A Peanut Butter Story

Peanut  allergies did not seem as common when I was a kid for some reason. If they were common, we didn't have any peanut allergy online networks proclaiming it like we do today. There was no Huffington Post to warn us. No Dr. Oz to explain it to  us. No Dr. Phil to put it into perspective. No Oprah to soothe us. No Maury to exploit us. Those who suffered a peanut allergy suffered in silence and went through most of their childhood realizing that Mr. Peanut, the cartoon guy with the manacle over one eye in the top hat on the canister of Planter's was the enemy.


And how.


My peanut allergy was discovered abruptly when I was about 7. Life just kept getting better for me one day at a time back then.


One day my dad was in the kitchen making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for himself. For as long as I can remember, I never liked the smell of peanut butter. It was not just an off putting smell for me. It actually bothered me to the point where I didn't want to be in the same room where it was being used. It was for that reason that I had never tasted peanuts or peanut butter up to that point. My parents never made me eat it. It wasn't like a vegetable to be avoided. It was peanut butter, synonymous with a snack food. No big deal.


For some reason on this particular day I went into the kitchen where my dad was now eating his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I sat down at the table across from him.


"Hi." I said.
"Hi" he said back in between dramatic chews of Skippy.
"Can I have a bite?" I asked.
"You don't like peanut butter" dad replied.
"I know. But I want to try it."


Dad raised an eyebrow.


"You sure?" he asked.
"Yup" I said. 
He smiled and tore off a piece of the sandwich and handed it to me. I cautiously accepted it. For a second I stared at it like it was a precious stone. Should I? The smell of it was already bothering me, although I didn't know why. Okay. Go for it. Wait. Should I?


I think I wanted to get in on the peanut butter thing because all the kids at school seemed to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in their lunches. I always had tuna salad or baloney. And that was fine. But now I wanted to know what I was missing never having tried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was such a staple back then.


My dad sat there eating his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and waited for me to take my  first bite of one.


Finally, I did. Slowly. I took that first bite and started to chew. Within seconds the roof of my mouth started to itch. Within a full minute my tongue started to swell. My dad put down his sandwich and watched in horror as my face started to swell. I started to wheeze. My eyes swelled shut. Later my dad said they looked like two little almonds. Before I knew it he was shouting for my mom who was in the basement doing laundry.


"VIVIAN! HEY VIVIAN! GET UP HERE!"  


He ran over to me, scooped me up in his arms and that's when it got weird. He just sort of started running around the house with me in his arms,no particular destination in mind. He carried me into the bathroom and threw cold water on me as if I had burst into flames and needed to be extinguished. I don't know what he thought that was going to do. Then he took me into my bedroom and tossed me on the bed and started to wrap a blanket around me. Never mind that I was soaking wet from having just had cold water thrown on me. As I wheezed and gasped for air I managed to wonder what in the hell was going on. I tried to talk but I couldn't. My mom came upstairs and joined him in the hysteria. 


"GIVE HER TO ME, BOB! SOMETHING'S WRONG WITH HER EYES! BOB! LOOK AT HER EYES!"


My dad handed me to my mom so she could run around the house screaming with me cradled in her arms. My mom ran back to the bathroom and with one free hand she threw open the medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of ipecac. My dad was hot on her heels. She started to open the bottle frantically.


"Vivian! She didn't drink poison! She ate a bite of my peanut butter sandwich!" my dad yelled. 
"This might make her throw it up!" my mom yelled back.
"Nobody throws up peanut butter!" my dad shouted, "it's too thick!"


I kept wheezing. Hello? Child dying here. Make a decision.


"Here honey. Drink this" mom said calmly. I couldn't. My tongue had swollen to the point where I couldn't swallow anything. I tried to nod to make her aware of this. I pointed at my throat. Finally.


"Bob! I don't think she can swallow the ipecac!" Mom shrieked.
"That's probably because she's so swollen!" Dad replied anxiously.
"I can't get over her eyes! She looks like a cute little Chinese baby!" Mom said, taking a moment we really didn't have to reflect on the possibility that maybe my real father was Chairman Mao while I clung to life.
"Maybe we should take her to the emergency room!" Dad finally said.


Geniuses. Both of them.


*********************************


Lucky for them the hospital was literally less than a mile away. My dad sort of tossed me in the back seat of the Ford and my mom piled into the passenger seat. I sort of bounced around back there as dad put the car in reverse, tore out of the driveway, put it back in drive and tore off down the street. He was his own ambulance, sans the siren. 


When we got to the emergency room entrance my dad nearly drove through the double plate glass windows where ambulances dropped off people. The car jerked to halt and dad  put it in park. He reached into the back seat and grabbed me. I was nearly unconscious but not so much that I couldn't hear my mom screaming, "Bob! Bob! Is she dead? Bob? Make sure she's not dead!"


Yeah. Make sure she's not dead. Because if she is this whole emergency room trip is in vain.


