That "Called to see the principal feeling"

 

That "Called to see the principal feeling"

 

This cranky old man is a law-abiding citizen.  I have not been given a speeding ticket in 58 years… (OK, one but that was a turnpike speed trap where I was one of 8 cars pulled over at a time for speeding in a “construction” area.  Every car on that highway was exceeding the limit.  It would have been dangerous to drive the “construction” area limit.)

I have never been in jail, never been in trouble.  (I did steal a .30 yo-yo from EJ Korvettes when I was 11, but I got away with that one.)

Anyway, I am your basic “goody two-shoes.”

So, why do I often get that “called to see the principal feeling”?

Is it just me?  Why do I suddenly feel like I am guilty of something whenever a police car happens to be behind me? I check my speed, start signaling for no reason, and break out in a cold sweat.  It is a wonder I don’t get pulled over for

“Looking guilty of something!”

I get that feeling whenever I have to make a banking transaction.  Wells Fargo, a bank that has had their own corporate wrists slapped several times recently, always makes me feel like I am doing something illegal.

This is the bank that asked for a thumb print when I deposited money into my own account.  This is the bank that for a year charged me $2 every time I used a non-Wells Fargo ATM machine and never disclosed that information to me. 

I would use a different bank; except I like their on-line system and don’t want to learn a new one.

Anyway, today I had to deposit money from my account at a different bank into Mrs. C’s Wells Fargo account.  Mrs. C generally makes this monthly transaction, but today she was busy and it had to be done for bill paying purposes.

I was carefully instructed in the process.

“Make your check out to cash, sign the back “For deposit only to Mrs. C” and write my account number on that side.  Hand it to the teller along with a deposit slip with the date, and the amount.   The account number is on the deposit slip.”

I did as instructed and went to the bank.  Approaching the teller, I felt like George Costanza ordering a “medium turkey chili” from the Soup Nazi.

“May I help you?”

I slid the check and the deposit slip under the window and stepped aside.

“Is this a deposit?”

“Um hum.” (I would have thought the deposit slip was a dead give away but was still, for some reason, intimidated.)

“Is this for someone else?”

Why is she asking me this, do I look like a Mrs. C?

“Yes, that is my wife’s account.”

Now, Mrs. C never took my last name as she did not want to change 873 different forms and identifications.

Peering over lowered reading glasses, “She has a different name?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me up and down.  I tried not to flinch and look guilty.

Finally, after much stamping and filing she handed me a receipt.  “Have a nice day.”

I left feeling as if I pulled off the crime of the century, and didn’t even get detention.

I should probably see a therapist.