Banking Bungles

The minute Green Day’s “Wake Me Up when September Ends” pierces through my dream, I bolt upright and grab my phone in an utter panic. It’s Marcus.

“What’s wrong?” I squall. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course, I’m okay. I just thought you should wake up right now is all.”

Sleepily, I pound my talking alarm clock until it beeps. Then, it says the time: 7:30 a.m.

“You thought I should wake up at nearly 7 a.m.?” I bark.

“Well, yeah. Partly because I’d like to ask to borrow some money from you today.”

“You’re sighted. You have a full-time job. Why would you need to borrow money from me? Do you not see something wrong with this dynamic here?”

“I’ll make it up to you either with dinner or a young stud.” Marcus was always joking that he could hook me up on dates.

“I think I’ll take the dinner. You know how I feel about pizza.”

“Dude, you got it.”

“Anyway, wait a minute, and I’ll just send money to your account.”

Marcus is a solid friend. If he says he needs money, I’m going to help. I open the SMS section of my phone and text my bank’s number. When the screen reader is in the text area, I type in a few commands.

Send money to Marcus.

After a few automated prompts and some back and forth with the robot on the other end, I learn that —- for some reason —- I haven’t added Marcus as a contact to my QuickPay profile. When he hears this, he immediately pounces.

“Ouch, Rob. Really, ouch.”

“You should be thanking me, actually. If I get hacked, your information isn’t in my bank account.”

“Good point. You’re right. I thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too, even though you call me at 6:30 a.m.”

“7:30 a.m., actually.”

“Whatever. Give me a sec.” I put the tiny phone on the bed and look in my money drawer for some folded-up bills in any shape. I don’t find anything. I growl when I slap the phone to my ear again.

“Guess what.”

“You’re a rich white man?”

“I wish, but no. I don’t have any money. Like, paper money. All I’ve got is plastic. And I can’t add you as a contact over the phone, so I’ve got to go down there.”

“Why can’t you add me to your bank stuff by calling them?”

“You know, Marcus, security.”

“But they ask you for your social and stuff, right?”

“I’m telling you, dude. I’ve got to go down there.”

“But why can’t you just use the internet? Oh, wait! You can’t. You can’t use it. Man, I wish I could see your face right now.”

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of complaining that this whole predicament is his fault. “When do you plan to come over, brat?”

“About five. Is that okay?”

“That should give me enough time. How much do you need?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“It’s a deal! I’ll see you later.”

“Can’t wait.” He hung up.

I moan and groan before setting the phone on my bed. Of course, I wouldn’t have put him in my contacts because, well, I’ve never needed to use the QuickPay by SMS feature before. And unfortunately, as technologically advanced as banks are, my bank only lets people transfer or send money using their contact list.

I guess that restriction makes sense. But still, it means I will have to make an otherwise completely unnecessary trip to the bank. I know calling them won’t work, but I try anyway.

After verifying my information, a young man asks me what I need help with.

“Well, I’m trying to send money to a friend,” I begin.

“Is he in your contacts?”

“How do you know it’s a ‘he’?” The question has just flown out.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Kingett. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just a bit grumpy this morning, but it’s not your fault. But anyway, it is a ‘he,’ and his name is Marcus.”

“I see here that you don’t have him in your QuickPay contacts,” the man says. He sounds a bit puzzled. I don’t understand why because he has verified my information on this very call.

“I know,” I say, “but I was wondering if you could help me send money to him.”

“No, sir,” is the brisk yet sorrowful reply. “Not over the phone. If you have a computer, you could send money to him that way.”

“I don’t have a computer.” I lie not only because lying is easier than explaining my situation but also because, if I explain the experiment, people might be more willing to accommodate it.

“Well, then, the only other way is for you to come down here and do it in person since you can’t do it online.”

“But I’m disabled. I’m blind. I can’t just hop in a car today and come down there.” Even though the bank is only a few blocks from my home, I don’t want to go outside today. I want to stay inside. I don’t want to go out and face the many cracked sidewalks and my cane getting stuck in those cracks. I don’t want to deal with parallel traffic or crossing intersections or, again, broken sidewalks. “Are you sure we can’t do it over the phone? You’ve verified my info.”

“You can do it online,” he intones.

I explain again that I don’t have a computer. “I wish you guys had complimentary cab service or something,” I blurt. “You’ve already verified my information, so why not just look in my history, see all the other times I’ve sent Marcus money, ask me for his information, I repeat it, and if it’s right, you send him money?”

“Because if I did that, I’d get fired. It’s our policy.” He sounds so sincere that the next question just blurts out of my mouth.

“If I can make it down there today, will you be there?”

“Of course. Name’s Lorenzo.”