"She's not dead, Vivian! She's just not breathing right! Something happened after she ate that piece of my peanut butter sandwich!" dad said as he carried my wheezing bad self through the doors of the E.R.  


My mom was hot on his heels.


"Why did you give her your sandwich! She doesn't even like peanut butter!" mom insisted.


"She wanted to try it!" dad yelled back at her. 


Once inside the attending physicians took over. And that was a good thing. A nurse grabbed me from my dad's arms and rushed me to a treatment area. A doctor showed up only seconds later. My mom was looking around and saying things like "Wow, this is a big hospital" and "I hope they have a restroom."


The doctor's quick thinking saved me. Heaven knows my parents' hysteria didn't. Within seconds I felt my pants get yanked down by the nurse while the doctor stuck me with a needle full of something that got everything under control within minutes. Almost like magic, my throat stopped itching, the swelling in my eyes went down, my tongue returned to its normal size and I was starting to breathe normally again. All was good. The nurse brought me some ice chips to suck on. The doctor turned to my parents to talk to them. Mom was still looking around. Dad was just standing there staring at me.


"You folks want to tell me what happened here?" the doctor asked them. Dad was speechless at first. I guess maybe he was in some sort of shock about it all. He could be like that in emergencies. No fear. Mom assumed control of the situation.


"He fed her peanut butter. She's never liked it. I think she was rebelling" mom explained matter-of-factly.


The doctor looked annoyed.


"Folks? Your daughter had an asthma attack. If she ate peanut butter right before the attack, she's probably seriously allergic to it. I've seen kids come in here before with the same symptoms. I've seen enough of this to know that she was in anaphylactic shock. That's why I gave her that shot. Seeing that it helped her right away, I was right. She could've died. You were right to bring her in right away" he explained. I didn't see any reason to mention to the good doctor that first they doused me in cold water, wrapped me in a blanket and then tried to make me throw up the peanut butter by forcing me to drink ipecac syrup.


"Doctor" my mom said nervously, "She looked Chinese." I saw my dad roll his eyes.
"Vivian. Enough with the Chinese eyes. Her eyes were swollen, doctor. Like two little almonds" he said to the doctor. Mom was insistent.
"No, Bob. I had a friend in college who was Oriental" she corrected him. She looked back at the doctor.
"She looked Chinese" she insisted. The doctor held up both of his hands as if to tell them both to shut the hell up about my Chinese Almond eyes.


"It would be a good idea to get her to an allergist to find out what she's allergic to. If she's allergic to peanuts, chances are good she's allergic to everything in the legume family."


"The what family?" mom asked. 
"Legumes. Peanuts, beans, peas..."


I could handle being allergic to peas. I hated them.


It was clear neither my mom or dad knew what legumes were. My mom thought the doctor said "lagoon."


"That's like a pond or something, isn't it?" she asked the doctor.
"Uh, no. Legumes. Not Lagoon. Legumes are in a family of nuts" he replied.


Speaking of a family of nuts.


***********************************


I stayed at the hospital for another hour until they got all my intake information. Good thing, too. It wouldn't be my last trip to the E.R. for anaphylactic shock. In fact, the second time my parents rushed me up there was for the time when I accidentally ate peanut butter again that was baked into some cookies my mom had made that were cooling on the top rack of the stove. She had warned me not to eat the ones with the fork ridges pressed on the top, but I didn't listen. 


"Those have peanut butter in them. Don't eat those, honey."
"Okay" I said.


In one ear and out the other.


The same doctor in the E.R. treated me again. As my dad carried me through the plate glass double doors once more and my mom followed frantically at his heels yelling about how my eyes looked Chinese again and I needed one of those shots, I could've sworn I heard the doctor say to the nurse, "Here comes that little Morgan girl and her hysterical parents again. Poor kid."


Pants yanked down. Shot in ass. Breathing restored once again. I would live to see another day.


And that is my Peanut Butter Story. 


The End.

Four Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain

I remember the day my parents took me to the optometrist for my first eye exam. I was only 6.


There were signs that there might be a problem. More than once I was catching the corners of tables, knocking over bric a brac and pulling table cloths across the room because a button on my shirt had gotten caught on them. I was squinting at the TV. I was squinting when I would try to read. I was squinting at my vegetables on the plate. Was that a pea? A carrot? A bean? All of the above?


Signs. Yes. There were signs.  One day my parents and I were sitting in the living room. I was attempting to read a book. It was then that my mom said to my dad, who was immersed in the morning paper, "Bob, I think we need to take Cheryl to the eye doctor."  My dad was nonplussed about the idea. I remember him sort of grunting and saying, "Okay. Make an appointment." My dad sort of went along with whatever my mom said where I was concerned.


"Bob, I think Cheryl should join the astronauts on the next Apollo mission."


"Okay then. Call NASA and have it arranged. Just make sure you tell them she's only 6 and probably won't care much for those space food sticks."


Seriously, he left all that sort of stuff to my mom. The dentist, the doctor, the shots, the PTA meetings, the school conferences. And now, the optometrist.


