After what happened to me at an ATM machine one Saturday afternoon, my understanding of the word dementia is perfectly clear. On Flag Day, friends in a retirement community invited me to be their lunchtime guest speaker. My ego being what it is, I never decline invitations to orate, so I dressed patriotically in a red tie, white shirt, blue blazer, American Flag lapel pin, lizard-skin boots, and the quintessential American male symbol: a cowboy hat.
After lunch, I stopped for cash. I’m leery of ATMs, having read about victims whose cards were stolen and identities sold to other thieves, who cloned them into countless criminal consumers. Upon inserting the card, a message stated that the machine’s sponsor charged $3 for withdrawals. I was furious! For years, the bank used my money to make money, and now had the gall to charge me a fee to withdraw my own money! I became even angrier when a bunch of teenagers blaring their horn shouted, “Hurry up, old man!” In senior citizen choler, I squealed away.
