Fantastic Pneumatic

Small things, my friends. Small things tell the big things in such a more interesting way. I was in the bank car lane the other day . I put my transaction into a plastic capsule that disappears behind a hidden window and is whooshed to the teller in the car lane window, and I noticed again how much I love this.

When my daughter was an infant, here in this town, we did our banking -- well, she was in the carseat -- which was still in the front seat, Oh, my God. I was so distracted that, after my transaction had whooshed back to me, I drove off, taking the plastic capsule with me. I returned it as soon as I figured it out, but it always made me wonder if they had spares. Small dog comes with me sometimes, and even she likes the pneumatic tubes.

One of the last of the last straws in Los Angeles was what happened to banking. I used to have lunch with my friend, Leon, and then we'd go to the bank where I'd deposit my paycheck. You could talk to the teller and la di da. One Friday, we walked in and the teller windows are encased in bullet proof glass with a tiny slot at the bottom to squeeze the checks and the money through. Like a prisoner in solitary gets his breakfast.

And then Leon was murdered. Big last straw on the list.

The bank in Virginia City was a place where you could take your dog inside. It was a wooden building, downhill from D Street, a dusty, arid walk from my house and one book bookshop. I found a hundred dollar bill on the wooden steps leading down to the bank one day. I brought it inside and they knew exactly who it belonged to. The hundred bucks had dropped out of her bra.

Then back to the Midwest and the pneumatic tubes. I love their method of transport. Air.

Maybe remembering your life through banking never occured to you, but think about the days of passbooks. And think about Leon. He was a wonderful guy.