11:43 a.m. - 2004-06-15
Bankers Think I'm Weird.
I woke up at Alex's Friday morning to grey skies and pulled on the previous eve's clothes for what used to be culturally deemed The Walk of Shame but is indeed my usual Friday morning.

Jeans, boots, black t-shirt, scanties. (No one knows I'm Supergirl, but the underpants don't lie). I brushed the cat hair off my clothes, applied a soupçon of makeup, and pulled my hair back in a twist. I'd be opening my first checking account and didn't want to scare the horses.

The evening before had been taut and slightly unpleasant. Alex had been tired, annoyed by my late arrival, and perhaps also unsettled by the knowledge of my banking plans for the next day--my first concrete step towards the process of independent living.

I don't actually think Alex wants to live with me. He doesn't begrudge me the experience, the privacy, the room for artistic expression, the quiet. He knows I'll be happier to see him if I'm not constantly in the company of another person.

He knows we'd fight like cats in a bag if confined to anything less than a 2-story house.

But he doesn't know how it 's going to turn out, and neither do I.

Unbreakfasted, and minus tea, I wandered down a hill and caught a bus to the bank.

The man behind the desk was pale and darkhaired, like Ron Livingston with a shave and a fraternity ring. An ambitious-looking type, about my age. His nameplate bore a III after the surname.

"I have a savings account with you all and I'd like to open a checking account," I said, handing over my ID. "It's a little weird, but, uh...I've turned 30 without using checks by paying bills to roommates, and using money orders. So I might have a lot of odd questions."

"Wow," he said.
"Yes--I know."

There was a silence.

"What else don't you do? Are you even...on the internet?"

"I've been on the internet since 1992," I said haughtily--knowing the internet was in full swing by then, but that there was a decent chance this cleaned-up ex-partyboy hadn't significant years of geeking to hold over me. "I am not a Luddite. I work for an independent comics publisher and for the City." In a second I would be claiming hipness and start doing a stiff Macarena.

"Which comics publisher?"

I told him.

"Oh, for Mr. So-&-So." He struggled with the pronunciation. "Yes, I've seen him come in. Is that how his name is pronounced?"

"Oh, yes."
"Darn it...I've been mispronouncing it for years!"
"Everyone does it, it's okay."

I regarded him with exaggerated benevolence as he scribbled down pronunciation notes on a post-it. We were on more equal footing now, and regarded one another evenly across his desk.

...I hoped that Livingston III would not suddenly remember that my eminent boss has racked up an overdraft or two just paying my salary.

"Well," he decided. "I have just the account for you. Free checking, free ATM, free debit card, better interest rate than your savings. Yes? Okay. Wow, this is an old account," he said, transferring money with a few nimble clicks.

"Yes."
"You're good at saving, I'll give you that."

I preened.

"Oh, hey," he said. "Your ID has expired...two weeks ago."

I stopped preening.

"Seriously?" I said. "Oh God. On my birthday. Of course."

"Well, happy birthday!" he said. "I guess the state dropped the ball on sending out your renewal reminder."
"Is this going to put a halt to the checking account stuff today?"

"Nah. I recognize you. And all your info matches up of course; Social Security number, mother's maiden name, etcetera. But call me later today and tell me what the new temporary expiration date is--if the DMV is open at all; it's Reagan's--day of rest, or whatever they're calling it."

"Christ. Well, you guys are open, so maybe the DMV is too." I plucked his business card from a tray

He gave me a folder of paperwork, a check register, and 6 temporary checks with my account number and bank name on, minus my address. I had decided not to order checks, as my address will change in 6 weeks. All I need are enough checks to put down a first, last and deposit.

Me...and my six little checks.

Hee.

When I do order checks, I've got my eye on the ones depicting an old-fashioned globe split into a sepia-tinted map of the world.

My trial painlessly finished, I moved to the counter-island to interfere with deposit slips. I thought idly, "I should get a money order today...and mail my credit card bill" (my sole, mailed bill) and then I remembered that I probably didn't need money orders anymore.

"Hey, Ron," I said. "Is my money in the checking account, like...right now? Can I write a check and pay a bill?"

"You sure can."

"Oh."

So I wrote my first check for a celebrated $143.39, deposited some funds, and strolled out into the morning to mail my credit card bill. It'll probably be late due to the post office's refusal to work on Friday--Reagan's final, funereal, financial ha-ha.

At least Mastercard will be happy. The poor bastards have difficulty making money off of me.

I picked some wildflowers, walked to the supermarket, pondered bagels (deciding firmly against) and went home to curl ringlets into my hair and don a snappy vintage jacket prior to posing for the new ID picture I'll have for all of six weeks.

I couldn't help but make a little fuss over it. My old ID picture is a post-breakup snapshot with a tight, close-lipped smile, puffy cheeks and manic eyes. I am finished with her.

My new temporary ID sees a 1940's USO girl, with a smartass crook to the mouth.

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