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.
“I want to report a lost, perhaps stolen, ATM card,” I stammered
Shortly thereafter, in a “senior moment,” I couldn’t recall if I’d returned the card to my wallet, so I checked. No card. Racing back to the bank, I was terrified that those kids found my card and were off on a spending spree. Overcoming tachycardia tremors, I convinced myself that the card was in my pickup. Perspiring profusely in Sunday-best clothes, I sprawled on the floorboard, looking under the seat and dashboard. No card. Frantically, I dialed the bank’s help line, all the while thinking about splurging teenagers pushing shopping carts loaded with junk charged to my ATM card.
After the insulting option to get information in Spanish, I was told, “All representatives are busy now — someone will assist you shortly,” and was switched to lugubrious music, the type played at funerals of old men, who, horrified that their life savings were being wiped out, die of heart attacks in bank parking lots on hot, humid Southern summer afternoons. Finally, a woman with a rapid, cold, clipped, unsympathetic voice —the vocal equivalent of text messaging — asked, “How may I help you?”
“I want to report a lost, perhaps stolen, ATM card,” I stammered.
“For identity verification purposes, you must answer several questions,” she clipped.
After asking for my social security number’s last four digits, she wanted to know the latest deposit amount. My paycheck’s meager minuteness hasn’t improved in years, so I was able to answer correctly. Satisfied, she assured me the card would be voided and a replacement mailed shortly. I thanked her and drove home.
There on my desk was the ATM card! I had inserted my National Rifle Association lifetime membership card, which looks like the ATM card, causing the machine to advise me about the fee. Now whenever I stop for cash, I make sure which card I insert. Never again do I want to experience that palpitating panic predicament that almost sent this geriatric geezer to a crematory urn: ATM mayhem.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