Most people who wear glasses will tell you they didn't realize how bad their eyes were until they had them checked. Such was the case with me.


I liked Dr. Crane. He was old and gentle and kind. The kind of eye doctor you'd like to hug if that sort of behavior was appropriate toward an eye care professional. Dr. Crane never hugged me, but when he looked into my eyes I got sleepy for some reason. His voice was so soothing. He would put those big mechanical glasses on me and stare at me through them and say, "Okay, Cheryl. Is this better or worse?" I would say, "uh, better...no..the same..no worse...wait..." He was patient. He would say it again as he changed the lenses in the big mechanical pair of glasses.


"Better or worse?"
"Better."
"This is better?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"Good."


Then the eye chart. My first eye chart.


"Which line ahead looks clearer on the chart?"
"The top one."
"Can you read it?"
"Yes."
Silence.
"WILL you read it for me then?" Dr. Crane sounded a little impatient for the first time.
"Yes."
"Okay, any time you're ready, Cheryl."
"Oh, uh, E O C H D F G O."
"Good. Now I'm going to ask you to read the last line."
"I can't see the last line."
"Just read what you can."
"I can't see it at all. It's a blurry line."


Dr. Crane slid a piece of glass in front of the mechanical glasses.
"Is this better?"
"Kind of."
"Okay then. Can you read them please?"
"E O C H D F G O. Hey, that's the same as the bigger line at the top!"
"Yes, yes it is, Cheryl."
"So why not just let me read the top one that I can see?"


I could tell he was getting a little annoyed with me.  But he didn't let it show.


"Because I'm trying to find out how strong your glasses should be."


I pulled away from the mechanical glasses and squinted at Dr. Crane.
"Glasses?" I said in a still, small voice. I was 6. I did not want glasses.


My mom had been sitting nearby flipping through a magazine. Up until this point, she wasn't paying much attention. But now she put the magazine down and said, "Your great Grandpa wore glasses and my Grandpa had a glass eye!"


What?


Dr. Crane even looked mildly horrified.


"Vivian, you shouldn't tell her about the glass eye. It's irrelevant to Cheryl's situation."


Yeah, Vivian. Put a lid on it.


Turns out Dr. Crane had been treating my mom's side of the family for years and had fitted my Grandpa with his famous glass eye. But still. Why bring it up now? Unless Dr. Crane was about to gouge out both my eyes and replace them with two marbles, who the hell cares?


He switched back into soothing voice mode again and pulled the mechanical eyes off me.  I leaned back in the chair.


"Well" Dr. Crane said, addressing my mom more than me, "she needs glasses, Vivian. She's myopic. Really near sighted. Just like your great Grandpa was. Could be hereditary. But either way, she's going to have to wear glasses for the rest of her life most likely." Mom just nodded approvingly. He could've said to her, "Cheryl is growing a third eye and will more than likely grow up to be a freak. You should call Barnum and Bailey as soon as you get home" and my mom would've complied.


I sat there with a look of horror on my face. I wanted to scream at both of them.


UH...I'M RIGHT HERE!


Finally, Dr. Crane looked back at me.


"Come on into the lobby, Cheryl. We'll fit you with new glasses. We just got some new styles in and we'll find you something that will look good on you."


What he didn't say was that it was 1966 and there were not a whole lot of cat ear frames that were going to comfortably accommodate what would come to be known as "coke bottle lenses."


In 1966 there were no plastic lenses. There were no scratch resistant options. There were glass lenses and that was it.


I tried on only a few pairs before I settled on a tortoise colored pair of cat ears. All the rage in 1966. I couldn't really see how they looked on my face because the lenses weren't in them yet. My mom sat next to me as I tried them on. She made few comments about my choices. Once or twice she would say something like, "You know Marilyn Monroe wore glasses in How to Marry a Millionaire." This was little consolation. At the tender age of six I had no idea who Marilyn Monroe was yet.


"They'll be ready in a week, Vivian" Dr. Crane told my mom. My dad picked us up and as we drove home my mom and dad chatted about my new glasses as I sat slumped in the back seat of the Ford pondering my future as a four eyed freak show.


"What did the doctor say?" my dad asked.
"She needs glasses. She's myopic. That means she's very near sighted. But she picked out a pretty pair of glasses. I told her Marilyn Monroe wore glasses in How to Marry a Millionaire."


Again, people. I'm 6 years old. Who the hell is Marilyn Monroe?


********************************************************************


My glasses were ready a week later as promised. During the ride back to Dr. Crane's office my dad drove in silence. My mother did not.


"Now when you get these glasses you're going to have to be careful at school" she explained. "You'll have to tell the gym teacher you can't play dodge ball anymore because they might break."


I seriously doubted I would have to tell the gym teacher anything. The fact that I was going to be wearing circus size cat ear glasses on my six year old head was probably going to be telling enough.


"And you'll have to be careful not to scratch them at recess. Watch yourself when you're on those monkey bars" she added. What she didn't know was that the only time I climbed up on the monkey bars was so I could find a quiet place to read.


