If you mosey on down Paly Alto way, you might come across a little street called California Avenue. On that street you’ll see a bank but not just any ol’ bank – a great Western bank, where the big sky money stretches out just as far as the eye can see.
Right next to that big ol’ bank there’s a parking lot, and in that parking lot there sits a real man.
He’s out there on the tailgate of his pickup truck, daring you to park. Got official bank business? You’d better. This here parkin’s just fer bankin’, he growls. Just fer Western bankin’, that is.
He’s got his cowboy hat tilted just so. He’s got that squint down perfect.
Day in, day out, “this here parkin’s just fer bankin’”.
There’s other parkin’ roun’ the corner.
This here parkin’ lot’s re-served.
If you ain’t bankin’, they gonna tow yo’ ass.
Damn straight.
So you think that you might park out there and go in to the bank and sneak out the side door where the cowboy parking lot bouncer can’t see you. You think you might come back twenty minutes later and say
It sure is a fine day for bankin’.
But you ain’t foolin’ nobody. He knows. He’s seen you. He’d already called you in. You were just lucky you got back in time.
Next time you won’t be so lucky.
That parking lot cowboy bouncer’s got a long memory, a Western memory, stretching back just as far as the eye can see.
