Tap!

​She looked at me with eyes that forty, maybe fifty years ago, writers would have called “rheumy” eyes. Nowadays to be polite I guess, we would call them wet, tired, perhaps aged (never old) or even teary with wisdom beyond years.  This woman however was just a rheumy eyed grump.  She looked as me, as noted.
“You DON’T know how much money is in your account?  Even an rough idea?”
I smiled.  I cocked my head to the side. “Nope!” and threw in a small laugh. “My wife does all the money stuff.”
In fact I knew roughly what was in there.  I knew exactly how much was in our chequing account on Friday at five PM.  I knew how much we spent on Saturday and Sunday (if I troubled myself to add it up) and could probably have given her an answer.  Granted, she already was treating me like I was some sort of inept scam artist so I thought I would make it hard for her, as she was making the simple task of getting a new bank card hard for me.
I had lost it Friday night past sometime after eight in the evening. I distinctly remember dropping it on a concrete floor and being amused that a rectangular ATM card could roll that well to drop flat twenty feet from me.  I picked it up, held it against the side of my book between it and my glasses case and corralled children into my car to go home.  From that point on, it’s a little blurry.  I dumped my groceries, gear and children inside and went out to start a small bonfire.  I sat in my screen gazebo and listened to old timey radio shows for an hour or so.  Toward the end of the evening I experimented with great success in sleeping right beside a fire (“Like a cowboy!” I told my amused spouse). I do not remember having it since and on Sunday pocketed (with permission) my wife’s new fancy “tap” card (no more codes!) when I ran Boy # 3 to a local mineral show.
Monday arrived and I was frantically searching for her now missing card.  I gave up eventually and promised Karen that I would run to the bank, get a new one and give her it to use until hers was located. Round about ten in the morning I rushed out of my office on a mission.  Google Maps told me that the closest bank (unnamed to protect myself from financial repercussions) was five minutes away.  It was one I had never gone to, me being one of those people that rarely speak to a human at such places voluntarily.  I drove quickly in hopes of getting a new card in the usual (this has happened before) few minutes then running Karen’s newly located card to her at her doctor appointment.  I was equally excited that all new cards were the efficient, time saving “Tap” cards!  Yay Me!
I entered the tiny branch and noticed immediately there were only two tellers.  Normally, be it a bank, retail shop or grocery store, I choose the youngest cashier/server because a) they aren’t jaded to life yet, b) they are pleasing to talk to c) they don’t smell of death.  Being a man approaching fifty, this is my prerogative.  Today however, I had no such choice. I had old, and older.  By luck, chance or curse, the older one became available.  She had (I noticed immediately) a sit down work station.  Something throws me off sitting down to talk banky stuff, but I decided to be the better man and head over, smile on my face, not trying at all to seem like I absolutely hated dealing with monetary things in person.
“Good morning how can I help you?”
She ddn’t seem pleased at all.  Her last name, which I will not state, belayed in advance her pale, dusty appearance.  Her twenty year service award on the wall told me immediately that a) nobody else sat at her special bank teller sit down old grumpy person work station and b) that she probably worked somewhere else for twenty plus years until they managed to shove her out the door as part of a “corporate restructuring” (restructuring her rheumy eyed self out the door.)
“I need a new bank card…” She smiled, kind of, as this would be a routine action for her. “..Beause I’ve been using my wife’s for a few days”.
Wrong thing to say.  I swear she pressed a button marked “scam alert” under her desk.
“I’ll need ID.”
“Of course!” I smiled, handing over my drivers licence and corporate ID card.  No I can’t tell you where from but they are unique and not copyable/forgeable.
She glared at them, then at me (I smiled toothily, rather innocently). “Do you have an XYZ Bank Mastercard?”
She looked like she was about to trip me up.  I smiled again, broadly. “Of course, I also have an XYZ corporate card in my name!” and shoved both black cards across.  She looked at them, at me, at the corporate one, then told me to insert mine into the machine.
“Enter your code.”
I did. But seeing the suspicion, I intentionally hesitated.  I wanted control of this situation.  I was no longer in a hurry. I wanted her to call her manager.
“Ah that’s it.  Same code as everything else!”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“AH, its okay, that’s what deposit insurance is for!”
She looked like I just told her I ran a dog fighting ring on weekends.
This is when she asked me how much I has in my chequing account and I played stupid.  In all honesty, I was expecting a benefit payment for orthodontic claims from my insurer so I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what would be in there, but I played dumb anyways for reasons previously mentioned.
“Where do you work?”
I told her.  Showed her the name of the corporate entity on the other card.
“Do you know how much you get paid?”
“Every payday?”
“Yes.”
I leaned in as if it was a great secret. “Well, my wife knows accurately, I can call her, but I think its around $Z.ZZ”. $Z.ZZ likely being twice her biweekly pay.  She looked at the screen, sneered slightly and relented. Resignation on her face, she started into a spiel about new ATM cards that were “tap” ready.  “Just like the credit cards.  You tap. No codes!” and she actually smiled, kind of, again, her pearly whites being more grey and dingy than pearly.
I smiled again, cocked my head a bit.  End game.  I would suffer for my win. I knew what to say to crush her morning and make mine that much better.
“Oooh. No. that won’t do. I want a non-tap card.  Can you see if you have one left?”
“But. Why?”
“Don’t know really.  Paranoid I guess.  All that scamming going on.”
She stormed back to the filing cabinet, dug out the last one she could find and reluctantly set it up for me.
As I stood she turned on the bank person charm (finally). “I’m sorry Mister Liddle, for all the questions.  I just haven’t met you before.”
“Possibly the last time really, I don’t usually do in person banking.  Thank you!”
I left smiling, holding back from noting that she might be dead or retired by the time I went back to that branch.
 

Advertisements