I sat in the back seat quietly and watched the scenery pass me by in a 40 mile per hour blur. I thought wow, on the way home I'll be able to see all of this clearly. Lucky me.


My dad said nothing until we arrived at Dr. Crane's office and parked the car.


"I'll wait here. You take her in to get them" he said.
"Don't you want to see them on her?" Mom asked.
"I'll see her when she comes out with them on" Dad replied.
"Fine" Mom said. She grabbed my hand and into Dr. Crane's office we walked.


Mom and I approached the receptionist's desk.
"We're here to pick up my daughter's glasses" mom announced. The receptionist smiled and opened a drawer in a filing cabinet and started thumbing through dozens of pairs of glasses ready to be fitted. Finally, she pulled out a tiny manila envelope. My glasses. My new Marilyn Monroe glasses. 


"Have a seat at the fitting table" she said. We walked over to the fitting table and had a seat. In front of me was a big round mirror. Mom took a seat next to me. The receptionist sat down across from me. She pulled the glasses out of the envelope and told me to look up at her. She put the glasses on me and said, "how's that?"


I looked around the office. Everything was crystal clear. I couldn't believe it. Clearer than I could ever possibly imagine. It was magical. It was the 1966 version of high def. I loved it. Everything was insanely crisp and perfect. 


"How do they feel behind your ears? Do we need to tighten them up a little?" she asked.
"A little" I said. She took them off me gently and dipped the stems in a little bowl of sand next to her that had been heated. Then she moved the stems this way and that and put the glasses back on me. My mom was just staring at me, saying nothing at first.


"How do they feel now?" the receptionist asked.
"Okay I guess" I replied, then added, "they feel kind of heavy."


Mom chimed in, "Well honey they're pretty thick. You have bad eyes." The receptionist agreed.




Yes. Yes, they were pretty thick. I looked in the mirror at two distorted eyes staring back at me. I hated them already, despite the obvious improvement to my bad vision they provided.


"You'll get used to them in a few weeks, Cheryl" the receptionist assured me.  I thought, "wanna bet?"


It was turning out to be the worst day of my life. So far.


When I was satisfied that they were fitted correctly my mom paid for them and we left the office. We got back into the car where my dad was waiting for us. He was listening to the Tiger game on the car radio.


So that's why you didn't want to come in. Whatever.


He looked at me and tried to hide an expression of surprise. I looked hideous. I knew it.


"Well those are...glasses..." he said. Mom nudged him.
"Bob...that's enough" she said.


Nobody said a word during the drive home. But I could see the passing scenery out the car window as clear as a bell. Go me.


************************************************


It was like starting my first day of school all over again. The first day I walked into Miss Hick's 2nd grade wearing my new glasses  was scary as hell. Miss Hicks wore glasses and a few other of my class mates wore glasses but I seemed to be the only one wearing glasses with thick ugly lenses that distorted my eyes.


Now, let me tell you bullies something. There is  something really hurtful about being called "frog eyes" when you're six followed by a mimicry of "ribbit, ribbit" by the class moron. And there's even something more hurtful about a teacher who just sits on her ass behind her desk and does nothing to stop the moron from teasing you. Miss Hicks was a nice enough teacher. But she didn't do shit to stop the teasing. She just let that moron have a day's worth of fun at my expense. Oh yeah, once she said, "Now, blah blah blah.  Cheryl has to wear those glasses. There's nothing she can do about it." But she didn't chastise HIM for teasing me.


I suffered in silence. I was a bookworm by nature and found myself reading alone at recess. I stopped participating in any games that the other kids were playing. No dodge ball. No kick ball. No soft ball. Nothing. The glasses were heavy and were starting to pinch my nose and the backs of my ears. I hated them. At the end of the first month of having them, there were deepening cuts on the backs of my ears and a huge red mark on the bridge of my nose. I looked and felt like the ugliest child on the planet.


Finally, the inevitable happened. My bully moron walked up to me one day at recess and went "ribbit, ribbit" one too many times. I was minding my own business reading on the swings when something inside of me snapped. Just like Ralphie Parker in "A Christmas Story," I lunged at my bully moron and knocked him to the ground. He was stronger than me and wiggled away from me before any real damage could be done. He backed off before the teacher saw us. I went back to my reading. Not five minutes later I felt a rock hit me on the side of the head. My glasses went flying off my face. The next thing I heard was the laughter of about five or six kids. This time Miss Hicks heard the commotion and walked over to the swings. I was crying. She saw my now broken glasses on the ground not far from the swings and picked them up. She motioned for me to come with her into the school and told the rest of the kids to go back to their recess.


I thought to myself, someone just threw a rock at me and they get to go back to playing? You're not going to do anything? Really?


Nope.


Once back inside her classroom, Miss Hicks examined my glasses. They were broke in two places. The bridge was cracked and the left stem was bent out of shape.


