So I go to my birthday party (at someone else’s house), and I’m coming home. I arrive at the bus stop and see the next night bus is in fifteen minutes (4:45 am.) So I go to the nearby bank machine, thinking, I don’t want to wait, I’ll just take a taxi. I start to open the door, think, Naah, I’ll save money and take the bus. Of course, at that point the night bus roars past. :mad:
Anyway, I go into the bank machine - a Caisse Desjardins - and it’s not working. OK. Fine. I hail a cab, and tell him to go to the corner of Greene and de Maisonneuve, where there’s the nearest TD Bank (my bank) to my house. I’ll just pop in and get some money, we’ll drive home. Fine.
Wrong. I get into the bank and both machines are out of order. Hmmm. OK, fine. There’s a Bank of Montreal across the street. I go tell the cabbie what I’m doing, and pop across the street. Both Bank of Montreal machines are out of order.
Now I’m worried. But I get back in the cab and suggest the cabbie take me to Place Saint-Henri; there’s a Laurentian bank there. Now he’s pissed. He starts to drive me back downtown. We get to another TD bank. Three machines. All out of order. There’s a Royal Bank up the street. Four machines. Out of order.
He is furious with me. He’s yelling at me, accusing me of ripping him off. I invite him to come take a look. The Royal Bank machines are beaming a big helpful Out Of Order, clearly visible through the windows. He keeps yelling. Fine. OK. I wouldn’t believe me if I were me, either. I mean really. Twelve bank machines at five locations for four separate banks, all out of order? What the fuck? But I swear on my grandmother’s grave, it’s the truth.
He’s furious. He takes my bank card and then grabs my shoulder bag. All it has in it is some poetry books and my work uniform, and I’m not interested in explaining the loss of same to my boss, but I understand, so I let him hold it. (Incidentally, this guy is at least half a head taller than 6’1" me, and quite built. I’m rather scared by now.)
He says he’s going to call the police. All right. Fine. Police, when they’re not teargassing me or beating the shit out of black people, are fine. The situation will be settled. I want to pay this guy somehow and get out of here, preferably in that order. I’m not trying to weasel out of this. I want to pay this man!
He flags down a cop car. The cop takes our sides of the story. I tell her the whole sad tale. I say I have a chequebook at home but he doesn’t want a cheque (I asked). I mention I have parents I could bother for money. (It’s now 5:15 or so in the morning.) I say that that’s my bank card and bag the cabbie is holding. He gives them back, then stomps off into his car and drives away.
The police officer tells me in the future I should tell taxi drivers if I want them to take me to a bank, so they can refuse me if necessary. She tells me I’ll need to walk home. (I gathered.) Then she drives away. I walk home (not terribly far). It’s now six in the morning and your correspondent is telling you his sad tale rather than going to sleep so he can wake up four hours later.
Gaaahhhh. How on earth could it be that ALL the banks in the FRICKING CITY are broken at the same time?? Right when I need them to pay an open account???!!
And what am I going to do about this guy? I want to call the taxi company and figure out who he is so I can pay him. Do you think $30 would be enough (there was $20 on the till by the time he drove away)? But I’m not really a fan of giving my return address to people who are very very angry at me. How should I get it to him?
Now I feel all guilty for something that was probably only slightly my fault (I hope).
I’m going to bed now.
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