It wasn’t my best work – the cocktail napkin ripped; the ink smeared – but it would have to do. All the deposit slips and free pens had vanished. What other choice was there?
“We’re completely digital now!” chuckled the pie-faced bank manager.
I handed him the stickup note anyway. I expected panic, expected him to cower in fear. I got neither.
Instead, he tucked the napkin into his jacket pocket unread.
“You must be here for that promo. Everyone’s talkin’ about it.”
Twenty minutes later, I left the humbled owner of a six-month high-yield CD.
Someone give that idiot a raise.
The Weekday One Hundred 