Working with the public is always thankless. Just ask any of my coworkers. Sometimes customers are just unreasonable bitches. A handful are okay, but there�s a huge chunk of them that should just be taken out back and shot.

The fact that I earn an hourly wage is both a blessing and a curse. If I need some extra cash, I just volunteer to close a few weekends in a row or I come in early on some random Saturday. Conversely, if I have somewhere to be, I�m not obligated to chill at work for a set number of hours. Thus, I can volunteer to go home early.

Regardless, I am required to be at work some of the time. When it�s busy, the time flies by. When it�s slow, I spend countless hours casing the place for new sharp objects on which to impale myself. More often than not, it�s slow.

When it�s slow, routine things can become unrealistically fun. Doing the dishes becomes an adventure (how much water can we get on the floor?). Sweeping transports me to a medieval world where crumbs of cheese are commoners being swept away by an evil god (me) bent on destroying the current world and starting again from scratch. (Yes, it is quite possible that I need to get a life.)

However, one of my favorite pastimes is comparing checks with their former owners and the other checks. For example, we wonder about the guy who has Precious Moments checks that bear only his name. We bitch openly about the guy with ASPCA checks that hits the dog sitting next to him in the car. We wonder if the Colorado Rockies checks feel inferior to the New York Mets checks. We silently curse the cheap bastards whose checks bear the bank�s standard issue.

And occasionally, a check crosses our path that sets in motion all kinds of profound revelations. Okay, maybe it only happened the one time, but still. I�m trying to segue.

ME: �Katie, look at this check.�
KATIE: �It�s a check.�
ME: �Yes. Look what�s on it.�
KATIE: �Is that Sesame Street? I�ve been watching a lot of that lately, let me tell you.�
ME: �Katie, I am holding in my hands an Oscar the Grouch check. This is a moment.�
KATIE: �I think you need to get a grip.�
ME: �Katie, look into my eyes. This check is my mission in life. The world will be a better place when I get my Oscar the Grouch checks.�

Flash forward to six months later (so, last week). I trundled down to the bank last week and opened a checking account of my very own. The trip to the bank is always a scary one, because I invariably have to deal with Bernice for all my banking needs.

Bernice is a nice lady, I suppose, but her appearance frightens the young and old. She is not fat exactly, but she is large. It would be fair to say that she�s got a Janet Reno thing going on, or maybe a �John Goodman as Janet Reno� thing going on. As a point of comparison, her pinky finger is as thick as two of my normal-sized seventeen-year-old fingers. We could leave it that Bernice is a large (and therefore intimidating) woman, except for the breathing thing.

Bernice isn�t great about breathing through her nose, so she breathes through her mouth instead. That�s fine, except for the wheezing and the humming. It�s like your mom humming as she vacuums the living room...if the vacuum cleaner is possessed by the devil himself.

Not to pile on or anything, but in addition to the largeness and the, um, noise...thing, Bernice has trouble filling in forms. She can�t seem to put things in the right boxes, or fit a seven-digit number all in one box. This may have to do with her unbelievably fat fingers. She also takes her time with the paperwork, so that a five minute job takes a minimum of twenty.

Eventually, however, Bernice overcame her hardships and managed to open my account. I quickly transferred some money over from savings, signed the necessary forms, and cringed as I heard Bernice tell me that my checks and my�VISA Check Card would arrive by mail within ten business days.

I got my checks five days later. My VISA Check Card arrived two days after that, and I could hear baby Jesus cry as I opened the envelope. I really, really don�t need a debit card. It�s just not necessary.

Not that the bank made the activation process user-friendly. First, I had to call the 800 number. I was instructed to enter my card number and heard the electronic voice ask for my social security number. (For the record, I see no reason for banks to need the social security number. Schools don�t need it either, because they put it on everything: report cards, everything. Anyway�)

Then, I had to make the virtually impossible trip to one of my bank's ATMs to do a balance inquiry. My bank is evil about the ATMs. They are nowhere and everywhere all at the same time, and I can never, ever find one. This might have something to do with the fact that I have the sense of direction of a blind, three-legged cat.

After doing my balance inquiry, I had to prick my finger and submit a blood sample for the bank's files, but at this point I wasn't asking questions. Sure, my mom wanted to know what my check card was doing in the oven, but she was cool after I explained that I had to leave it in the bank's special crystal amulet to bake at 350 for ten minutes.

Finally, an arm and a leg later, my card was activated. Then the real trouble began. It was quiet at first, but it grew louder with each passing day. The card called to me from my wallet, begging and pleading to be used. All it wanted was to come out and play; why, it wondered, was I such a cruel master to keep it locked up all the time?

Given my previous experiences with various financial exchanges, I've been trying my dead-level best not to use the card, or to only use it for important purchases. Okay, so I bought a CD today. So sue me. I'm just afraid that I'll go crazy one day at the mall and wipe out my bank account in one fell swoop, because, well, I really can't live without Serial Mom on DVD.

I'm just afraid that my newly acquired potential for online purchases is going to end badly for everyone. I could discover eBay or go on an ill-advised Amazon.com shopping spree, and then we'll all be in trouble.

On the other hand, I'm only young once, right? Why shouldn't I enjoy it? God knows I put up with all kinds of hell to earn that money. I should be able to spend it on whatever I want. So what if college is mere months away? It's not like I can afford to pay for it anyway. I might as well accept it. I'm just going to have to bite the bullet and actually rob a bank.

***

This is from the lawyers. "The previous statement which indicated that Pat might rob a bank was a literary flight of fancy and should be disregarded. Pat actually has no plans to rob a bank, ever." Thanks, lawyers. You rule.