Monday, April 4, 2011

History of Johns: Entry 11: John McEnroe


John McEnroe was angry. Again.

The Zurich summer sun was scorching the city by the lake as he tipped his inept cab driver from the curb. "I'm only tipping you," he spit out, "Because you're an idiot. And you need help." He let the marks fall onto the passenger-side floor, right where it would be most difficult to reach, and picked up his enormous bag full of trophies from the sidewalk. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath as the cab tore away from the curb.

He looked at the building in front of him. A sign reading, "Swiss Bank," let him know he was in the right place. Heaving the trophies over his shoulder, a heated John McEnroe walked through the front door into the bank. Inside it was all marble and high ceilings. Gold framed nearly everything frame-able. Most importantly, though, it was cool. The heat had been getting to the all-time winningest tennis star ever since his plane landed at the Zurich Airport. His patience had become shorter than normal. This trip was supposed to be a quick one. Thankfully, the air conditioning met him even before the concierge, who was just approaching. "Bonjour, Monsieur McEnroe," the tall, pencil-thin, tuxedoed man all but crooned.

"Cool it, Jean-Michel," John McEnroe said through is teeth. "I need to dump these tennis trophies, no questions."

"Oui, Monsieur. Suivez moi." The concierge beckoned the man to follow him. Once inside, the bank was laid out with a mad man's logic. Twists and turns, staircases and shadows. McEnroe lit a cigarette with his freehand, like only a man who had been champion of the world for four years straight could, while lugging along his trophies with his other. They were well into what one would expect to be the basement when the concierge stopped suddenly.

"What's the deal, Francois? Where's the vault?"

The concierge stomped three times, causing the floor just in front of the two men to retract, revealing a dark, shark infested pool. "Does this meet the Monsieur's taste?"

"What kind of fish you got swimming in there, Pierre?"

"Thirty Great White sharks," the concierge said with a smug smirk. "Agitated every hour by shocks of electricity."

"Just like I asked." For the first time in a long while, John McEnroe smiled. "This is a pretty good racket you Swiss have figured out."

"Oui, Monsieur. We love our banking."

The two nearly doubled over laughing as they dumped John McEnroe's trophies into the shark tank, where Bjorn Borg would never, ever be able to reach them.

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