Friday, March 25, 2011

It Smells.

We sold our truck years ago.  I immediately headed to the bank to deposit the Cashiers Check and was able to go straight to the teller window because I was the only person in the bank. The new and slightly timid teller starts the transaction but informs me that she will need to put a hold on the funds unless the issuing bank can verify it's a valid check.

She does.

They can't.

The Boss Teller comes over to the Fledgling Teller and investigates. I'm sweating. Thinking about crying. And how will I explain to Troy that I just gave away our truck for free because they "seemed like nice people"?

Boss Teller informs me that if I can give her the last name of the people who issued the questionable check, she will be able to track it more easily. She assures me that it's probably just because the check was issued on that day and most likely it will show up in the other bank's system the next day.

This whole time, I smell poop. But there's a baby at the window next to me now, so I think nothing of it.

I go out to my car, call my oldest son and ask him to grab the Bill of Sale from the filing cabinet and give me the buyer's last name. I write it down, bring it back into the now PACKED bank and wait in line.

There's that poo smell again. But there's another baby in line behind me so I think nothing of it. Not really.

I finally get to the window after letting the entire line pass me so that I can get the same teller that I had before. The Timid Teller calls the issuing bank. Only, she just gives them the same information that she gave them last time. She never tells them the payor's last name. I am about to interrupt her and tell her that the whole reason I waited in line a second time was to bring her this information that she requested so could she please use it? But then my attention is drawn to the palm of my right hand.

Poo. A portion of my palm is covered in dried poo. What to do, right?  I find a receipt in my purse, lick my thumb, smear the spit on the receipt and try to wipe off the now-petrified offense. Eventually, it relents. Only now, with the friction and the added moisture, it TOTALLY smells. Like, before, maybe only I could smell it, but now it's emanating from my body like a Glade Plug-in: Death Edition.

So when she tells me that I have to come in again tomorrow to find out if the bank would have a record of the check by then, I don't complain and instead just say, "Oh! Okay, thank you! Bye!"  Because when you're at the bank with your baby's dried poop on the palm of your hand? You really need to just go home.

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