For a variety of reasons, we had to open a new account at our local bank. No big deal, right?
Ah, you forgot about the coronavirus.
It’s a small local bank. Like banks everywhere, it is closed to everything except online and drive-through. To open a new account, we had to make a special appointment to fill out the forms, supply verified documentation of this and that, sign incomprehensible documents and answer incomprehensible questions, the whole nine yards.
Because I am a slip of a lad of seventy-two and Darleen a nubile girl of sixty-nine, the government, our government, the grasping, conniving, pompous, callous, unfeeling, thoughtless, and conspicuously undiplomatic government, has designated us as senior citizens (ha! I’ll dance on the government’s grave) and consequently at high-risk for coronavirus.
Since medical face masks are at a premium nowadays, and because we only happen to have a few left over from a painting project a year or so ago, and because Darleen insists on doing the shopping, I save the masks for her and when I absolutely, positively must leave the house, I just use a wild-rag (think bandana, for those of you unaccustomed to Western/cowboy life).
It was while I was getting ready to drive to the bank that it suddenly hit me. Thanks to the coronavirus and all its disruption, I was about to live out a fantasy I’ve had ever since I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid back in 1969, namely to walk into a bank with a bandana over my face. I toyed with the idea of strapping on a six-gun, but I decided not to push my luck.
Life is great!