I traveled to the Financial District to open a secret bank account… Armed with a cheque addressed to that bank and a fist full of cash, I somehow knew things wouldn’t go as planned.
THEY told me I had to make an appointment and return. I knew that wasn’t happening and left.
Outside the people from the Towers puff and suck and litter their lungs with such serious looks and with seldom a smile.
I was reminded of the Leonard Cohen line. “See that line passing through the station… I used to be one of those.”
Further up Young Street a police barricade framed a jumper who was anonymous and dead under an orange tarp.
The idea of the secret bank account fades with the notion that maybe I’m making too much money.