Banking with Corky

March 1, 2006

You know that song “If I had a hammer”? Well if I had a hammer, I’d go back to the Bank of America and wait outside for that teller I met with today and beat his ass “… all over this land…”!!!

This was by far the most frustrating transaction I’ve ever endured.

I received my last check from the gym I used to work at and it was a piddly $17. The check was issued in December and it is now March. It’s just been sitting around and now has been taking up space in my purse for a couple of weeks, so I wanted it out. I regularly bank at a credit union based in Portland and don’t really know where any other credit unions are in Salem, so I thought I’d save myself the trouble and just go to the bank listed on their check.

First I waited in line to get up to Shlo-mo the “special” teller. I handed him the check and he proceeded to count on his FINGERS (I’m not making this up) and tell me that he didn’t think they could cash the check. I then stated that I thought the check itself said I had 120 days. He looked at the check and said “actually it says 180 days”. Well that would be more then wouldn’t it?

He proceeded to ask me for two pieces of ID so I handed him my driver’s license and debit card. He then informed me that he couldn’t accept a debit card as a form of ID. Umm okay then… “Do you have a credit card?” he asked. This is the only time I was mildly upset that I no longer have credit cards as I can’t be trusted with them so have since cut them up and just pay on the bills every month in attempts to get rid of any and all debt. So I asked him if my social security card would work (as I view this as one of the ultimate forms of ID). He of course said “no”, so I was forced to dig through my wallet attempting to find another form of acceptable ID to cash a friggin $17 check! I finally came up with a gas card my parents had happened to give me umpteen years ago and that apparently pleased the little mouth-breather.

Upon entering all of my information on to his computer, I then had to put my fingerprint on the check, give a blood sample, turn my head and cough, sign over my first born and put my right foot in and take my right foot out (I refused to shake it all about though). Once he finally collected all of the proper specimens he informed me that there would be a $5 fee. “FOR WHAT?!!” I bellowed. “Because this is a ‘company’ check and there is a $5 fee for company checks”. Trying to pull myself together in a non Manson-esque way I said “you mean to tell me that you are charging me $5 for a $17 check because it was issued by a company? But they used THIS bank! Your bank is the one on the check!” He looked at me with his one good eye and said “yes”.

It was at this point that my left eye started to twitch and I opened my mouth and took a deep breath to start in on what would most certainly be a verbal form of castration, thereby saving the world from more little Shlo-mo’s and thus being appointed world leader or at the very least President of the United States (although I hear that anyone can be that these days). However, what came out was: “Fine just cash it. I don’t want it in my wallet anymore”. I know! I couldn’t believe it either but there it was, clear as crystal and straight from the horse’s mouth. He looked down, counted out the money, handed it to me, and I left… snarling all the way.

I drove straight to Safeway to purchase a bottle of champagne as I felt that alcohol would be in order that night. As I got out of my car and approached the entrance, there by the door sat a little girl scout hocking those addictive little cookies. She seemed to not notice me as I entered the store, but sat up straight when I went in the door as if to say “oh I’ll get you when you come back out. It’s only a matter of time”. I went directly to the champagne and wine isle and found no acceptable bottle to purchase. I then left out the far door of the grocery store in order to avoid the little cookie dealer. Not because I’m afraid of saying “no”, but because I didn’t want her to experience her first string of foul language by a neurotic Amazon in pseudo-fishnet leggings.

I got in my car with no champagne, no cookies, and less $5. As I sped back to work I realized that this was all part of growing up, or in my case - continuing to get older and increasingly more bitter while wearing uncomfortable shoes. I’d like to say I learned something from all of this… so if I gave you a “moral of the story” synopsis, I guess it would be: If at first you don’t succeed, go get a bat and try again.