I knew a few things would be irritating about small town life. I remember my dad waiting for the mail to come on Friday at 4:30 p.m. so he could run in to cash his paycheck before the bank closed at 5. I especially recall this being a huge factor in upcoming vacation schedules, as my minister father was paid once monthly. Yep, monthly. Luckily, back in the day, bills were auto-deducted from your account or it'd have been a bigger issue.
George and I came last week to open an account together following our home inspection. It was 3:10 p.m. and the bank closed at 3. On Saturday we drove through on our way to Kansas City at 10 a.m., but they didn't open until noon.
Today, however, they were open. Sort of. As I waited for Florence to fill out my papers in her flowery cursive, I begged for patience. I am used to living faster. Sometimes I wish it weren't the case, but I am spoiled in presuming the effeciency of people at their work. Florence, by the way, is at least a decade past the retirement age, and asked a question of a faraway co-worker at each step of the process. I grappled with the urge to nab the pen and fill things out myself. On paper, no less. "They'll type it in at corporate," she says. Even now, I am not entirely sure I've opened an account.
What I do know is that she gave me some cash out of my wrinkled paychecks and that should get me to Lake of the Ozarks this weekend, where my parents will make all the meals. Which is good because I don't have any checks to pay my credit card bill.
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