The day I long feared finally arrived.
The ATM's at the bank were out of order.
I've written of the ordeal of banking in Bakersfield. The only saving grace is the ATM's, which make the process slightly less painful. And now, that option was taken from me.
I arrived at the bank and was relieved to see only one couple standing at the ATM. A dense looking biker couple, in more ways than one, stood at the ATM. The woman, the smarter of the two, was attempting to deposit a check. She'd slip in her card, punch some buttons, insert the check and...
Within about 5 seconds, the machine spit out her check, followed by the card.
Again and again and again.
On the fourth attempt, the machine spit out her check and then there was the sound of a soft "clink" as the red "closed" sign flipped into place. Without returning her card.
Moments of dumbfounded silence. You get that a lot here. And then she turned to her man and said "It done ate my card".
"It done ate your card?" said the man.
"It done ate my card" she answered.
He turned to me and said ""It done ate her card".
Yes, so I've heard.
They turned to go into the bank and see if they could somehow retrieve their card and I followed to go to the back of the bank where I knew there were additional machines. But when I arrived at the back, I saw all the machines there were out of order too.
I now had a choice. I could drive to another branch, although I didn't know where there was one. But if the system was down, I'd be met with the same situation. Or, God forbid, I could do my banking inside. So, I took the plunge.
I walked inside and immediately saw there was a line of about 75 people corralled in a switchback line in front of the bank of tellers. I know, I counted. Knowing from experience how long these people take to do a transaction, I figured I'd be lucky to be out of there by midweek.
Just then, a middle aged woman in a red polyester blazer tapped me on the shoulder.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
This was Dotty, the bank manager.
I told her I needed to deposit a check, but that all the ATM's were down and I was resigned to wasting my afternoon in line.
She said she'd see what she could do and disappeared and I glumly joined the great unwashed masses in line.
To the bank's credit, they do what they can. They had 12 teller windows opened and staffed, something I've never seen before. But it made no difference with this crowd. The line zig zagged back and forth and ended smack dab in the center of the bank of tellers. At that point there is a large, illuminated display like an airport. When a teller is free, a chime sounds, a directional arrow starts flashing either left or right and the number of the teller lights up.
Fat lot of good it does. Over and over again the person at the front of the line just stood there like a wooden post as lights flashed and chimes donged. Somewhere down the line, the open teller would start waving their hands over their heads and calling out, like a lost hiker trying to signal a chopper.
To no avail.
At some point, someone back in the line would reach over and tap the moron in front which would finally get the ball rolling. The truly amazing thing to me was that the shoulder tappers, who apparently were paying attention, fell asleep at the switch the moment they reached the front of the line and ultimately had to be prodded by someone else. There's an obvious cattle metaphor here, but I'm avoiding using it because it would be unkind. To cattle.
After about twenty minutes, four people had advanced and I was eyeing the deposit slip desk to see if there was anything I could use to kill myself. Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder and spun around to see Dotty.
"Come with me" she said, yanking me out of line. "I got the ATM's fixed for you. There's already a line forming, but I told them they had to wait. You go first."
What wonderful service! How did I get so lucky?
Dotty evidently read my mind.
"I'd do anything for a Driller" she said, pointing at my chest.
I'd forgotten I was wearing my "Bakersfield Drillers" T-shirt.
I saw it last summer in a local store and bought it as a lark. At the time, I still thought we'd be moving back to LA in a matter of months and imagined all the laughs and fun we'd have as I wore it out to the bars back in West Hollywood. Every queen loves a good double entendre.
But we didn't end up moving and I soon learned I couldn't wear the shirt here in town. Everyone would stop me and quiz me about my years as a "Driller".
"What year are you?"
"Who's class were you in?"
"Remember Mrs. So-and-so?"
I quickly learned that this town is so small those aren't the type of details you can fake. So I ditched the shirt to the bottom of the drawer. But this particular day I was behind on the laundry and it was the only clean one I had, so I wore it without thinking about it. And boy, am I glad I did.
Dotty escorted me to ATM like a celebrity, extending her arm to hold back the horde that had appeared like they were paparazzi.
"Everything good now?" she asked.
'Yes, thank you" I said.
"We Drillers have to stick together" she said with a wink.
Yes we do.
DRILLERS FOR EVAH!
The shirt's in the laundry as we speak. I may need to buy more.
