Banking

The band won a prize at a parade competition last spring. For reasons lost to the annals of time, the parade organization has to make the check out to the school, even though the school contributes nothing toward the expense of getting the band there. The Bandaides pay for the trip; the school gets its name on the check. It is a long-standing arrangement, which is generally the closest we come to an explanation.

Traditionally, the treasurer slips the prize check into a stack of other checks and deposits the lot. No one has ever questioned it. Being the new treasurer, I questioned it. Before taking a check made out to somebody else to the bank, I asked our former treasurer, Miss Chelly, how she had handled it.

“It’s never been an issue,” she said. “I take it down to Midvale Community Savings Bank near work and put it through the drive-through. The girls are always friendly. They say hi every time I’m there.”

Okay. This seemed reassuring. We weren’t relying on a written policy, exactly, but at least we did have girls who said hi. At lunch, I drove down to the southside branch and pulled up to the drive-through.

“Can we help you?”

“Yes, hi. I have a check to deposit into the Midvale Central Bandaides account.”

“Have you ever deposited here before?”

“No, Miss Chelly normally does it for us. Chelly Richardson?”

“We don’t know a Miss Chelly. Who are you?”

“I’m Sam Foster. With the Midvale Central Bandaides.” The teller looked at me blankly. “Depositing a check,” I added, in case the purpose of my visit had gotten lost.

At this point, my expectations weren’t especially high. A few weeks earlier, I had spent an hour getting a debit card and learning that the bank offered no Zelle, no way to initiate an ACH payment, and one username and password for everyone using the corporate account.

Still, I assumed they would be willing to accept money.

It was fairly simple, right? Hand over a check, put the money in the account. It doesn’t seem like who brings the money in should really matter.

Through the window, I watched the teller work her way through a series of screens, check with another teller for clarification, and shrug. After a minute, she returned to the microphone.

“We don’t have you on the account.”

“Can I ask a question?”

She sighed. “Yes, go ahead.”

“Is there any chance Ryan Foster is on the account?”

I go by Sam. Ryan is my first name, the one on my license and, apparently, the only one authorized to put money in the bank.

“I’ll check,” she said, returning to her computer.

She flipped through a few more screens. Then she stopped when a photo of my driver’s license popped up on her terminal. She studied the screen, looked at me, then looked back.

I gave her a little smile and a wave.

She processed the deposit.

The check was still made out to the school. Nobody ever asked about that.

“Thank you for banking with Midvale Community Savings Bank,” she said. “Come again!”