The story begins with a check we received in the mail. A $15 check from a hospital that The Man was in over a year ago. Just a check; nothing else. It wasn’t worth trying to find out the source or the reason, so I stuck it in my purse to cash it for a little pocket change. Of course, I forgot about it and got a bit panicky when I thought about it and realized it had been a couple of months since I received it. Fearing there was some sort of expiration date, I whipped into the bank’s drive thru when, in the little town 13 miles from home, I was picking up The Man’s prescriptions. I don’t use the bank much; I said I was going to close the account when my favorite officer retired, but as usual I had procrastinated. Hurrying to the drive-in window, I stopped, turned he check over and signed my name to the back. The bank teller asked me for the last four of my Social saying, “Ms. McCoy I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.” (I have only banked there since 1980.) After what I believed to be somewhat of a wait to cash a $15 check, she returned to the window to tell me that they were unable to cash the check because it was made out to The Man, yet I had signed it. I protested, “We both sign on the account.” “Sorry, Ms. McCoy, it’s policy.” Of course, it was too late to just pull out of sight and sign The Man’s name, and I should have just looked at the front before I arrived. I always sign his name anyway; he never wants to. (So arrest me; I don’t think he will testify.) I took the check back out of the little moving box and tore it into approximately 100 pieces and put it back in the little moving box and thanked them for the experience, telling them I completely understood policy and respected their need to follow it.
I pulled around to the front, went in and saw them all huddled together presumably talking about the crazy lady that just came through the drive thru. Picture this scene: the entire staff of women were in those Friday football jerseys for the local team – some pink, some gray, some green. The only person in an office was browsing through a yearbook. Saying, “You can stop talking about me now; I’m here”, I proceeded to the only teller that appeared to have that color thing worked out (She was in a gray spirit shirt.) and told her I wanted to close the account. I explained that I had really intended to close the account anyway when my favorite bank officer had retired, so now was as good a time as any. I could tell they had been well-trained in customer service when she told me that they could reassemble the check (I should have let them do that and then closed the account, but the old brain just doesn’t always think too swift.), deposit it in my account, then I could write a $15 check and get the money that way. Clever, but too late at that point. The teller than proceeded to tell me that I should really take that money in the form of a cashier’s check instead of cash. (She should never leave an opening like that.) I explained that I had already had trouble cashing one check at their bank, so I really didn’t want to take any chances on another check. Just cash please.
I hope I just made their day more interesting with something more to talk about instead of looking at yearbooks and worrying about the spirit shirt color for Friday night lights. Aww, you’re right; spirit shirt colors are more important.