The other day I stopped at the Royal Bank in Ridgeway to deposit a cheque. As I walked into the front vestibule (underused word of the century) I saw that one of the two ATM machines was in use by a middle-aged man. An elderly man stood some 10 feet or so back from the other one and he turned in my direction when he saw me come in.
The man signalled me over to him with a finger wave and a glint in his eye worthy of an other Worldly wizard king. Well, an other Worldly wizard king wearing a Chrysler baseball cap. Nonetheless, he spoke in a gentle tone when he said, “I’m not too familiar with these machines. Do you think you could give me a hand?” I said, “Absolutely.”
He had his debit card in hand and I showed him how the picture by the card slot illustrated how to position it for insertion. He put it in and I walked him through the menus as he made a sizeable withdrawal. As he collected the money he quipped, “Don’t suppose they ever give you extras, do they?” I laughed and said, “Unfortunately, no.”
The man thanked me and moved out of the way so I could use the machine. I made my deposit and heard him count his money and put it away. He then patted me on the back and said, “Thanks again, pal.”
“No problem,” I returned.
That’s really just the end of the story. I felt slightly better about myself than on any other day. I wish I could have concluded by saying that he drugged me, carried me back to his dank basement apartment and toe-fucked me while he watched the Tyra Banks show, but alas, I cannot.
God bless you, aged vestibule stranger.