"I'll have to call your parents, Cheryl. They'll have to get your glasses fixed." My heart sank. I thought she would say something a little more promising to my six year old self like, "These are broken. You can never ever wear them again."


********************************************


My Mom and Dad sat me down in the living room that evening. My dad was holding my busted glasses in his hands. Mom was silent. She looked like she was in mourning.


"Do you know how much it's going to cost to get these fixed?" dad asked.
"No" I said quietly.
"A lot" he replied.
"It was an accident" I said.
"How was it an accident?" dad asked.
"Someone threw a rock at me" I replied.
"Miss Hicks didn't say anything about a rock" he said sternly.
"Well they did" I said.
"Why didn't she mention it?" dad asked.
"I don't know why" I replied, now on the verge of tears.
"Well. We can't afford to get them fixed right now. I'll just have to tape them up until we can" Dad said.


Oh no. What the do you mean 'tape them up?' 


I was only six but I knew in my heart what that meant. I had seen Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor. I knew what people looked like in "taped" glasses. But my dad went there. He spent the better part of that evening in the basement in his work area "taping" my glasses with masking tape. Finally, after about two hours, he came back upstairs and found me in front of the television trying to squint my way through an episode of Bonanza.


"Here. Try these on now" he said. I took my glasses from him and held them close so I could see them. Oh Sweet Jesus. I slowly put them on and looked up at my dad.


"How do they feel? Can you see okay?" he asked me. I nodded.
"Yeah. I guess so" I mumbled. They were taped at the left stem and across the bridge. Hideous.
"Well there you go then. You can wear them like that for a while until we can get back to Dr. Crane's to get them fixed."


My mom walked into the room then. She stared at me for a long minute.


"Bob! What did you do?" she exclaimed.
"I fixed her glasses" he announced proudly.
"Bob that looks terrible! She can't go to school like that!"


Thanks, mom.


"Well she'll have to until we can get them fixed" dad said.
"We need to get them fixed right away. She looks silly like that. The kids will tease her" mom said.
"Kids won't bother her. She can just ignore them if they say anything" dad replied.


 Really? Because the last time I checked big thick broken glasses repaired with masking tape did not a pacifist make. Ignore them? Like hell.


I don't know when my dad got the idea up in his head that a six year old wearing ugly broken glasses somehow built character during the Wonder Years. So far in my life I had only had one fight with a friend on the block and that was over who had the nicer lunch box and we were mostly yelling at each other. We hurled names like "poop head" and "shitty butt" and "crap face" but no punches were thrown that I recall. Nope. Cheryl didn't know how to fight. And I wasn't real eager to learn. Jumping on my bully moron at recess wasn't so much fighting as it was a reaction. 




*****************************************


The next day I went to school wearing my masking tape repaired glasses. I walked into Miss Hicks's class feeling awkward and shamed. Every eye was on me. My bully moron was the first to start with the usual "ribbit, ribbit." Then he yelled out really loud, "HEY! LOOK AT BULLFROG'S EYES NOW!" and soon the whole class was joining in laughing and carrying on at my expense. I took my seat and wanted to cry but held back the tears. Miss Hicks, as usual, sat behind her desk and did nothing. When she did speak it was to quiet the class and tell us to pay attention. We were going to talk about Daniel Boone.


Whatever, bitch. Screw Daniel Boone. I'm in no mood.


*************************************************
That day at recess was torture. I felt every eye on me. I took my book over to the swings, sat down and tried to read. It wasn't long before my bully moron sauntered over to me and started his bullshit.


"Hey Bullfrog. Ribbit, ribbit." 


I tried to pretend I didn't hear him.


"Where'd you get those big bullfrog eyes, Morgan Organ?"


Oh geez. Not Morgan Organ, too. 


"Hey Bullfrog. I'm talking to you." My bully moron was relentless.  Finally, I looked up at him.


"What?" I asked.
"Where'd you get those big ugly glasses? They look like coke bottles. You look like you got frog eyes. How come you got tape in the middle of them? You look stupid."


A few other kids started to gather around. I thought I would die.


I couldn't think of anything to say. No comebacks. No creative name for my tormenter. He just went at me like there was no tomorrow. And I just sat there on the swing and took it until the bell rang for us to go back inside. By the time he was done working me over with his hateful barbs, I was in tears. Only nobody could see them because my eyes were so distorted under the glasses.


This, perhaps, was a good thing.


**********************************************


By the time school let out that day it had started to rain during my walk home. The safety boy was leading a handful of us through the easement to our street. I didn't have an umbrella. I felt the raindrops start to patter on my glasses. As the rain eventually fell harder, I couldn't hardly see anything in front of me. I fell behind the rest of the kids walking by a few feet. I couldn't see to keep up. Finally, the safety boy turned around and stopped and waited for me.


By the time I caught up to the rest of the kids I was four blue eyes crying in the rain.


But again, nobody could tell.


And this, again, was a good thing.


*********************************************


Postscript.


