You all know how much I love my father and just how much I love to share stories about him with ya’ll. Like the time he saved me from a spider, or the time he fought with the gas attendant over 75 cents, or how he looks almost exactly like Tony Bennett, and just how difficult it was to change my flat tire.
Well, today boys and girls, I have yet another tale from the ‘Daddy Chronicles’ to regale you with. This story also features the one and only Gramma Ev, because Everyone Needs A Little Evelyn in their life.
It was just a typical day here in central New Jersey. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and all was seemingly well. On his lunch break, my father took a leisurely walk over to the local bank, which was conveniently located right around the corner from his office. My father had his bi-weekly card game that evening and he needed to change a few twenty-dollar bills in for singles.
Upon entering the building, my father stood in the appropriate line and waited for the next available teller. When he was called up to the window an unusual turn of events occurred.
My Father: “Hello, yes, I’d like to change these bills in for singles.”
Lady At The Window: “Sure. What’s your account number?”
My Father: “I don’t have an account here.”
Lady At The Window: “Then we can’t change these bills.”
My Now Confused Father: “What do you mean you can’t change these bills?”
Lady At The Window: “We have a new policy. If you don’t have an account with our bank, then we can’t change these bills.”
My Now Even More Confused Father (looks intensely at his money): “This is American money right? I am still in America right?”
Lady At The Window (programmed to produce the same reply): “We have a new policy. If you don’t have an account with our bank, then we can’t change these bills.”
My Now Annoyed Father: “Let me get this straight. You can’t change my American Money for other American Money, IN A BANK OF AMERICA, because I don’t have an account here?”
Lady At The Window: “Well that is our new policy.”
My Now Seriously Agitated Father: “Okay. I am going to need to speak with your manager.”
Lady At The Window: “Well, he is not here right now, and he wont be back for awhile.”
My Now Irate Father: “Fine. But, I’ll be back.”
And with that my father stormed out of the bank.
He walked over to his favorite deli and ordered a sandwich, but he could not stop obsessing over what had just happened. He paid for his lunch and headed back to his office. While seated at his desk, my father proceeded to work himself up into such a state of mind that he couldn’t even eat his food.
He decided to ask a few people around the office if the ‘situation’ that just went down at the bank seemed normal to anyone. As the more people agreed with my father, the more annoyed, angry, upset, irritated, and frustrated, my father became.
He was so vexed it was quite possible the pulsating veins in his neck could have very well exploded. My father left the office, in a huff, and went back to the bank in hopes of speaking to the manager.
My Very Pissed Off Father: “Hi, remember me? I want to talk to your manager.”
Lady At The Window: “Well, he is still not here. I am not sure when he will be back.”
My Angry Father: “Okay, let me ask you a question. I am not a customer of this bank so you won’t change my American Money, but you have no problem taking my $1.50 for the fee every time I use your ATM machine.”
My father’s voice was so loud and booming through out the building, a lady from inside the back offices heard the commotion and came out to see if she could assist in any way.
Bank Office Lady: “Sir, sir, May I help you?”
My Livid Father: “I hope so, because this is kind of crazy. I don’t have a bank account here, but I work right around the corner and all I want to do is change these bills for other bills, and they lady in the window wont do it. Apparently you have some sort of new policy.”
Bank Office Lady: “Well yes that’s true we do have a new policy. And we can’t….”
Suddenly, she stopped right in the middle of her sentence and began staring at my father as if she recognized him from somewhere.
Bank Office Lady: “May I ask you a personal question?”
My Furious Father: “Yeah, sure. If it will get me some change.”
Bank Office Lady: “Are you Evelyn’s Cxxxxxx’s son?”
My Perplexed Father: “Yes I am. Why?”
Without saying another word, The Bank Office Lady took my father by the hand and led him over to the bank teller.
She approached the window and said, “Forget the policy. Please just give this man whatever he wants.”
As it turns out, The Bank Office Lady lives only a few doors down from my Gramma Evelyn. Anyone who knows Evelyn knows best – not – to mess with her.
My Gramma Ev has no qualms in putting together a picket line, going to the newspapers, calling the cops, in sighting a riot, or creating a massive scene.
I went into a complete state of hysterical laughter when my father told me this story, for two reasons:
1. No matter how good any of his arguments were over how stupid and obnoxious their new policy may have been, it took the simple mentioning of his mother to solve the problem.
2. Because I wouldn’t want this woman coming after me in a fit of rage either.
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