Banker's Hours

On Sam-dog's first walk of the day I overheard a fight between a man and a woman coming from behind the bank. "Bitch! Get the fuck out there! Fucking stupid!"

A woman dressed in a sweet pink sweater, nice heels and perfectly tailored black pants stumbled out of a gate. She wasn't crying. She didn't look frightened. She ignored traffic, held a bill in one hand and snorted something from the other.

Around 2:00 p.m. I took Sam for a quick jaunt and was confronted by a few drunks standing on the bank's lawn. "Lady! We want to say hi to your damned dog! Come'ere!" I waved and held my hand to my ear as if I couldn't hear them. After a couple more tries they gave up and dipped into their crumpled paper bags.

This evening, a boy about seven years old was running around the lawn while his mother went inside the bank. He was a hundred feet away behind a tree before she came out. She looked confused, so I pointed toward him and she stumbled off without thanks.

Sitting on the lawn was a group of boys maybe 17 or 18. They had tidy haircuts, were slightly plump and pink in the cheeks, and squinted into the lowering sun. A man with braids to his waist was leaning over them, standing perfectly still, silent. One by one, the boys got up and went to the cash machine. When each would return, they would plop back down. I crossed the street, looked back, and the man was gone.

On my return the man with the braids had another man pushed up against a wall in the bank's entryway. Again, he wasn't saying a word. Sam sniffed at his pant leg as we walked past.