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Grass Doesn’t Grow

One Thursday afternoon last January, I pulled up to the drive-in window at the Exchange National Bank here in Tampa. Thursday is payday at the Tribune Company and I always rush to the bank immediately at quitting time because I can’t wait to get my hands on some ready cash.

The drive-in window is a marvel of automation. You pull your car into one of eight individual slots at this downtown banking facility and see yourself staring back from a closed circuit television screen. Press a button marked “service” and a little door opens to accept your check and deposit slip. Press another button marked “dispatch” and the door closes with a sucking sound which indicates that your stuff is being whisked away to some distant point where the teller is toiling.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the pretty teller whose face had replaced mine on the TV screen.

“Hi, honey,” I replied. “Please put some quarter wrappers in my envelope like a good girl.” I had been saving all my quarters since the first of the year. By August I hoped to have enough quarters in the jar to buy an airline ticket to Houston.

My face flashed back on the screen and I stared back at my image to kill time.

I noticed that my hairline seemed to have receded another inch since the previous week. I’m not really bald, I thought, I’ll bet I just have flesh colored hair.

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There was no use in kidding myself… I was getting bald alright. And I had tried all kinds of hair restorers, too. The last was a mixture of alum and persimmon juice. It didn’t really grow hair, it just shrunk my head to fit what hair I had.

Well, there is one thing to be said for baldness: it’s neat.

What really hurts is that I work with a fellow who has a full head of hair and spends half his working day combing the darn stuff. That turkey doesn’t know that in the very beginning God created all men bald. Later, he became ashamed of some of them and covered their heads up with hair.

A sudden whirring sound told me that my transaction was completed. The little door popped open and I removed my envelope. It was a little thicker than usual but I expected that. I removed my checking deposit receipt, the cash, and the quarter wrappers, but I noticed that something was still in the envelope. I turned it upside down and out dropped… a lollypop!

That stupid teller thought I was Kojak!

Bundle Banter

It’s reassuring to know that the new president of AAPA has pretty feet… Many thanks to Walter Lemm for sending me a copy of the smallest book ever printed in New Zealand… Carpetbagger Press “Attaboy” awards go to J. Hill Hamon and Dan von Koschembahr for establishing new standards of promptness. They have already printed their ‘78 Ink Cahoots pages.

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Flimsie Excuse is published for the AAPA bundle by Fred Liddle, Tampa, FL 33606.

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