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NO MORE BOBS -- The Intro.

© Cindi Borris (Humorist Supreme)

Oh good, the line at the bank is short.

I scan the few customers - a lanky silver hair man of seventy plus at the teller window, a fellow retiree in wide corduroy pants one in front of me. It's the senior hour at half past nine in the morning.

The senior in front of me turns and mumbles something about the weather and price of gas. I nod. He turns away, finished with his observations.

The customer at the window fumbles with missing papers and whistles through missing teeth, "They must be in the car." He creaks out the entrance way to the parking lot. The stunned teller, speechless, with counter now empty of customer, passbook in hand-- waits.

Okay, I have plenty of time for reflection. I laugh as I remember the Valentine's Day card I opened earlier in the morning. Single and exploring the dating pool, my friends have noted the seven Bobs on my dating roster. In my mailbox a card asks, "Thought you might like to do a little bobsledding this year", inside - a hunk of a Bob on a sled.

In my mind I hear echoes of "Where's Cin?"

"Oh, she must be out with Bob."

"Yeah, that's it. She's out with a Bob."

"Which one?"

The comments and jests from my single pals all focus on the number of revolving Bobs. I chuckle silently while I wait for the aged one to return. I'm a Bob magnet. There is Bob the Whiner, Bob the Tinkler, Bob the Point and Shoot. I vow no more Bobs.

To my right, another man toddles into the roped waiting area. The top of his head shines under the ceiling lights, his stretch about 5'8" listing in a slight bend. I guess him to be about eighty.

"Look at the traffic out there." He points at the intersection blocked with cars. "They were four deep clogging up the spot." A sporadic breath escapes. "I had to fight to get through. What's the matter with those people?"

"I guess they're just rude." I look at the crowded street and remember crossing the spot earlier. The glass door carries in a cool breeze and the senior with the lost information takes brittle steps across the carpet holding envelopes of papers high in the air.

"Hey, why does that old goat get to go before us?" my new buddy, third in line from the next teller grumbles.

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