Sick
I called my bank yesterday trying to figure out the quickest way to deposit my check. The last job I had gave me a paper one which, when deposited, took a week before the funds were actually in my account. I didn’t want the same thing to happen, so I thought I was doing right by myself in calling. I did, in a sense. During that call I learned that I could go to any Walmart and have them cash it for a minimal, flat fee. I immediately thought about the one a mile or so away from my apartment and told myself I’d go first thing the next morning.
And that’s what I set out to do this morning. My monthly bus pass expired, so I added $5 of the last seven I had in my checking onto the card, boarded the bus, and rode the 10 minutes down Cicero Avenue. I felt pretty confident in walking through the strip mall parking lot, even as I passed the management sign which reminded me the company I just quit leases to the same Walmart I’d be cashing my check at. I chuckled to myself, actually. I thought it was ironic.
Walking into the store, I head straight to the kiosk that reads Customer Service in thin white letters. The woman behind the counter has me wait a few minutes until her counterpart shows up telling me, “I only do returns, sweetheart.” The anticipation was beginning to build, but there was no indication anything would go wrong. I called my bank. I knew I would get this money. I was so certain I would, until the woman I waited for came back. She looked down at the check, back at me, and said, “We can’t cash this.”
“What?” was the only thing that I could say because it was the last thing I wanted to hear.
“Yeah, whoever signed this did it physically. Like, with a pen.” I looked closer at the signature and softly said, “Mother fucker” under my breath.
“If he woulda printed the signature like how the rest of the check is printed, that wouldn’t be an issue, but…” she gestures at the pen scribble and shrugs her shoulders.
“Thanks anyway,” I say and walk out of the store, a lump the size of the parking lot in my throat.
After walking to a place that’s equivalent to a credit union not too far from Walmart and being told the same thing, I turned up this random playlist on Spotify playing through my AirPods and walked a few miles home. I didn’t want to use up the fare on my bus card, and also didn’t want people to see me crying. By the time I got home, my feet were aching and my anger dissolved to sadness and anxiety.
I deposited the check, and got the notification that the funds would be held until the 22nd of this month. It’s a good thing I was on my bed when I saw it on my phone, as the last bit of energy I had left my body. I know it sounds dramatic, but I also hadn’t eaten anything yet (I’m typing this as of 10:48 AM) and walked two-point-something miles, running on pure rage at my former boss for fucking me over somehow, even still. I know it isn’t personal. Hell, it’s not even the first time it’s happened to me, but it sucks. It really fucking sucks. I can’t do the things I wanted to do during my days off. I’m panicking now. I feel sick, truly.
I ate an entire frozen pizza after I gathered myself, and turned my phone off as I waited for it to bake. After no longer being hungry, I turned my phone back on and texted my sister about the events from the morning. She felt my pain, and said she felt bad because, “shit like this is always happening to you.” Say that. I don’t want to ask for money, so I won’t. If I were in therapy, I’d like to think I’d have a firmer understanding of my shame in asking for help. I feel like I’m pretty quick to lend a hand whenever anyone asks (even when they don’t, which I’m working on) so I wonder why I can’t get over myself and ask for help instead of drowning myself in my worry.
