The cash machine, I had noted, was in a strip mall a few blocks from my
apartment so off I went with newfound confidence – always, of course,
following another person when I crossed the street. I still needed to get
my sea legs.
I arrived, bright and chipper and feeling mighty proud of myself for being
able to cross the street on my own one time, but the machine was being
serviced. Hmmmm. How long could this possibly take, I thought to myself?
Or, actually maybe I said that out loud because the guard with the semiautomatic submachine gun who was servicing the machine informed me
that the machine was out of cash and he was replacing it. He struggled
for some time with the machine; holding his box of cash and the gun that
did not seem to have a safety, when he turned to me, handed me his gun
(a’yup) and said, “hold this while I put the money in.” And the bank was
worried about my Amarula purchase?!