Thoughts for Company

I’ve never been one to hold back on the self-deprecating content, so why start now?  Here’s how the magic of my latest misadventure unfolded:

It’s Saturday night.  My special someone and I have just picked up some good, fast food (it exists!) and are heading home to watch a movie, when we make a quick pit stop at the bank to deposit some serious, serious dough.  (I never like to carry more cash than necessary, out of pure paranoia.)

There’s no parking in the area, so we agree to take turns stopping illegally while the other runs in.  And as the passenger, I’m up at bat first.  I do my best to navigate the muddy puddles lining the street, in my thirsty shoes (as is always the case in these soggy situations), en route to the ATM.

Upon greeting the machine, I sift through my embarrassingly unorganized wallet, looking for the items I have to fork over.  I know my ride is waiting, and I hear the clock ticking in my head.  Such a simple task, performed hundreds of times before… I give it no thought at all.

A number of small bills are ever-so-slowly revealing themselves from a collection of receipts that would give George Costanza a run for his money.

I count ‘em - three bills to deposit.  I briefly make it purple rain with those Sir John A. Macdonalds (the $10s - and yes, I had to Wikipedia that!) before, in a cash-induced rush of adrenaline, I punch in $30 and feed the envelope into the hungry device.  I’m living dangerously, not quadruple counting the bills per my usual routine (did I mention my genetic predisposition to paranoia?).

But then I realize that one of those bills was actually green, come to think of it.

Was it?

Yes.

Definitely.

Definitely the Queen.

Dammit!  That’s the last time I leave my accountant minding the car.  What a waste of skills.  I should have chanced the parking ticket and dragged him along - lightning can’t strike twice in a week, right?  But I made the mistake of being bold, adventurous, feeling my hair in the wind of the buzzing ATM fan and never looking back.

But he was still waiting outside in the car, nervously eyeing the rear view mirror, just in case the big, bad, traffic police came careening down West Broadway, sirens ablaze, with nothing better to do on a Saturday night than chat up a suspicious driver idling outside a bank, waiting for his secretly conniving, innocent-looking little lady to take the bank to the cleaner’s (just next door, conveniently).

So, I did what anyone - any sane person, in the right mind - would do in that case, with no time to think, no ability to just let go of that “lost” $10.  (Hey, I worked hard for it!)

I made a second deposit.  This time, I made sure to see $10 on the screen.

And, so very cleverly, I took an envelope, pulled out a double-ended Sharpie from my Mary Poppins tote, and wrote a note about my ridiculous error.  I begged whoever was on the receiving end to fix it so that I wouldn’t be pissing out more cash (it’s been a rough week).  And, with perhaps more conviction than I’ve ever mustered in my entire life, I served that ATM a sugar-free dessert.

Even dogs can figure it out! (from Gizmondo.com)

Triumph!  I win!

But then I get to the car, and I realize how absurd the whole episode was.  Who would make that mistake in the first place, and then try to fix it in such a poorly planned manner?  What genius could even dream of such an idea?!

Me, that’s who.

So I’m freaking out just a little bit - all over $10, remember - waiting for a good moment to call Customer Service and inform them of the horrible mistake.  But, of course, there is that new rule about not using a cell phone while driving in beautiful British Columbia!

When I get home, dinner waits impatiently as I ring my soon-to-be BFF at the bank.

He informs me that Someone will open my deposit envelope, see that there are indeed forty bucks in there instead of thirty, and then adjust my account.

I can’t help but wonder, Why didn’t I think of that? It’s not exactly as though the Canadian banking system operates on the honour system, or else we would have already made multi-million dollar deposits into our accounts!

“But”, I continue, “there’s something else I should tell you.  Something really embarrassing.  Please don’t laugh.”  (True story.)  I recount the scribbles I placed in the subsequent envelope, devoid of any legal tender, in a blind attempt to rectify the situation.

“People make mistakes,” he assures me in a mercifully calming voice.  “Someone will see it and make the appropriate adjustment on your account, in the same way as the other transaction.  Now, Roshena, is there anything else I can help you with tonight?”

I politely decline, the enormous weight of a thousand pennies lifted from my shoulders and conveniently repositioned in my pockets.

Now, if only Someone could always clean up my mess.

And if only confession was so easy.