The ATM Machine Ate My Card

A friend once excused his tardiness, telling his teacher, “The dog ate my homework,” but now my friend’s out in the workforce. If my old friend becomes your new friend, he may decline to split the bill or perhaps hesitate to pay for a date. He’ll claim, “Oops! The ATM machine ate my card!”

Don’t laugh! It happens. This morning before dawn it happened to me.

As soon as I parked my Toyota Corolla in front of the local Starbucks coffee shop and pulled the keys from the ignition, I picked up my cell phone, pressed the speed dial, and checked my bank balance. When I pressed the ‘END’ button, the digital readout displayed the exact time: 5:45 a.m., Friday morning.

I had four bucks in my pocket: two for an apple fritter, warmed on a plate; and, two more for a Venti Bold coffee, a little room for cream, chocolate powder and Maui raw sugar at the condiment bar. I didn’t want to be rushed later, so I walked across the parking lot to the local bank branch.

Standing in front of the nearest ATM machine, I pulled the bankcard from my wallet and lined the correct end with the slot. It wouldn’t accept it. Behind the large, square L.C.D. screen to the side, I read, in small, faint letters: Not Working at This Time, Use Another Machine. I retrieved the bankcard, took a couple of steps to the left, and stopped in front of the other automated teller machine.

The second ATM machine readily accepted my card. Slowly but firmly, it squeezed the bankcard from my fingers. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. I punched my secret, four-digit P.I.N. on the keypad and waited. Do I want to Check Balance? No. I had just done that, plenty of money.

The machine now told me Out of Receipts. That often happens at gas stations, but hardly ever at ATM’s. Do I want to Continue? I keep all of my receipts and always ask for them from Starbucks, or from fast food restaurants that used to always give them away, but now don’t. No receipt? I’ll just jot it down later on another piece of paper.

Amount to withdraw? I quickly navigated through three more menus and pressed the square button, three down from the top: $60 from checking.

Swish. Swish. Swish. The ATM machine quickly dispensed the cash, three $20 bills, not new.

Whoosh. The curved cash door guard slid shut. I needed $40 for a Smog Check later that morning and $20 for incidental expenses, such as food, a couple gallons of gas, and postage for a partial manuscript of a novel I had written.

No beep? That’s right, Out of Receipts.

The bankcard started to come out. I could see it and feel it, but it did not extend beyond the ATM’s upper lip. It tried to come out, but couldn’t. I tried to grab it with my fingers and thought of prying it out with my car keys. I knew the ATM’s eye, the camera behind opaque glass, watched me, recording everything.

The ATM machine took the card back in and tried to spit it out again. The card still didn’t extend beyond its narrow upper lip. In my car I had a razor-sharp, steel pointer, the perfect tool for the job, but I’d parked at the far end of the lot. I didn’t want to leave my bankcard alone. Who could really trust that ATM machine on the left?

My index fingernail touched the top and my trimmed thumbnail touched the bottom, but the gold card wouldn’t budge. I just couldn’t get any traction. The card slipped back in. The L.C.D. screen read, in big, bold type: OOPS! I Took Your Card!

Oops? Did the ATM machine actually say, “Oops?” Yep. I couldn’t believe it. The ATM swallowed my card, whole!

When I reached the Starbucks coffee shop across the parking lot, I ordered a Venti Bold coffee with “room” and an apple fritter, warmed on a plate. I kept the three twenties in my wallet and handed over exactly $3.80. The requested receipt read the exact time: 5:52 a.m. After sitting down in a comfortable chair, I decided that the next chapter in my novel must wait. I’ll first type out on my laptop the experiences of the previous seven minutes.

Later in the morning, I’ll pay the $39.95 for the Smog Check on my 2003 Corolla, California plates. At noon I’ll go back and talk to the bank branch manager about his tellers--no, not the human tellers with polished customer service skills inside, but the two automated ones outside, especially the one on the left. That ATM machine my card! Oops?


Originally posted on:
ACWRITER, David Andrews's Content Producer Page - Associated Content

http://www.associatedcontent.com/user/130452/acwriter_david_andrews.html