Free Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Page A

big-city hotshot in an expensive business suit, got out of the Mercedes. A twenty-something young photographer, camera around his neck, also exited. The photographer eyed the handicap sign, shrugged his shoulders, and started to climb the steps to the bank.
    Robinson put a hand in the photographer’s chest. “Stay here, sit,” he ordered.
    A basset hound would have been treated with more respect. He pointed to a bench in front of the bank. The photographer meekly sat, pulled out his iPhone to pass the time. He bounced his leg impatiently.
    Small-town banks all looked alike. Hardwood floors, two story ceilings, open office seating behind a brass railing for simple transactions. It used to have iron bar cages atop a long, oak counter that separated customers from the tellers. Bank President Mel Smith had the cages removed a few years ago. Thought it made the bank more accessible. Now customers bellied-up to the oak counter. Kinda like ordering a sarsaparilla in an old-fashioned drug store. The town was split 50/50/50 over removal of the iron bar cages. Fifty percent liked the old traditional, nostalgic look. Fifty percent felt closer to their money without the cages. Another fifty percent frankly didn’t care.
    Mel Smith’s office was beyond the bank tellers next to the walk-in safe. ‘Branch Manager’ was stenciled on the frosted glass of his office door. The faded lettering of ‘President’ was still visible. The title change, a not-so-subtle demotion, had nothing to do with Mel’s competence. Sixty years old, forty of them holed-up in the bank, he was respected and honored throughout the county. He and his bank were there for the common folks during good times and bad. The ‘Branch Manager’ snub had everything to do with the acquisition by the cold and impersonal bank holding company. He had not wanted to sell out, but the board thought the time was right. High finance was now global. To survive, a close vote resulted in Hillsboro losing control of its last, small bank.
    Wiley Robinson was a hard charging senior executive from the home office who had deserved his first name from the day he was born. He was slick and ruthless and didn’t care how many orphans he crushed on his rise to the top. He wouldn’t know what ‘common folk’ looked like. This small-town bank, where the board members were farmers, merchants, and the local funeral director, was now owned and run by the big boys in Cleveland.
    Mel’s secretary, Dorothy, was at her desk between his office and the board conference room. In her late twenties, attractive, and efficient in anticipating her boss’s day, she was generally a step ahead of him. Ignoring her completely, Robinson charged straight into the conference room. Mel Smith gracefully excused himself from one customer, skirted his way past a protracted hello with another, and bent down, delivering a lollipop from his suit pocket to a young depositor. He finally made it to the conference room.
    “Took you long enough,” Robinson quipped.
    Large plat maps covered the conference room table. Robinson took charge, leaning over maps, he stabbed a specific property with his index finger.
    Mel had his arms folded across his chest in classic defensive posture. Dorothy entered with a tray of china cups. “Thanks, Dorothy,” Mel said.
    Robinson totally ignored Dorothy, the dictionary definition of rude.
    “Cream, sugar? Mr. Robinson?” Dorothy asked.
    Still the center of his own universe, Robinson emphatically focused, “This one right here. We need this one. Whole deal, gone, without this one.” He slapped the map vigorously to indicate the most important property.
    Polite to a fault, Dorothy repeated, “Sir? Cream, sugar?”
    “Leave us, please. And shut the door behind you.”
    Local banker Mel looked at Dorothy apologetically. Dorothy bit her lower lip and left the conference room.
    Erroneously thinking that a little local flavor might make this meeting a tad more tolerable, Mel