“Great, name’s Robert,” I respond automatically before mentally facepalming myself.

“When you get here, I’m the only Lorenzo around,” he says.

I hang up the phone, still a little perplexed and annoyed. It isn’t fair that I have to walk blocks to my bank just because I, technically speaking, don’t have internet. After all, the wireless drivers in my laptop are still uninstalled, even after today’s adventure. And besides, I’m doing this project for a cause.

Yet, the rest of the morning, I can’t stop grumbling. It isn’t just about the experiment, either. My frustration is broader because this experiment has amplified how disabled I am.

I feel like my whole life has been a disability tax in one way or another. Day after day, I have to exert extra energy just to interact with the sighted world in a manner that will allow me, maybe, to participate fully.

While the internet isn’t a requirement, nor is it perfect, at least it has sliced that disability tax clean in half. Sure, dozens upon dozens of websites don’t have properly coded HTML, leaving me wondering for minutes what a certain button on a page does or where an empty link will go. But still, if I had the internet, I wouldn’t have to walk all the way to this bank, try to explain myself to sighted people, and then walk all the way back. I wouldn’t have to worry about the ATM’s talking feature and wonder if it’s broken today. I could just press a few keys and send money through wires. Not today, though. Not today.

When I step outside with my cane in hand and my trusty Nokia in my pocket, my mood lifts with every step. I enjoy the surprising smell of a new bakery that has just opened near me. I stop to sniff the many fragrances, boosting my mood even more.

I still have a sense of dread when I open the outer doors to the bank. Fleetingly, I wonder how much disability tax I’ll be forced to pay today. No matter how many times you enter a place, you always prepare for your energy to be completely gone when you leave because your disability energy will be stolen away from you with a few questions and assumptions. Also, you always have to play a teacher in some fashion —- always. Instead of training from big corporations or individuals looking things up, I’m always required to be the teacher. This role starts anew with each interaction.

The ATM noises don’t comfort me. I go into the bank lobby and look around for someone with a blurry nametag or some sign of officialdom. Finally, I decide just to walk up to a blurry person sitting behind a computer by the entrance.

“Lorenzo?” I call. “I’m Robert Kingett.”

The blur clicks a mouse and then turns to face me.

“Yup, that’s me. So, actually, do you want to set up your account so that you don’t have to manually come down here again? I was thinking about that before you arrived.”

“I can’t; I don’t have internet,” I repeat. “Or a computer. There’s no way to do this by phone?”

“No. The reason for that is, as I’m sure you know, security.” I can’t help noticing something smells like blueberry pie. My stomach starts growling so loud that Lorenzo pauses before leaping up. “Would you like me to help you to a seat so we can get started?”

“Actually, rather than doing this, why don’t I just use the ATM?”

“Oh, of course.”

“But wait. Lorenzo, does it talk?”

“I’m new here, so I don’t know. Let me ask my manager. Okay. Just wait here.”

I know the bank has talking ATMs but not at every branch. And still, the technology has broken on me before, so I want to check. The scent of blueberry pie drifts into my nose again, so I turn my head to see Lorenzo’s blur walking toward me, holding something out.

When I take the object, I’m pleased to discover that it’s a set of earphones. I give Lorenzo a big smile, as he says, “Our ATM does talk, yes. Would you like me to help you operate the machine?”

“Yes,” I say, grateful because I don’t want to walk out and grope about the ATM for a headphone jack. Sighted people wouldn’t need to grope, I think, as we walk back out to the ATM I passed earlier.

When Lorenzo puts the headphones into the jack and I place them over my ears, I hear so much crackling that I make a face like I’m about to pinch one off and have to hurry to the bathroom.

Both earpieces are worn down. I can tell just by the speaker grille in each ear. The pad is completely gone in one ear, and the other side has no sound. I strain my left ear to hear what the ATM is telling me, but I can’t make out what it says. I start scolding myself for not bringing my own headphones.

“These aren’t working,” I say. I mean he should have looked at these things, I think bitterly before taking the headphones off. “Do you have any more? Maybe a different pair?”

“Lemme go check,” says Lorenzo in a rush. He leaves me feeling extremely vulnerable as I tap my cane aimlessly, trying to wiggle the wire enough to at least catch what Eloquence, the ATM’s synthesizer, is telling me. Nothing. I can’t get a clear signal. This is so maddening that I actually consider just letting myself cry just to relinquish some anger and frustration.

By the time I’m planning on just going home, Lorenzo comes back. He says, “That’s all the working headphones we have.”

“How is that possible? How is that possible! These talking ATMs should be standard.”

“I know. I’m sorry! We don’t have many visually impaired customers.”

