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An ode to the wonders of Texas summers is composed in your head as you pace down the parking lot toward the bomb-scare Wells-Fargo bank. The ode is only one word, and could not be recited on television or radio. Every pore will be pouring sweat before you can stuff two twenties into a wallet that is really worse for wear. Waiting patiently behind the SUV that always seems to beat you to these drive through contraptions, you absent-mindedly consider visiting the furniture store across the way and looking for a cheap, but nicer coffee table. In a year, that store won’t be there. It’ll be replaced by another branch of the very same bank you’re about to patronize. Step up and Swipe. Bemoan the two-dollar service fee. Sure enough, sweat is staining your undershirt.
Forty dollars should be plenty. Try not to get hit by the green Saturn on the way back.
Turn to Page 65.