A friend asked me once why I grew up with such a hard edge. Why do I prefer to be alone most of the time? Why do I fight back with such a vengeance? What made me the way I am? Why am I often a curmudgeon, a smart ass, a wiseacre, a mouthy bitch? Why do I so often spit venom when I get pissed off?


Hmmmm.


Well. I wear contacts now. I have a lot of catching up to do. It's my turn. 


My turn.


And the next time you see a little kid wearing ugly thick glasses you better be nice to them.


After all, the last thing we need in this world is another me walking around with contact lenses and an attitude in another forty-five years. Right?


Right?


You see, not all of us commit suicide when we get bullied. Some of us grow up to be an eternal pain in your ass. Some of us will stab you in your heart with a pen and watch you bleed all over the page. 


Like I said. It's my turn.


My turn.


************************************************************************

Take That to the Bank.

I don't want to start out by saying, "when I was a kid..." and then launch into a lengthy explanation about why a specific time in my life was better than what might be going on now.

That said, when I was a kid the world was more personalized. Yes it was. We were nowhere near as automated as we are now.

I remember walking to the bank on the corner with my Grandma when I was about seven or eight. Once we arrived, my Grandma would tell me to sit in one of the chairs and wait for her while she took care of her banking business. I specifically remember sitting in a standard vinyl chair that stuck to the back of my legs if I happened to be wearing shorts. But I was comfortable. I would leaf through whatever magazine was sitting on the table next to me. McCall's. Woman's Day. Life. Just sit there and flip through them, not really reading them of course. I was just happy to be spending time with my Grandma. When it was my Grandma's turn to be helped by the teller, the teller would always look over at me and wave or wink. Once a man who I will now assume was the Bank Manager came out to see me and brought me a cupcake and asked me if I was having a nice day. I said yes, I was, between large bites of chocolate goodness. One time when I was there with Grandma the same Bank Manager came out to the lobby area where I sat and gave me some paper coin rollers and told me that if I saved my coins and rolled them up and brought them back to him, he would give me dollar bills. That thought appealed to me.

I liked going to the bank with Grandma. Going to the bank with Grandma always meant I would be treated well by bank employees, given free cupcakes and coin rollers and pens with the bank's name embossed on the side. One time one of the tellers gave me a Kennedy Half Dollar. I still have it.

That was then. This is now.

One morning this past week I got up and went on one of my typical cleaning binges. You know the kind. No cushion left unturned. In the process I found a long forgotten velvet drawstring bag from some shoe company that I had filled with coins and forgot about. The bag weighed about nine pounds. No kidding.  I thought about dragging them up to someplace with a Coinstar location and dumping them and getting them counted, but then I remembered the fee. No thanks. That's when I decided I would spend an afternoon in the air conditioning rolling them myself.

First, of course, I needed some paper coin rollers. I could buy a bag of them at the store. But then I remembered I could get them free at the bank.

So guess where I went next?

These days I usually don't physically go into the bank unless I have official business to do that requires a teller, which, like most people these days, is rare. But today I went into the bank, my regular branch, mind you, to get me some paper coin rollers.

I was in a pretty good mood. Sun was out. My hair didn't look to humidity damaged. My California tan still looked fresh. Life was good. I was having a good day.

I walked into the bank and got in line behind two people. Two people. One was already at the teller counter sounding like he was finishing up. The lady in front of me was the only other person in the bank besides me and bank employees. There didn't seem to be anybody at the drive thru, either.  There were three tellers standing behind their respective counters. Two were open and one was talking on the phone. Out of the two who were open only one was taking care of customers. The other one sounded like she was talking business on the phone with a friend.  I heard snippets of her conversation that involved the phrases, "just bring it tonight when you get to the bar", "yeah, I know, they broke up last week" and "I love Jagermeister!"  Okay, I thought. There's just me and this other lady in front of me to be waited on. I guess she doesn't need to have her window open. Besides, maybe she's on a break.

The woman in front of me is called to the teller window. She takes care of her business and within seconds she is done. I could not hear her exchange with the teller. They were talking quietly. When she gets ready to leave and turns around, I notice she is rolling her eyes. Hmmm, I thought. Wonder what's wrong with her. She looks ticked off.  She leaves.

Now, it's my turn to be waited on.

I approach the teller's window. I smile at her and say politely, "Hi. Can I just get some of those paper coin rollers?"

Without cracking a smile or greeting me back she says, "How many do you need?"
"Uh, about ten of every kind I guess" I reply.
"But how many do you need?"she asks. I'm like, really? I repeat my answer.
"About ten of every kind will do the trick" I say, still smiling.The teller sighs.
"Just a minute. I have to see if we have that many" she mumbles. I was sort of surprised.

You have to see if we have that many? What?
I wait patiently while she leaves her window for a second and goes to another window that's closed and she takes a key from a nearby filing cabinet and uses it to open a drawer and she looks inside the drawer and then closes it right away again and walks back over to her window where I am. She is empty handed.

"I can give you about five of the penny counters and five or six of the nickel and dime ones. I can't give you any for quarters" she says, matter of factly.

