Where Did I Put the Damn Thing

Russ called Sunday morning to ask if I needed anything from Publix. After I read off the few items on my list, he said when he got home he'd take care of depositing the check I received last month as part of a settlement with  Met Life. The depositing had to be done online; I don't have an account at a bank here in Columbus. Because of the social distancing rules here at Covenant Woods, Russ can come no further than the entryway between the two sets of sliding doors.

"Put the check on the table out there, and I'll pick it up when I drop off the groceries," he said. "And I'll need your user name and password."

"They'll be there waiting for you," I said.

They were there when Russ arrived, but they hadn't been waiting. I handed the envelope with the check and log-in information to Shirley, who was working at the desk, and I asked her to put it on the table. Just as Shirley went out one set of sliding doors, Russ came in the other.

What took me so long? I'd made the mistake of putting the check in a safe place, a place I was absolutely certain I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. The second I got off the phone with Russ, I grabbed a sheet of paper to jot down the user name and password. And I didn't stop there, I also put down the answers to the security questions the bank's computer sometimes asks me. Then I opened the drawer to retrieve the check. The place I'd put it so I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. It wasn't there. For fifteen minutes, I searched and searched to no avail. It wasn't long before my biggest concern wasn't finding the check, it was finding a way to tell Russ I'd lost the check, without feeling like a certified idiot. The last possible place I thought it might be was in my checkbook. But, why would I put it there? I don't know, but I did.

The moral of this story? Never put important items somewhere you're sure you'll never forget having put them there.

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What's in a Name?

Picking up my mail was delightful: no bills, no junk mail, just one official looking envelope. Back in the apartment, I opened it and found a check for $4,800, a settlement of some sort involving Met Life. But there was a problem: I do all my banking at the bank I banked at in Ashtabula. I did have an account at a bank here for a while, but I seldom used it. OPERS and Social Security were sending all my money to the bank up North and it didn't seem worth the effort to have them send it to the bank here.

The question was, how do I get the check out of my greedy little hands in Georgia and into the bank in Ohio? The Internet, of course. I pulled up the July 1st email from the bank that let me know a check had been deposited in my account. I skipped over that part and looked for the link to the site to link up with if there is a problem. 

A click of the link brought up a page that asked for my user name and password. I dutifully typed them in, clicked on "Continue", and waited to be directed to a site with the answers to my questions. Instead, a group of red letters told me something was wrong. It did not recognize the stuff I'd typed in and told me to type in my user name and password. Carefully hunting before pecking each letter, number, or symbol, I reentered the requested information. They again responded by telling me something was wrong. "Enter your user name and password!" I did, for a third time, another big swing and a miss.

Below the red letters telling me to get my act together and enter my user name and password was the number to call if there was a problem. There was, and I called. After pressing a series of numbers in response to a lengthy list of questions, I was permitted to speak with a living, breathing human being. He began the conversation by asking a series of questions in order to be certain I was the person I said I was. 

The question I found most interesting: "What was make and model of the last car you purchased?' "Chevy Aveo," I told him. He went straight to the next question, giving no indication of the correctness of my answer. But I knew I was right. I'm proud of that old Aveo. I bought it in 2005. Seven years later, when I moved down here to Georgia, I gave it to Russ. Eight years later, in 2020, the Aveo is still getting Russ were he needs to go. OK. the car's longevity has more to do with the care Russ gives it than his father's astuteness in purchasing it. But there is plenty of credit to go around, and I'm claiming my share.

Once convinced that I was indeed Tom Harris, the guy on the phone turned to my difficulties with the bank's website. "What's your user name?" he asked. My answer elicited a "Wait a minute," "We have your user name as . . ." One syllable into my user name and my stupidity was obvious, even to me. I'd been typing in the user name and password for my credit card. 

After admitting my nitwittedness, I asked about depositing the check in his bank. "Do you have a Smartphone?" he asked. Alas, my phone is dumb. Russ, being so much smarter than his old man, has a Smartphone and has downloaded an app from the bank's site. Wish us luck.