Money Services

Dear U.S. Bank,

            Thank you for saving my ass. Literally. I have recently moved to the Houston, Texas area which happens to be a dead zone for your company. There are no branches within a hundred miles and there is one questionable ATM in an area I know nothing about.

            I am now two months into my new job and for some reason my direct deposit is still not hitting. Every time I call my HR representative, they verify my information, followed by a long puzzled silence. They have processed my information twice, and promise me that my direct deposit should hit not this pay period, but the next one. This has yet to happen. I do not blame them, as I tend to be unlucky sometimes.

            My husband’s bank is down here, but I, the queen of Internet transactions, like my internet banking. All of my bills and purchases are set up with my own banking information and I do not wish to change this. Plus, I like having my own account, as my husband and I have very different spending habits and would much rather argue over who is really messing up the sheet alignment on our bed.

            So, I elect to go to Wal-Mart to cash my check. This is something I have not done before, but I hear of people doing it all the time. After work, I drop by one on my way home. Wanting to get this over with, I stalk to the desk labeled “Money Services” and wait.

            At this point in my life, I have tired of most of my iPod Selection. Sure, my library has whittled down to 1,356 songs and I constantly download, but I have a short attention span. My new obsession is listening to comedy stations on Pandora, where I can listen to 3 to 5 minute segments of fantastic comedy. This is what I am doing while I become the seventh person in line at Wal-Mart.

            Upon meeting a friend of a friend a few weeks ago, he remarked that I seem “very well adjusted” to living in a city considering I grew up in a tiny farm town. Let me just say that is not my perception some of the time. In situations where I am thrown in with varieties of people unlike myself, I become extremely paranoid. My earbuds stay in, but I am vigilant in observing my peers in line. I tighten my grip on my purse and try to look bored. I avoid eye contact but maximize my peripheral vision. I feel extremely out of place in this line because other than the person behind me wearing a “McDonalds” polo, I feel like the only one who might have a steady job. This feels wrong. I do not have nearly enough ink on my neck and too many teeth in my mouth.

            I shut my eyes and try to tell myself not to be such a judgmental bitch. Who cares what these people look like? Who’s to say they don’t work? They are in line with me aren’t they? Don’t you wear sweatpants to run errands?

            Actually, I normally don’t. I try to look at least halfway decent every time I am leaving the house, unless I am leaving from the gym. But, I try not to be so narrow-minded and just continue to observe.

            After a few people visit the counter, I realize my suspicions are right. They are not cashing paychecks. They seem to be presenting some documentation and swiping a card. I am confused. What the hell are they doing? I start to read the list of services offered and realize these people are cashing in government assistance.

            Now, I am not against people who get government assistance. I have family members who legitimately needed it and benefited from it. However, I do feel it gets abused. I don’t know any of these people in line, but they look like able-bodied people. However, I can’t make that call, but when I step up the counter this becomes relevant.

            Two employees man the money services counter. One appears to be actually working but is engaged in Wal-mart employee gossip with the other, who appears to serve no purpose other than bashing some chick that didn’t show up that day.

            “Well Taquanda called in today, again,” says the Worker Bee.

            “Huh, doesn’t surprise me. Probably one of her kids is sick,” says Worthless.

            “Girl, you know she ain’t stayin home for no kids. She just didn’t feel like comin’ in. One more time and she gone. She ain’t given enough notice” says Worker Bee as she scrutinizes my check.

            “Well, she don’t do nothing anyways,” says Worthless. “She probably got another boyfriend.” She catches my eye like I should add something. I just yank my earbuds out and avoid her gaze.

            Worker bee seems to be struggling with my check. Apparently, she doesn’t run a lot of these through her machine.

            “It don’t seem to be workin’,” she says. She takes me over to another machine and runs it through twice. She continues to chatter with Worthless, who tells Worker Bee, “she don’t know how to work it.”

            Finally, Worker Bee figures it out. She runs the check through and asks me to input my social security number. I do it as discreetly as possible as I realize…this lady is going to count all this money in front of all these people. I don’t make a fortune, but I’m sure it’s considerably more than these people see on government assistance. She pulls the money drawer open and I extend an envelope to her.

            “just put it in…” I begin.

            But no, Worker Bee has other plans. Worker Bee decides not only to loudly count my money out loud to the whole world, but holds the bills eye level, so myself and all of Wal-Mart can see.

            “ONE HUNDRED, TWO HUNDRED, THREE HUNDRED,” she counts out two weeks worth of pay for me. As she finishes, she says the total loudly.

            I scowl at her and shove the money into the envelope. I shoot her a look that says, “thanks, now I have to worry about getting stabbed in the parking lot.” She does not pick up on my irritation, and I don’t say anything to her. What’s the point? Everyone within earshot, a considerable radius with the volume of her voice, is now a threat, even MickyD who is next in line. I am tempted to ask her to direct me to the pepper spray aisle, but I just stalk off. I don’t replace my earbuds, as I am now focused on my goal. “Get to the truck, don’t get stabbed. Get to the truck, don’t get stabbed.” This is my mantra.

            I get halfway to the truck when the cart attendant whistles at me and I break into a run. Good thing I have been hitting the gym. Not everything is bigger in Texas. I get in the truck and calm myself down.

            I relay this to the girls at work the next day and they suggest I go to a different Wal-Mart next time. It is smaller, less busy, and close to the office so I can do in the perceived safety of daylight.

            Two weeks later, I pull in to the parking lot of the oldest, shittiest looking Wal-Mart I have ever seen. Since I grew up in rural Iowa, this is a tall statement. However, my colleagues were right about it not being busy. I walked and went to the customer service counter, where a guy was waiting to return diapers and plastic flowers. The guy behind me kept asking me questions like, “have you been here before? Do you know if they sell socks here?”

            I pretend like I don’t hear the crazy guy behind me and he eventually disappears into the bathroom. The guy in front of me arguing about the price of the diapers so I get some time to witness a conversation going on between a patron and a manager.

            The patron has her arms crossed. “Did you see him take the item, did you see the gun?” She asks the manager.

            The manager shakes his head and put his hands up. “Look, there was a commotion, and I was asked to call the police. The police came, and he was arrested. It was reported he had a weapon on him,” he says.

            The patron is irritated. “No, I didn’t ask that. Did you see him take it? Did you see him point a gun?”

            “We had to file a police report,” the manager says.

            “Did you see it!?!?” shouts the partron.

            The manager again throws up his hands and walks away.  Cool, apparently something went down here today. I’m about to leave when the attendant motions me forward. I must admit, I am impressed. She handles my check flawlessly. Upon open the drawer, she surveys the area, and sets up a barricade of money orders. I giggle when I see they are money orders for sending cash to Mexico.

            “I’m going to count this down here. Ok?” she whispers.

            I smile. “That will be fine,” I say.

            She counts them off in hundreds, but avoids saying the word “hundred” or “thousand.” She keeps her voice low and keeps the money on the counter behind the barricade. She discreetly puts the money in the envelope for me. I’m still nervous, but she’s done her best. I thank her and shuffle out. Wal-Mart, just like any other company, has it’s good employees and bad ones. One of the best happens to be my father-in-law.

            Despite the good attendant’s efforts, I was thankful to find out that U.S. Bank now has a mobile app that allows me to deposit checks through my phone. I do not need to carry around envelopes of cash and feel like I have done something dirty to get it. I am glad I decided to keep your business.