twenty minutes. Some of the questions seemed reasonable (why wouldn't people want to know which of his achievements he valued the most?) while some seemed a little pesky (what did she mean, how did he feel about being compared to his father?). As he responded, she would give a little smile and nod, etching out his reply word for word. After Byron closed with a piece of advice for aspiring entrepreneurs--"Work, work hard. Keep a steady mind, and pay no attention to the people that doubt your image."--Beatrice clicked her pen and smiled.
     "I think we're done here, Mr. Proctor. Thank you very much for your time." She gave a soft smile, extending her hand.
     Byron reached out, shaking it. "Yeah, thank you. Have a great evening. Perhaps I'll see you in town?"
     "Doubtful." She said, still smiling. In a flash, she exited the room, still clutching her yellow notepad.