As if kidnapping a Mexican wasn’t bad enough, how about adding a felony to my resume? Let me ‘splain. My husband was best man at a brother fireman’s wedding. That morning, he assured me that he’d stop at the bank to take out money for the gift.
Fast forward. I walk into the venue at 11:20am and there’s my Mr. Wonderful, suave in his tux, leaning on the bar imbibing what must have been one in a series of drinks because his eyes were mirthfully beginning to cross. A tsunami of scotch splashed from his glass because he couldn’t hold it level. No doubt: I am anointed designated driver when I desperately need to drink. (Breathe…you can do this sober…so what the kids’ had a waffle fight before I left and Log Cabin has afro-sheened my hair? So what the dog was constipated and needed my rubber-gloved intervention? So what my son bumped into me causing me to hairspray my eyes and now every third eyelash is stuck together making me look like Munch’s Scream?)
As soon as we crossed the threshold from ceremony to cocktail hour I grabbed a plate, but my tuxedoed Romeo pulled me from the tortellini line to inform me that he forgot to go to the bank. His eyes being now completely crossed, I took his bank card and drove to a nearby branch of our bank.
I decided to take the cash that the ATM spit out and change it into larger bills. There was only one teller; an acne-prone 18-year-old whom I’ll call “Kenneth,” with a falsetto voice cracking from belated puberty.
“Hello, welcome to xxxx Bank. How may I help you?”
“Hello, Kenneth, I’d like this converted into larger bills.”
“Sure, do you have an account with us?”
“I sure do, Kenneth.”
“Can I see your I.D.?”
“Sure Kenneth.” I handed him my ATM card. Except it wasn’t MY ATM card. It was my husband’s.
Kenneth: “This card says James Piccirillo.”
Me: “That’s my husband.”
Man in line behind me: “Oh, here we go!”
Kenneth: “Why do you have James Piccirillo’s card?”
Me: “Because he’s my husband.”
Kenneth: “Do you have I.D.?”
Me: “Yes, in my purse; in my car.”
Man in line behind me: “I knew it!”
Me: (Turning) “Shut the **** up!”
Security: “Mam, can you come with me?”
Me: “Are you kidding me? I’m dressed for a wedding! Do I LOOK like a bank robber?” (Note: very poor choice of words.)
Fast forward. Me, Security, Assistant Manager and Kenneth waiting in conference room for Manager to return from break. Manager returns from break with predictable latte in hand, and allows Security and Kenneth to escort me to minivan to retrieve I.D. to prove I am Mrs. Piccirillo at a time when I no longer have any desire to be Mrs. Piccirillo.
After much contemplation and whispered discussion I am released. Kenneth says, “Have a nice day! Thank you for banking with ****.”
To which I shout over my shoulder, “Go **** yourself, Kenneth!”
Return to reception one hour fifteen minutes later—dinner in progress—a lukewarm dish of chicken breathlessly delivered to me by unenthused server. Cross-eyed husband comes over; look on my face is my secret super-power that momentarily uncrosses his eyes; terrified, he retreats to bar. While on my way to refill my club soda, the maid-of-honor has burning need to inform me that her husband was nervous because he thought he knew me, in the biblical sense, but she “checked me out” and I’m not the person he thought I was. She snorted and told me that I looked just like a whore he knew; then laughed, “You look just like a whore…” (Long laugh.) Not amused, I watched her limp tongue swat the whipped cream goatee left behind by a sexually-named shot she had just devoured. Stone sober, I am rendered absolutely speechless.
Moral of the story: Escape with the Mexican when you have the chance. You’d have clean windows, he wouldn’t call you names, and for an extra 20 bucks he’d probably mow your lawn.