What a zany morning! In tough economic times, I figured I'd share what one Monday morning was like for good old Beef. I don't know whether you'll laugh or cry, but either is acceptable.
Realizing there was little food in our apartment on my way home from work late Sunday night, I figured I'd stop off for something cheap and easy. T was busy studying for midterms and wasn't going to have any time to get creative in the kitchen, so I let my eyes gravitate towards the always dependable Burger King. Because I'm living paycheck to paycheck and two days away from my next one, I knew I had under $5.00 to spend (cue laughter). Upon returning home T took a TV break, we giggled through reruns of "The Office," and enjoyed a couple rodeo cheeseburgers on the Attorney General’s recommendation. Not sure why they're called that, but they are amazing! About an hour later while dicking around on the internet, I decided to check my online banking. I bellowed one of my patented "Oh Shits!" upon finding that combined with other pending charges, that innocent BK stop put me $.13 (yes, cents) over my balance. I take this kind of nuisance personally, having a somewhat lengthy history of overcharges, bank visits, and overdraft fees both paid and negotiated. Nothing is worse than paying $35.00 after the fact for a meal that cost $4.00, so I was not about to let this minor inconvenience become the travesty I knew it might should this pending charge go through. I figured to avoid any potential penalty, I'd make sure to be at the bank by 8:30 AM with a small deposit. The only problem was I had no cash on me. T had $5.00 lying around, but stubborn asshole that I am I declined, refusing to involve her in my screw-up. Rather, I declared that I’d figure something out, the calling card of a person with no ideas about how to resolve a situation.
After staying up till 4 AM (being the night owl I am), I awoke sluggishly at 8 AM. I had planned to chat with someone at the bank right when they opened in hopes I might get more sympathy for the timely effort. Unfortunately I forgot to brush my teeth so any goodwill would surely be eliminated by the horror that was my breath. I was stunned to find so many cars zipping by on my way to the bank. My work hours generally involve afternoons and evenings, so I always wonder what's wrong with all these citizens moving with ease at such an ungodly hour. Anyway, as I reached for the Chap Stick in my cup holder, I heard something rattle. Sure enough, hiding under a travel tissue pack was some change, including the most valuable quarter I’d ever seen. I laughed at my good fortune (or misfortune depending on analyzes this ordeal) to find a whopping $.43, enough for an immediate deposit to cover my pestering problem. It seemed as though things were turning around. I pulled right up to the bank door with enthusiasm, but was baffled to find no cars in the parking lot. Then I saw it . . .
Bank Hours: M-F, 9AM-5:30PM.
I felt like Chevy Chase in the first "Vacation" after the talking moose tells him that Wally World is closed. With no electronic animals to smash in the face, I sighed and pulled into a parking space. I was planning on waiting there until 9 AM when I noticed my gas light symbol was suddenly bright red. As if the situation wasn't degrading enough, now my car was announcing it would shut down on me in about twenty minutes if I didn’t pump some gas. Adding to this complication was the freezing weather. At twenty-seven degrees, I couldn't just sit still in my car listening to music without heat. I noticed Starbucks across the street and headed there for a coffee until my half-asleep brain realized I still had no money. Frustrated and cold, I pulled out an older debit card I hardly ever use. I called the automated phone line just to ensure I had enough for a coffee, because I was sure-as-shit not going to overdraw two accounts in less than twelve hours for an item a bum can usually purchase without issue. I was happy to find I had a plethora of money in that account ($3.00 if you must know), though due to that silly 'Keep the Change' program any purchase would round up to the next dollar.
Like a defeated outcast of society, shivering, confused, with old jeans ripped in seventeen places, I wandered into Starbucks, heading straight to the bathroom. Fully expecting some coffeehouse snob to inform me the restroom is for paying customers only, I locked the door behind me. I urinated and splashed cold water on my face, having neglected to do either at home in my mad dash to reach the bank by an opening time I’d remembered incorrectly. At the counter I asked for the cheapest coffee on the menu. I don't involve myself with that 'Venti' crap, since nobody knows what any of it means. $1.65 later, I mixed in my cream and Splenda and had a seat on a chair in backmost corner of the room, engulfing myself in the comfortable, heated atmosphere. Note: While I love how homey the Starbucks interior feels, the fact that you essentially make your own coffee will forever keep it below the magnificent Dunkin Donuts, whose coffee is cheaper and tastes far superior anyway.
I sat sipping in my leather chair for about ten minutes, until the annoyance of a male customer in line forced me to vacate the premises. He was about fifty-five and flirting with the teenaged counter girls, asking mundane questions like "Who's that female golfer who plays with the men in all those tournaments?" When they didn’t answer he continued to prompt them, "Michelle . . . someone. I forget her last name." I thought it would've been really funny to answer aloud for them; fully knowing the customer knew the answer to his own question but couldn't think of any other way to make casual conversation with the cute employees. But this early in the morning, my ingenious ideas often go unexplored.
Coffee in hand, I drove back to the bank, that intrusive red gas light staring me right in the face. I alternated turning the engine on and off every few minutes, calling friends to express what a pathetic individual this chain of events had made me feel like. At five till 9, I ventured into the indoor, locked out area, which I'm pretty sure exists just so bank employees can see you, pretend to check their watch, then laugh while you pace back and forth aimlessly. As they opened, I suffered the indignity of writing $.43 in the ‘cash’ box on my deposit slip. I sheepishly handed it to the teller, who informed me it would go through right away. I was now an astounding $.30 in the black, meaning I could purchase, well nothing. But I felt better, having gone through a major hassle to essentially buy myself insurance in case my account would be overdrawn. Of course every task had been caused by my own irresponsibility, combined with an insatiable desire for a tiny burger comprised of questionable meat, melted cheese, onion rings, and barbeque sauce. With a few hours to kill before work, I drove home, sent some emails, made some calls, sorted through papers, and enjoyed a delicious bowl of Hokus Pokus ('Lucky Charms' for those on welfare) with Lactaid milk (for those unfortunate souls who can't enjoy a slice of pizza without visiting the bathroom.
On Tuesday my direct deposit came through with flying colors and as it turns out, one of my previous charges still would've been pending. One could look at my morning on March 9th and think it'd all been a big waste of time, being I wouldn't have received a penalty anyway. Or a 'glass is half-full' thinking individual might think I did what I had to do, just in case. Of course a rich individual wouldn't have thought twice about incurring an overdraft balance, because it wouldn't bother them nor would they be in a situation to let it happen.
The moral of the story . . . Money is no object when it comes to one's stomach :)
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