"What do you mean? This is a bank. I have years worth of coins to roll. I need more than that. Are you telling me that you are out of coin rollers?"  She doesn't reply at first. Then she says, quite serious in tone, "would you like to talk to my supervisor?"

What? Is she serious?

"No" I reply, a bit frustrated, "I don't want to talk to your supervisor. I just want some coin rollers. What's the problem?"

"Well if you need a large quantity of coin rollers I will have to charge you for them" she said, quite seriously.

What. The. Hell?

"You're kidding me, right? I've been a bank customer here for nearly thirty years. I have four different accounts here. My entire family banks here. And you're telling me that you need to charge me for a few of those stupid paper coin rollers? Geez. When I was a kid I remember my parents brought home a free toaster when they opened an account here when you guys were under a different name! Now I can't even get coin rollers?"

The teller, about a generation younger than I, leaned over her counter and said to me, firmly but quietly, "That must have been a long time ago. This bank doesn't give out kitchen appliances when you open an account. We give you fifty dollars when you open a new checking account here. Would you like to see a brochure?"

Now I was ready to smack her.

"Did you hear me just now when I said I have four different accounts here? I'm good. I don't need a brochure today. I just need some coin rollers. The last time I got them they were free. And I could get as many as I wanted" I said.

"How many years ago was that, ma'am?" she asked me.

Oh, Lord, I wanted to smack her sooooo bad. I looked behind me. Still no one else had come in since I had. The bank was literally empty except for me and the employees. I glanced around once and noticed a bank employee sitting in a cubicle typing on her computer.

"Actually, the teller windows are for cash and check transactions. If you want to buy some coin rollers you can go see the representative at that desk over there" the teller said then, pointing to the same woman in the cubicle who was typing on her computer.

"I don't want to buy coin rollers. I want you to give me some free like I know this bank can afford to do for a customer who has been a customer here since 1977. A customer who has four different accounts here. A customer whose family has accounts here. Why is this such a big deal? All you have to do is go back to that drawer with your key and open it and give me some coin rollers. Ten of each kind is not going to throw this bank into ruin. I feel like I'm on Candid Camera." She stared at me, confusion etched on her face. The reference to the show "Candid Camera" was lost on her. I should have said "That reality show called The Real Snotty Bank Tellers of Southeastern Michigan,"  a modern day reference that she would understand.

"Just a minute, please" she said to me then and excused herself. She disappeared through a door behind the teller's area and was gone for about a minute. When she came back she brought a smart dressed man in a suit with her. His name badge said,  "Gregory. How Can I Help You?"

Was I being arrested for asking for asking for free coin rollers? What was going on?

"Hi there. I understand you want some paper coin rollers and you don't want to pay for them?" he said.

I was mortified.

"I wouldn't put it like that. I just needed a few of each kind and all of a sudden you want to charge me for them? That's kind of unreasonable. And then she (I glance at the teller) tells me out of the blue then that if I want to do this kind of business I need to go see the woman at the cubicle over there. What in the world kind of joke is this? Do you know how many years I have been a customer at this bank? Do you?" I said, this time rather loudly.

"I understand your frustration but you have to understand that we have to charge certain fees for certain things now."

I was getting a pretty good idea now why the woman in line ahead of me a few minutes before left with her eyes rolling toward the heavens.

"You know I could've just went to Target this morning and got some of those rollers" I said, obviously pissed off.

"And they would charge you for them" Greg the Smart Ass replied. Then I rolled my eyes at Greg.
"That's because Target is a store where they sell things and taking them would be shoplifting! This is a bank where I have done business for 30 years! That kind of loyalty deserves a few free paper coin rollers don't you think?"

Man I was wound up now.

Greg said, "Angie here says that when you came in you originally asked for ten each of each kind. If you only need one or two..."

Aaaahhhhhhh. I want to reach over the counter and strangle Greg. And I want to punch Angie the Teller. I want to scream. But who would hear me? It's just me and this crazy bank staff full of stingy tellers and a bank manager named Greg who is talking to me like I'm five.

I glance up at the security cameras and make a face that seems to say, "Are you getting all this for the news at eleven?"

Finally, after all that and then some, Greg caves, turns to Angie and says, "Give this lady ten each of the coin rollers" and then he looks at me and says, but still talking to Angie, "but only give her five of the ones for quarters."

He said it like, "And make sure she doesn't try to get six out of you!"

Somebody stop this insanity. Please. Greg smiled at me then and said, "Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

Oh, the shit that went through my head that I wanted to say at that point. But I didn't say anything. I was the bigger person. Besides, I was tired. I nodded no. Greg disappeared a few seconds later through the door from whence he came. Angie walked over to the drawer, stuck her key in and pulled out a handful of coin rollers. She counted them carefully. I called over to her, "Now remember, only five for the quarters! We don't want to cause the bank to collapse because of me!"

