My morning walk takes me within sight of several banks. They are quiet places an hour before the drive-up window opens. They are not always deserted.
Always they arrive as a pair. One carries a bulky, lockable bag. His partner (I’ve never observed a woman at this location) scans the area with a sharp set of eyes. Mere yards away from the squared armored truck they set to work opening and filling the ATM.
Thick stacks of bills are placed inside. Numbers duly recorded, rolls of receipt paper restocked, panels locked into place.
Without visible hesitation they return to their vehicle. A moment later they roll past the replenished appratus, down the drive, and unto the street.
This morning the truck has been gone scant time to travel a block.
A young man pulls in beside the ATM. The parking permit for a local college sways from the rear view mirror as he inserts his card, presses the appropriate buttons and gathers fresh cash.
