“Oh, we’ve got the good banker today!” my son commented as I pulled up to the drive through window at the bank. “I’m sure to get a lollipop,” he added, doubtlessly hunkering down in his seat in an effort to make his teenage self appear as small as possible, although I’m not actually sure what he was doing, because my attention was solidly on the ID window of my wallet.
I was struggling mightily in an effort to extract the card from my wallet so it could join the check I’d plopped in the Traveling Box, but it wasn’t budging. I was becoming a bit flustered, particularly in light of the fact that this was my triumphal return to the back since once again becoming a legitimate Check-Carrying Patron.
“Let me see that,” my daughter said, extracting the wallet from my fumbling hands.
“What did you do?” she exclaimed, unable to slide the plastic rectangle from the sleeve.
“OK, pass that back here,” Sweet Tooth demanded from the back seat, unable to accept missing his sugar fix on a technicality. Seconds later he, too, was engaged in combat with the leather and fibers imprisoning the card. “What is going on!!” he cried in exasperation.
By this time, I was slumped over the wheel, hyperventilating in an attempt to breathe through gales of laughter that were, literally, painful. Quite aware of the spectacle we had become, and unable to figure out anything else to do, I pulled away from the window, even as the kids screamed, “The box! You still have the box!”
I shifted into reverse and inched back beneath the pavilion to the pillar which housed the Travelling Box, gasping as I shakily returned it to the proper cavity. I lurched around to the front of the building amidst exclamations of embarrassment.
“You’re on your own now, Mom!” one or both of them said as piloted the car to a stop. “We’re not going in.”
Under normal circumstances, I would have issued a reminder that lollipops are a must-be-present-to-win sort of prize, but I was trying to regain my faculties, a task that became further complicated as I patted down the seat in search of my check.
“Where did it go?” I said, wiping tears of mirth from my cheeks. My son was unresponsive, undoubtedly disheartened as visions of sugar pops dissolved from his head. My daughter was busy freeing the card from the hidden flap of fabric preventing its flow.
“Oh my goodness!” I screamed in sudden realization, “It’s in The Box!”
“Hurry!” my son advised.
“Go get it!” my daughter demanded. “Pull yourself together!”
Already I was in gear, cutting off a motor vehicle threatening to round the back of the building ahead of me. “She’s playing chicken with an SUV!” my son shrieked.
“No one’s there!” my daughter called, noting the vacant space under the pavilion. I slowed down, pulling smoothly up to The Box. I opened it with slight trepidation, but opened it to the sight of my seahorse check lying right there where I left it. I smoothly deposited my ID and sent my documents up in the Traveling Box in a single fluid motion.
“Will we be needing any lollipops today?” The Good Banker asked in a crisp, professional tone. “Perhaps three?”
“That would be perfect,” I replied, in an equally professional manner.
Seconds later, I pulled my envelope of cash and three purple pops from the Traveling Box and left feeling like any normal, satisfied customer and fully assured that we did, indeed, get the Good Banker.
In Other Banking Briefs:
On Saturday, I received a routine statement from my bank that listed an iffy transaction—a charge from a coffee house I haven’t visited for several weeks. I commented on the curiosity which prompted my husband to take a peek into my accounts. He was appalled to find some blank areas filled in by question marks, and an entire section that was basically a journal entry apologizing for a lapse and promising to do better. Apparently, according to my husband, this is “unacceptable.” He spent several hours sifting though the tedious minutia of my accounts and started me fresh with a new roster and some tips for improvement. I did OK on Sunday, but Monday I slid a receipt into my wallet to “deal with later.” Today I went to several stores and realized at the last one that I’d lost the entire day’s receipts. And the Home Depot one as well. My accounts are, again, in shambles.
After reading my last banking post, my husband informed me that those little tickets in the back of the checkbook are really deposit slips, and they have nothing to do with taking money out of the bank, as my text indicated that I believed. Yeah, I knew that. Really. I’ve used them before. But for some reason, when I ran out of checks, I got confused and thought there were some other forms lurking back there, for back up. But there aren’t. And I probably knew that, too. Probably. Just wanted to set the record straight.