D. None of the Above: Listening to familiar chatter while waiting for a stubborn bank machine
By Daniel Dunaief
I went to the bank to deposit a check recently. My daughter, of course, doesn’t do any such foolish activities. She knows how to deposit her checks without leaving her apartment.
Yes, technology is wonderful, but I still like to go to the bank and get a receipt that I promptly add to the pile of random papers that is almost as tall as I am.
Several hours before the bank closed on a Friday, the stories and queries about weekend plans were all the rage.
“What are you doing this weekend?” one teller asked excitedly. She smiled so broadly that she could easily be in the finals for a game show hosting competition or, at the very least, win extra points for customer friendliness.
“I’m having such a great day,” the teller offered before I could muster a noncommittal reply.
“Why?” I asked, as I glared at the machine that seemed to be refusing to take my check. A hint here: machines don’t care if you glare.
“Well, my manager made nachos today and she brought in home baked cookies,” she said. “They were amazing. I was planning to get a salad but this is so much better.”
“Sounds great,” I said, as I willed the machine to take the check. “I’m not sure how many of those I could eat in a day and get away with it.”
She looked me up and down and laughed.
“Yeah, well, I’m young and I still can’t get away with it,” she suggested.
Yup, I’m older. What gave it away? My gray hair? The fact that I’m depositing a check at the counter? The wrinkles? The indulgent impatience blended with a need to check off the next errand box?
“My daughter is having a sleepover,” one man sighed. “I’m going to grill for them. My wife is going to handle the rest, but…”
Yes, but you might need to take on some responsibility. And who knows how late they’ll stay up. And, of course, who knows if they’ll break any of the rules they promised to uphold before your and your wife agreed to allow this party.
Like my parents, I was never a huge fan of sleepovers. The sleep part often didn’t materialize, making the kids grumpy and surly the next day, sabotaging any quality, hah!, family time or even household peace.
Another person at the bank planned to travel with her daughter for a cheer competition.
“If I knew then what I knew now, I’m not sure I would have encouraged that,” she grinned.
I couldn’t help smiling at that.
“You know,” I said looking away from the machine that still refused to take my check the way a young child refuses to open his mouth when you’re giving him medicine, “It kind of doesn’t matter what activities your children choose. Once they’re in, you’re along for the ride.”
I ticked off all the sports our children did.
“So, which was your favorite?” she asked.
“Volleyball and soccer,” I said, picking one from each child.
“Why?” she grinned. The machine had started to make some promising coming-to-life noises that were the electronic equivalent of the groans my dog makes when I get him up too early.
“Volleyball is amazing because a player can mishit the ball twice in a rally and the team can still win the point. It’s a forgiving sport, unlike baseball or softball where one ball might come to a player per hour.”
“And soccer?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” I shrugged. “I knew nothing about the sport, so I wasn’t tempted to be an annoying judgmental over the top father who needs my children to be the absolute best player on the field. Not that he wasn’t, of course, but I could honestly offer him encouragement without being even mildly tempted to provide advice.”
At that moment, the check finally went through.
With that, the cookie-making banker handed me my receipt, I waved to everyone and wished them well with their weekends.
Some Mondays can’t come soon enough.
