It’s supposed to be a simple bank visit — go in, get money from the ATM and catch my bus.
As I cross the street, I’m not even worried by the guy who’s waiting at the other corner. From the look in his eyes I know he’s going to put the bite on me. I’ll just ignore him.
When I get to the corner he asks me for a dollar. He says he wants a beer.
It is a few minutes before 10 a.m.
I walk past him. He follows me as I approach the ATM entrance. No guards in sight. Fortunately he doesn’t try to follow me in, and I never see him again.
I put my card in the ATM and push all the right buttons. But when the time comes to return my card, the ATM holds on to it. It tells me I’ll have to notify the bank, which will send me a new card. The hell with that, I think, especially considering that the bank is open.
A banker whom I've often dealt with -- with varying results -- passes by. I tell her my problem and she tells me she will look for someone to help me get my card back.
I keep an eye on the outside door so I can warn any newcomers about the machine.
The banker approaches another banker, who is meeting with a couple of customers. Then the banker, who is beginning to resemble a chicken with half its head cut off, goes to another banker.
Soon a guy comes in to use the ATM. I tell him not to use it and explain that it ate my card.
The guy, who reminds me a little of Eb, the farmhand on the old “Green Acres” show, asks me if I was using a card from the bank.
“Yes!” I say, perhaps too forcefully, but I was merely trying to do the guy a favor and wasn’t expecting a countrified Joe Friday. (And did I mention that I have a bus to catch?)
He begins to tell me why he asked about my card. From his leisurely tone I fear this will be a long story, so I tune him out as I focus on the banker, who has now approached a fourth (or maybe fifth?) employee, a teller who is now, with no apparent eagerness, following her to the little room behind the ATM.
A few minutes later, the banker hands me my card. And then, just to show that she is on the ball, she assures me that they’re going to put a sign at the machine to warn people not to use it. It’s been eating people’s cards, she tells me.
So, I say, this has happened time and again and NOW you’re putting a sign up? I am in full ballistic mode; if J. Robert Oppenheimer were here he’d be hiding in the vault.
I shake my head and storm out. A guard sitting in the lobby tells me to have a nice day.
I walk to the bus stop. It is now a few minutes past 10 a.m., and despite the bank’s best efforts, I am on time for my bus.
And come to think of it, I sure could use a beer.
