A Story of Impatience or How Racial Profiling Ended Terrorism

I do not think that I have always been patient, but it is something that I have developed over the years.  I think the origin of my patience is when I stopped speeding.  When I was a young driver, I sped every time I got in the car.  Because of that I would get a speeding ticket in even numbered years: 1992, 1994, 1996, and 1998.  But then I got one in 1999, and decided that speeding was too expensive.  So I vowed not to get another ticket.  Eleven years later, I am still resist the urge to speed most of the time.  My driving patience has spread to most other aspects of my life.  Plus after spending so much time in the food service industry, waiting in lines does not bother me at all.  The one holdout has been at the ATM aka the ATM machine, aka the AT&M.

I treat stopping at the ATM like it is a NASCAR pit stop.  My goal is get my money in 30 seconds or less.  I take my card out of my wallet and have it in hand with the window down before I stop my car.  I then slide the card in and punch in my pin number for example let’s say it is 1234.  (note to self: change your pin number.  Try 1111.)  After 1234, I hit the $100 button and the no receipt button.  Then it spits out my money and my card, and I drive away.  That is my whole process.  It only takes six button to get my money.  That should not take more than 30 seconds.  However every car that is in line in front of me takes much longer than that.  I am not sure what they do that takes so long.  They must be making deposits, applying for loans, or checking their messages.  On average it takes the person in line ahead of me approximately 47 minutes to make their transactions.

One Friday evening when I was waiting in line at the bank, I noticed that the customer in front of me was of Middle Eastern descent.  I noticed because he had gotten out of his car to do his ATMing.  I am not proud of this, but I did question his knowledge of English while impatiently waiting for my turn.  I am not a racist (which is the statement that always proceeds a racist comment), but since I had so much time on my hands I did wonder if I was witnessing a precursor to some act of domestic terrorism.  This particular bank branch has two ATMs.  One is the drive through and the other is a walk up.  I did not judge him too harshly for not using the walk up because he may not have known it was there, but my knowing that he should be at that machine made me even more impatient.

So when it is finally my turn at bat, I try to put my card in the machine, and it will not go in.  At this point I am furious because my pit time in going to be terrible and because I have been waiting in line for an hour and a half.  I think the ATM is broken, but before I can drive off in a rage, the ATM then asks me something about taking card.  I push the yes button, because I want it to take my card.  The ATM then spits out the card that the man before me had left in the machine.  I can now finally get my cash.

But I am now burdened with this guy’s debit card.  To protect his privacy I will not use his real name, so I will refer to him as Osama Bin Bankin.  My initial thought is to drop the card in the night deposit or try to slide it under or around the front door.  But at this point I am already late to where I was going, so I decided to put off returning the card until the next day.

The closest and most conveniently located Bank of America branch to my home closed down a year ago.  So I now when I have banking needs, have go out of my way to get to a bank or just remember to stop at one whenever I am nearby.  The branch where all this drama happened is in Little Rock fifteen miles from my home in North Little Rock.  I usually do my ATMing there because it is near my church, but I am never near that branch during banking hours.  So my plan is to take Osama Bin Wastinmytime’s card to a North Little Rock branch.  On Saturday when I went out to run errands, I forgot about the card.  So I make a new plan of going to a bank on Monday.  But as is often the case on Monday, I am able to talk myself out of getting dressed and leaving the house that day.

By this time I am sure that Osama Bin Unabletobuystuff has realized that his card is missing and has cancelled.  I did still intend to take the card to the bank so that he would no longer have to worry about fraudulent charges showing up on his statement.  But like many of my good intentions, I never got it done.  So if you are reading this Osama Bin Wonderinwhathappenedtomycard, your money is safe, but I did save the card in case Homeland Security wants it.  And if you are reading this America, you're welcome for ending terrorism.