Simple, right? Well, at the start it wasn't. I have never been really sure how to cash a check. The main problem is that even though the restaurant leaves the "Payable To" line blank, I can't necessarily cash it. I'm vague on the details, but there had been one or two times where this particular bank would not let me cash it because I wrote my own name on the "Payable To" line, or I endorsed it in the back before I gave the check to the teller. Or something, I don't remember, because it's been a long time since I've run into a problem like that. In fact, there was a period where I came in so often that the tellers finally learned my name.
I had not done that in a long time, however, till Sunday, when Mother said she needed me to cash another check. Although I'm working all day, I had assumed that I would never do this again because of The Store ... well, you know. So even though it was hard to shoehorn a time to cash the check today, I was just glad that The Store is still taking in money.
A positive sign for cashing the check (though not a good sign for me necessarily) was that my project finished up early today, thereby giving me time to cash the check personally instead of through the drive-thru, which is open one hour longer than the lobby. Furthermore, there is a branch very close to my current place of work, thereby sparing me the, oh, 20 miles of gas it'll take for the side trip up north. So it looked like the heavens made it easy for me to cash this check, so I got into my car and put my name in the front of the check.
After a five-minute drive I pull up and walk in. I slide the check to the teller ... and after a minute of quizzically staring at the check, she has the goddamn nerve to ask me, "Can you tell me why the name is written in a different colored pen than the rest of the check?"
The restaurant person who signed the check signed it in black. My black pen is running out of ink, so I used my trusty blue pen to write my name down. And now they're going to say I can't cash the fucking check?! Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!
With a tone of, well, "Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!" I basically tell her the truth about cashing it for my folks' business. I would've made up a lie, but I didn't think I had to lie. I've done this several times before and not been asked questions. I'm pretty sure that I've written my name down in a different color than the rest of the check and they still cashed it, so I have no fucking clue why it became a problem. Besides, I have a checking account with these people; I'm legit, so what's the fucking matter?
The truth didn't jive with this chick. She even had to call over to her supervisor for advice. After that, about five minutes later, she says she couldn't cover the check because it was "altered." Fuck altered! I've done this many times before and this time she raises a goddamn stink?! I was so pissed off I rudely snatched the check and left. I stuck my hand up behind me as she wished me a nice day, thank you. Well, at least I think I stuck up my hand and not my finger. Fucking Lord knows I might have to come back to this nunnery again.
What to do? Mother gets pissed when I don't get cash her checks. This fucking family has such an tight-fisted relationship with money, yet we seem to never have it. Maybe that goes hand in hand. Anyway, my only recourse was to go to the same bank, the reliable bank, the one where everybody knows my name. It'll be past 5 so it'll have to go through the drive-thru, but I'll be able to cash it, no problem, right? Right?!
Wrong!!! The teller through the window recognized me, but mere seconds after the automatic tray to the check she told me she couldn't cash it because it was "altered," even though I fucking know she has taken my checks, written in different colors, written to my name, before. Worst of all is that she said, "You were just at Plymouth, weren't you?" Oh, you sewing circle bitches gossip about me, too??? Yes, I know it's a bank, but goddamn I feel picked on. I wanted to swear at her, too, but I really couldn't because I'm sure I'll run into her again.
I am not trying to rationalize my use of a blue pen instead of a black pen, but I am not, repeat not, being paranoid when I say I thought a "mix-up" like this was behind me. So I spent the last hour and, oh, 40 miles driving to two banks, both of which think I'm trying to steal money from them, and I end up not getting the money Mother expected me to get. I'm scared, I'm humiliated, and I have no idea what to do next.
Ever since I drove away from the bank in Plymouth I could feel my face flush and the heart side of my chest tighten. I think it's the cortisol that was injected into my bloodstream, the fight-or-flight chemical that I felt when I got picked on in junior high. I sure wanted to get rid of this feeling. I learned that exercise can wear away the cortisol, but I couldn't go to a gym this late in the day; there was Dancing With the Stars with Grandmother in St. Paul. But I had to do something, so I just went to the local mall and walked around a bit. That way I could think of an excuse to tell Mother when she inevitably asks me why I didn't cash the check. The best plan I could think of, by the way, was basically hew to the truth: For some fucking reason, this time they wouldn't take the check.
I puffed out my chest in preparation of seeing her at home. But once I saw my house, I didn't see the minivan. They weren't home at 6 in the evening when I thought they'd have been home for at least three hours. That kind of makes the decision to leave early for St. Paul and Grandmother easy (otherwise I would be rushing through dinner and inevitably eating more than I should eat, and fast); also, I dodge any face-to-face confrontation with Mother, who can really lose her temper in a situation like this.
If I was going to leave without eating, the least I can do is call. I remembered my excuse and called Mother to tell her I was not going to eat since they weren't home (they were still at The Store, as a matter of fact; shit, if it's still open, I might as well stop by this weekend). But of course she immediately set that aside and asked me if I cashed the check yet.
I had already established my breathless, exasperated tone when I called her up, so I went with my excuse, which was essentially, "I have no fucking clue why they did it!" And Mother has this amazingly belittling way of thinking everything that isn't done the way she wants them is somehow my fault. This usually comes in the form of continually asking me why I didn't ask the person why I can't do something, so in this case she said, "Well, why didn't you ask why you couldn't cash the check?!" Which is a stupid question because a) I already lied/told her this denial was totally different from what has happened in the past and b) this was just her passive-aggressive way of blaming me. Fuck that and fuck her.
I kept up my aggressive tone -- "I don't know why they rejected the check! I have done this many times before; this is the first time they wouldn't cash the check!!!" And either because she believed me or she was just too busy doing other shit, she quickly backed off and thought of a solution: Just put it downstairs and she'll cash it at her bank. Phew, I guess. We'll see if Mother picks a fight over this tomorrow or the next several days, but I think -- I hope -- I dodged a bullet.
Meanwhile I am still fucking puzzled as to how fucking arduous it is to cash a goddamn check. It's as if I was aiming a gun at them demanding all their money, such is the way I feel they treated me, no matter how legal. Maybe it's a good thing checks have largely gone the way of the gold standard.
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