“I’ve been banking with you for more than five years,” I almost shouted. I wasn’t even yelling at him, but I’m not sure sighted people understand how this frustration grows, how it always feels like starting over.

“Most of our visually impaired customers bank online,” he says, still calm and professional despite my harsh tone. I want to scream. Instead, I yank the cord out of the jack and sigh.

“Can we do this inside? I mean can you and I sit down and transfer the money?”

“Of course,” Lorenzo says. For some reason, this response makes me want to cry all over again. I slap on a smile, and we go back inside after I hand over the broken headphones.

We make our way to a cubicle a little farther from the entrance. Lorenzo sits in front of me, typing away. He asks me a lot of information he has previously asked, asks to see my ID, and then finally logs into my account.

“Since we’re here,” I say in a much calmer tone than a few seconds ago, “could you look into doing special things over the phone because I don’t have internet? Or maybe by SMS?” He scratches his admittedly attractive, thin chin. He’s silent as his mouse clicks. I picture a horde of alien ships blocking his mouse from clicking the proper tags. I picture his tiny on-screen ship blowing them up so that we can get to where we want to go.

His soft tone snaps me back to reality as he replies. “It doesn’t look like it. Mostly, we want people to do stuff online, not by phone.”

“Yeah, well, not everybody has internet, you know.” As I argue, I can feel my face grow hot before I calm down again.

He sighs, sucks his teeth, and then mutters, “This is some bullshit.”

“I agree.” I nod.

He clears his throat and then clicks some more.

“I’m really sorry about this. I’m trying to find a way we can do this by phone next time or SMS.”

“Will SMS work after I add Marcus to my bank contacts?”

“Yeah, but that ain’t gonna help you if you don’t got contacts for future people,” he says absently.

“What about, like, if I have extra security? Can I do more stuff by phone if I say a passcode or something?”

“That’s what I was looking into, and it seems as though there isn’t a way to do that. It’s either online or in person.”

After a few more minutes of clicking, sighing, and sucking his teeth, he finally sighs. He says, “Okay. I went into your history. You’re right. You sent money to an account ending in —- you said his name was Marcus, right?”

“Yeah. I’d like to send money to him.”

While Lorenzo sends the money, I text Marcus.

Check your account. Money is on the way.

You text like my grandpa, comes the retort. Then, after a few seconds, Thank you. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.

I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. Lorenzo looks at me as if I’ve grown twelve more feet.

“Well, that’s all, Mr. Kingett. Anything else?”

“Nope. I’m all good,” I say brightly as I gather my things to leave.

“Hey, wait. I thought you said you didn’t have a computer at home.” I stop in place.

“I don’t have a computer,” I say, heart pounding. Has someone hacked into my bank account while I’ve been offline? I wouldn’t be shocked.

“I’m seeing here that you logged on a month ago when you sent that last payment to Marcus.”

“Yes. I can’t use that computer now,” I say softly.

“Want me to check your security for you?” I nod vigorously, and Lorenzo begins clicking rapidly.

“No strange activity. No suspicious logins. All looks good from here.”

“Oh, my god, yes. Great!” I exhale, suddenly feeling happy to have endured the disability tax today.

“No problem. Would you like me to show you out?”

“Yeah.” I take the slim elbow he offers and tap my way out of the bank.

On the way home, I check the time. The excursion has taken me nearly four hours so far, and I haven’t even made it all the way home. As I tap my cane along the sidewalk, I receive a text, but I don’t have time to look at it until I enter my apartment. I pull out my phone.

Bank alert. Marcus has sent you money. The amount is the exact amount I’ve just sent him. Confused, I compose a new text message.

Why did you send this back to me?

Well, he replied. I thought about what you said, and you were right. I make far more money than you do, so I decided to give it back. I hope that’s okay.

I sigh. The whole day suddenly flashes before my eyes, and I slap my forehead in bewilderment. Marcus doesn’t have a clue about how today has gone for me, and he doesn’t understand that going to the bank was an epic journey.

What’s even worse is the fact that I don’t even know how to start explaining the disability tax, how my whole day was spent at the bank, or how I’m so exhausted I didn’t want to ever talk to anybody again. At least not for about a hundred years.

I keep listening to his text, wondering where to begin, how to begin. I sigh and then flop onto my bed, ready for a good, long nap. I hit Reply and type.

It’s okay, but could you do me a favor?

Sure Rob. What?

Could you order me some pizza? I don’t have enough money.

Without hesitation, he orders me a pizza. The total is the exact amount we’ve been exchanging today—-plus tax.

Some could say I lied. Honestly though, even if I did, I still think this treat was well deserved after the day I’ve had. And let’s be real: Marcus will never have to pay the disability tax I had to endure today.