The Ride to Cannon Falls
“Ian,” they said, “You need to go to the bank when you’re in the States. It’s in Cannon Falls, just near Minneapolis St Paul. You’ll be there in May. How about it?”
Of course he said, “Yes!” The phone calls were made and the business transacted. We needed new cheque books issued. “They will be ready!” they said.
And so, on Monday morning, to the amazement of the counter staff at the Holiday Inn, he asked them to organise a taxi to Cannon Falls. “It’s a long way, Sir – 35 miles.” Eyebrows were raised. “Be cheaper to hire a car.” But he was resolute. “No this is how we will do it!”
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi arrived. Well, actually it was a black limo – a large SUV with tinted windows – just like the President’s security escorts. Out climbed the driver. He was of Middle-Eastern origin – with his earpiece for his i-phone in place – one strand in, the other dangling from the handheld device.
We climbed in the back. It took about an hour – open country, past the airport, past the farmers on their tractors – far, far away.
We turned into the metropolis of Cannon Falls – a dozen or so shops … and … the First Farmers and Merchants Bank.
The doors opened before us. “Oh, you’re Ian!” said Linda Collins. “Welcome to Cannon Falls. We’ve been expecting you!”
The business was transacted in ten minutes after introductions all round, and we emerged from the bank with two thick wads of cheque books, wrapped neatly in brown paper. They could have been … well, anything!
The limo was waiting. We climbed back in to the stares of passers-by. The chauffeur talked all the way back to the city on his phone to numerous callers, setting up business for the rest of the day. We went past the tractors, past the airport, and back to 11th Street.
Two hundred and thirty seven dollars, it cost us … but for a day we might have been …the mafia!
© Sharonne Price 2011