Dear Woman in front of me at the Independence and Legacy Bank of America Drive-Up ATM:
You’ve been sitting there an awfully long time.
Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m ready to go. In the time it’s taken you to roll down your fucking window, I could have zipped through the automated teller and been on my merry way home. But first, I need to wait. For you. You bint.
The principle of a drive-up ATM, as opposed to walking up to the machine on the side walk about 20 feet south of where you have currently nested yourself, is the versatility of having wheels. You know, for a quick getaway. When I want to take my sweet time acquiring cash, I park my car. In a parking spot. I sit in the driver’s seat, get my shit together, make sure I know what I want, then get out.
You’ve got the same idea, I see. Only, you park your car in front of Mr. Automated Teller. You sit in your driver’s seat, and look about you to see if the shit that needs getting together is within arm’s reach. If not, unbuckle your seat belt, stretch as needed to grab purse (or God forbid, pop open the trunk and actually leave your car), and settle back into your seat. Oh, but wait! It seems your grubby little bat wings can’t quite reach the card slot from where you sit. So you unbuckle (for the second time), open the door a little, and stretch.
At this point, very little has changed in my immediate vicinity. My elbow on the arm rest, my jaw resting against my curled fist, my car in park, my shoes removed and my knees resting against the wheel. I know that the screen of many an option is in front of you, because I watch, hypnotised as your pudgy little finger jabs forward. Each punch put forth by you tests my patience, which is beginning to wear thin.
But then your arm-flab stops swinging. I perk up a little; you’ve stopped. You’re done! Oh. No you’re not.
Alas! you must be trying to determine how much cash you want to pad your elusive purse with. I can see the numbers struggling to form above your head, like the crude thought bubbles that Billy draws when his dad has a week off from writing “Family Circus.” Oh good, a lightbulb.
So you make your selection, and your face turns eager with anticipation. Disgusting. You’re so thrilled when your ATM card is returned, and your money is in sight, that when your reach your hand down to tug the money out of the machine, you drop both your card and your cash.
I close my eyes in exasperation and count to twenty. During that moment, I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was probably took too long. Indeed, I open my eyes and watch you close the door and buckle your seatbelt. My foot is back on the brake pedal and my car is in drive by the time you start to crawl your way out of the blackhole that is apparently the drive-stop-and-take-too-goddamn-long-up ATM.
Goddamn misnomer. Next time I’m going to the Bank of America on Coit and 121.
Love,
Nicole