She didn't laugh. She brought the rollers over to me, rubber banded them together and handed them to me. And then, to my honest surprise, as I turned to leave she said to me, "Oh, just so you know for next time? You can do stuff like this at the drive thru window."

I turned back around and looked at her, true anger in my eyes now.

"What?" I said to her.

"You can do this at the drive thru next time" she repeated.

"Bite me, Angie" I mumbled at her, but still loud enough for her to make out what I said.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"You heard me" I replied.

Yes, she did.

Post Script:

A few days ago I needed some quarters for laundry. I went back to the bank again to buy a couple rolls. My beloved Angie the Teller was nowhere to be seen. Today, I had to deal with a different teller. A new, and hopefully improved teller.

This was not to be.

I got Lorraine. I stepped up to her window and presented her with my twenty dollar bill and forced a smile.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I just want to buy some quarters. Two rolls. That's all" I replied.

"Do you have an account here?" she snapped. What? Is she serious?


"Yeah, I have like three accounts here. Why?"

"Swipe your check card please" she said then, motioning toward the card scanner to my right.

No effing way.


As I proceeded to swipe my check card, I asked her why I had to do this.

"So we know you have an account here" she answered in her snippy tone.

I'd had about enough of this bullshit.

"You know I was just in here about a week ago needing some coin rollers and your teller Angie wanted me to pay for them. Now I have to have an account here before you'll sell me a roll of quarters? What kind of nonsense is this? I'm giving you a twenty dollar bill. Cash. I'm not writing you a check or giving you a zillion unrolled pennies. What difference does it make if I have an account here or not?"

Yeah. I was mad.

"It's the new rule" she replied, getting my quarters out of a drawer and placing them in front of me.  I took them and stuffed them in my bag and got ready to leave. She smiled at me and said, "Thank you for banking with us today, Ms. Morgan."

Oh really? Now I'm Ms. Morgan with a smile because I just proved to you that I have an account here by swiping my card in your mighty presence? What the hell? Get off your high horse, Teller Queen.

"The new rule, huh?  How does that rule read on paper? 'We will make every attempt to make our customers feel like crap the minute they ask us for anything that is outside the realm of a car loan or a 30 year fixed mortgage. This essentially means that if you come in here and ask us for a roll of quarters of a paper roller to shove them in, we will not be obliging this request until we've succeeded in making you feel like an out of town visitor.'  Is that how the new rule reads?" I asked her.

She just stared at me. I squinted and leaned in to read her name badge. Lorraine.

"Is that correct Lorraine?" I asked her.

"Well, Ms. Morgan..."

"Well Lorraine? It's like this" I started in a loud whisper, "I was banking here when you were still waddling around your playpen in Pampers. When you were learning how to walk I was opening my first savings account. When you were starting kindergarten I was getting my first credit card. And when you were tormenting your first babysitter I was experiencing my first direct deposit. So don't Ms. Morgan me. As far as I'm concerned, when I come into this bank and ask you for a roll of quarters and I give you a twenty dollar bill to buy them I don't want a hassle or some lecture about the new rule. As a matter of fact, when I come into this bank I want to be treated like royalty whether I have five bucks in my account or five million, got it?"

Lorraine was listening. Kind of.

"The next time I come into this bank I want you to treat me like my last name is Trump, got it?"

Still listening, she was.

She nodded nervously.

"Who?" I asked her.

"Trump" she replied.

"Atta girl."

I turned around to leave. This time there was a woman who looked to be a few years older than me waiting her turn. As I brushed past her I winked at her and said, "I broke her in. She's all yours."

Let this be a lesson to you little smart ass teller children who think you can tell me it's a new rule and I will go away.  I won't go away. I've paid my dues. I'm older than you and not easily bullied.

It's called good customer service. It's not my rule. It's the rule.

Today it is very obvious that brick and mortar bank buildings do not want me in their building. Not physically, anyway. They want me to bank online. They want me to use the ATM. They want me to use the drive-thru. And I do. Quite frequently. And I don't mind. I am a creature of progress.

But something is really wrong when an institution like a bank gets so impersonal that they can't be bothered when I need some coin rollers or quarters. YOU'RE A FRICKIN' BANK. THAT'S WHERE THE MONEY IS.

I don't like being treated like I'm imposing on you when I need your help. Especially when you are handling and in charge of MY MONEY. When I need to do business with you that requires human interaction, don't give me B.S.  Give me good service.

When you are handling my money, you will turn cartwheels for me if I want you to, got it? You will say yes ma'am and no ma'am and thank you ma'am. Yes. You will.

So let this be a lesson to all you Gregs and Angies and Lorraines out there in Banking Land. CUSTOMER SERVICE. JOB ONE.

That's right. The next time I walk into the bank and ask you for a roll of quarters or a crisp fifty to put inside a birthday card? You do it. That's right. Just do it. When I walk into the bank where I have three accounts you look up at me when I enter the bank and you say, "Good Morning. How are you today? WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU TODAY?

Well, let's see. You can start by not pissing me off. 


Always a good place to start.



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