ATM Mayhem

After what happened to me one Saturday, I have a much better understanding of mild cognitive impairment.

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It was supposed to be a fun afternoon. On Flag Day, my Azalea Gardens Retirement Community friends invited me join them for lunch, and make a speech. 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, Sunday-morning-go-to-church boots, and the quintessential symbol of the American male — a cowboy hat. After the speech, I stopped at the bank to get some cash. I’m leery of using ATM cards, having read stories about folks whose cards were stolen and their identities sold to other thieves, thereby cloning them into countless criminal consumers.

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When I inserted the card, a message advised me that the machine’s sponsor charged $3 for withdrawals. I was furious. For years, the bank used my money to make money, and now it had the gall to charge me a fee to withdraw my money! I became even angrier when a bunch of kids behind me tooted their horn. In senior citizen choler, I squealed away from the ATM. Shortly thereafter, in a “senior moment,” I couldn’t recall if I’d put the card back in my wallet, so I checked. No card. I raced back to the bank, terrified that those kids found my card and were off on a spending spree. Overcoming tachycardia tremors, I convinced myself that I tossed the card on the seat. Perspiring profusely in my best clothes, I sprawled on the floorboard, looking under the seat and the dashboard. No card. Frantically, I dialed the bank’s help line, all the while thinking about those kids pushing loaded shopping carts. After the insult of being offered the 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 had been wiped out, die of heart attacks in bank parking lots on hot, humid Southern summer afternoons. Finally, a woman with a rapid, clipped dialect, the vocal equivalent of text messaging, asked how she could help me. “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 amount of my last deposit. 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 membership card, which looks like the ATM card, causing the machine to advise me about the fee. When my new card arrived, I chopped it up. Never again will I experience ATM mayhem.

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