I'm back at the bank again. It is 9:25 and my car is the only one in the parking lot. A blue jeep with white rims and a black top just pulled through to use the ATM machine. The parking lot entrance is blocked off by orange cones on the North side of the street.
A guy in a white button-down shirt and blue jeans pulled up in a little gold colored car. He gets out and walks right up to the doors and tries to open them. They're locked.
"Come on!" He exclaims. "What the heck, it's nine-thirty!"
All in a huff, Mr. Impatient gets back into his car and turns it around so it is pointing nose-out. He waits, staring straight ahead across Plainfield.
There is no one waiting at the door. I'm right up next to the closest handicapped parking spot.
It is partly cloudy and humid.
Now Mr. Impatient has his driver's door open.
On each side of the front entrance stands a tall blue "Handicapped" sign. The parking spaces in front of these signs are painted blue. There is a section with six diagonal blue lines drawn between these two parking spots, about half the width of a regular parking spot.
A black guy driving a silver Chrysler with a dented rear quarter-panel pulls in quickly and gets out. He's wearing red basketball shorts and a green and white checkered shirt. He walks right up to the doors and goes inside. Mr. Impatient and I didn't see the stealthy bank employee unlock the doors.
Mr. Impatient, seeing this, gets out mumbling and talking to himself. He has been denied First Place.
A middle-aged guy in a maroon McDonald's uniform carrying a blue deposit bag walks in.
I have to go in!