At my Thousand Oaks bank, I was waiting at the teller window when an audacious old guy tottered in, waving a cane and a bank statement and shouting to see “the manager or president” because he’d been cheated in some “bogus bonus deal!” His voice was a thin rasp, heavily tinged with a New York accent.
Despite the bluster, he seemed like a very nice gentleman, dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and yellow tie. On his feet were basketball sneakers with soles so thick they probably restored t...
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