I’m low on checks. Dangerously low. There are one, two — three left. I meant to reorder them, I really did. The thought skittered across my mind every time I whipped out the checkbook, but I have lots of thoughts, you know. Tons. I can’t keep track of them all.
Sensible people would have been on top of the situation. They’d have filled out the order form, stamped it and sent it off, allowing plenty of time for processing and delivery. Not me. No, I lost the order form ages ago, so I had to visit the bank. Personally.
With my puny, undersized balances, banks don’t roll out the red carpet at my approach. Which works out nicely, since I avoid visiting. The hushed atmosphere of the place, the awful paint-by-numbers artwork, the suffocating pretense — it all makes me very uncomfortable. I fit in like a cold sore. So I don’t dawdle, I dash in and out quick as a wink.
I met with an agreeable young fellow wearing a rumpled shirt — the wrinkles made me feel at home. When asked if I wanted to order to checks I replied, ‘Yes. And could I order some money, too, while I’m at it?’ No reaction. I waited, but no reaction was forthcoming. He simply went to work on his computer, typing and scrolling through documents. Minutes later, long, silent, uneasy minutes later, he turned and said, ‘Now, how much money did you want to order?’
Why was I surprised? Bankers are humorless; this isn’t news. Yet I think I’m so darn funny, everyone — bankers included — will collapse in laughter at my banter. A lifetime of painful experience hasn’t changed this wrong-headed notion. It hasn’t even dinged it. I just keep chugging along, applying bad judgment at every opportunity.
Our little exchange, the banker’s and mine, concluded with me forking over $35 for 160 checks — close to 25¢ apiece. Bad, awful, terrible judgment knows no bounds.