Molly Banker

These past couple of weeks I've been mincing into various banking concerns on heels, clad in silk and pearls, looking for a new roost from which to mint money as the family health premiums get covered. No more torture in the suburban corporate cubicle for me! Today I was ushered into one of the two remaining elevators in Baltimore with a human operator, shown a private office with twelve foot ceilings covered in white painted hammered tin, saffron walls, brocade swagged windows and offered a parking space to boot. It's not really about the money, I told the president, it's about finding an environment in which I feel accepted. The farmer for whom I worked last year and the four before gave me a glowing recommendation when called. I see a newer SAAB in that parking space in the not-too-distant future. And the cold, cold beer will still flow from the taps at the public house.