Waiting in the line at the bank. Snow flurries outside, another winter after a confused series of false springs. There are a handful of customers ahead of me and each of the three available tellers is occupied with a time-consuming transaction. To my left a young guy is either depositing or withdrawing his savings bonds. "This is a very grandparent thing to do, especially these days" comments the manager. The guy is wearing white New Balance sneakers, the kind with giant chunky orthopedic soles. He's already dressed like his grandpa. To my right a woman pulls her brother's death certificate out of her purse, hoping to close his account and withdraw the remaining balance. It's apparently too large a sum for the bank to handle this afternoon and she'll have to come back next Wednesday. Directly in front of me a woman in a corduroy fedora is silently involved in some unknown, but laborous business with her teller. A man wearing one of those black brimmed Stevie Ray Vaughn hats with silver bangles around it is sitting masked in one of the waiting room chairs. An electronic doorbell ding-dongs every time someone walks in or out.