Working in this small town is always a treat. After all, this is where little old ladies call us and let us know when they write checks. Just because we might need to know.
I parked my car in the lot beside the Community Building this morning, grabbed my purse and notebook, and headed toward the bank. While walking across Main Street, I saw a blonde-haired lady near the Downtown Café. She was reaching to open the door when she saw me. Her eyes narrowed, she glanced at my car, and made a pft noise with her lips.
I wasn’t quite sure if pfting was common among Piedmonians, and whether I should pft back, so I sort of half-waved and smiled.
She cleared her throat and somewhat shouted down the street, “You always park over there, don’t you!”
“Well, yes,” I shouted back.
Her glare was a bit stronger now and she shot back with, “who cuts the grass beside that parking lot?”
I shrugged my shoulders and wondered if I should rush quickly into the bank and pretend as though I had a bank emergency. Of course, a bank emergency in Piedmont would never happen. (Unless it was 40 years ago when all hell broke loose and the largest drama of all times occurred)
But rushing wasn’t to happen. She hurried across the street and shared her story.
Apparently, whoever cuts the grass on the hillside beside the gym never gets grass on the bank employee’s cars- but they always intentionally get grass on her car. She’s sure of it. Notes have been left for the fools, she’s caught them in the act and berated them (they have swore their innocence), and she’s finally had all she can take.
That’s right. She’s going to the Fire Department. Those big boys can take care of everything. That’s the way it is in Piedmont.
Um. And now there is a helicopter flying above Main Street. That never happens. Everyone is standing outside looking up, wondering what drama has been brought our way. Helicopters normally mean a bank robbery. I wonder if I should go rush into the vault and read some Anna Karenina.