Why was everyone so stupid these days?

Checking his schedule, Dr. Wilson saw that the next patient wasn’t due in until one-thirty, and he told Anita and Jen that he would be back soon, before angrily exiting the office through the back door.

Driving to the old downtown, he reflected that the location of this new bank was a lot more inconvenient than Montgomery Community. Not to mention the fact that it didn’t have a parking lot.

What kind of bank didn’t have a parking lot?

He found a spot up the block in front of the sewing store and pulled his Mercedes next to the curb behind a filthy dented pickup, leaving extra space between the two vehicles just in case. Walking back down the sidewalk to the bank with his statement in his hand, it occurred to him that he should have brought along his receipt from the withdrawal. He didn’t know exactly where it was—it was probably at home on his dresser or mixed in with the pile of bills on his desk—and he hoped he wouldn’t have to go back and get it to show the truth of his original transaction.

Even though it was the lunch hour, there were no other customers in the bank, and Dr. Wilson strode directly up to the first teller, who appeared to be looking down at his phone and texting rather than preparing to assist patrons. Upon reaching the window, however, he saw that the young man was not on his phone but was using a finger to move a group of dead insects on the counter in front of him so that they were lined up in order from biggest to smallest.

What the hell?

He should have moved to the next window and conducted his business with another teller, but the young man’s bizarre activity irritated him, and he cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me!” he said in the most disdainful and authoritative voice he possessed.

The teller—V.J., according to his nametag—looked up from his row of bugs, glaring. “What’s your problem?” He was not merely rude but aggressively hostile, and Dr. Wilson was taken aback by the intensity of the young man’s antagonism.

The optometrist slammed his statement down on the faux wood surface between them in an effort to regain the upper hand. “I withdrew a hundred dollars from my checking account, and, according to this, you also deducted a hundred from my savings and another hundred from my money market. I want those mistakes corrected and that money credited back to my accounts.”

“And I want you to shut your mouth.”

He was shocked by the response, though by this point perhaps he should not have been. Anger quickly followed shock, and he immediately pulled rank on the little pissant. “Get me your supervisor. Now!”

“No.”