Phoenix or bust

As much as I think I’m trying to be financially responsible, I’m not. Responsible adults pay their gas bills and have functioning stoves. They also receive letters saying their credit limit has increased and that they just earned extra sky miles. I don’t get those letters. I get dangerously thin envelopes with the words Final Notice stamped across the front, letters written in all caps, forcing my eyes to read the words I’ve been ignoring for many weeks, words like Due to accruing late payments and Your credit rating has been lowered. In fact, not too long ago, I opened a letter from The Gap and wrongly assumed it was a bill for yellow corduroys I purchased for a modernized Snow White costume. But no, the letter was even less forgiving than tight yellow pants—it informed me that my credit limit had been reduced to $100. I wanted to yell, “That’s ridiculous! One hundred dollars doesn’t even pay for a chunky knit sweater these days!” Confused and ashamed, my vision inevitably focused on the familiar words that read Due to your recent late payments on other credit cards… Ah, my injured relationship with the bank had been leaked! In the world of payee-payer relationships, I am not redeeming myself with good behavior, and I’m looking at fifteen to life, with only some ill-fitting cords to keep me warm.

Recently, throwing caution to the wind, I bought lunch near my school on the Upper West Side. After much shoving around by high schoolers and fellow lunch goers, I decided on split pea soup and a veggie wrap. I chucked my debit card across the counter, trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s declined,” the cashier said, handing me the curled receipt inked with the D-word. “Do you have another card?”

“First of all, ‘ma’am’ isn’t necessary. And please try that card again,” I smiled uncomfortably.

The man rolled his eyes, as if to say, You’re making my life more difficult than those high schoolers behind you trying to steal cans of soda. But he ran the card, and again shoved the receipt reading declined in my face.

“Do you have another card or what? There’s people waiting.”

“Um, yea, hold on,” I said, fumbling through my wallet, “try this one.” I tossed him my sparkly for-emergency-purchases-only credit card.

“Ma’am, card’s no good. Do you have anything else?”

Glowing all shades red, I shook my head, handed the food back over the counter and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” I dialed my bank immediately. When a man picked up, I spurted, “My debit card is no good. I tried to buy lunch and they said no! It’s been declined. Why?”

“OK, Miss (read: Crazy). Hold on…Well, it seems like we’ve put a hold on the card, ma’am.”

Yes, so that it wouldn’t go up in flames the next time I swiped it at Loehmann’s, I thought to myself.

“What’s your social security number, ma’am?” he asked, then followed up with, “And the state in which you received your social security card, ma’am?” The onslaught of ma’ams combined with starvation was all too much. Not only was I being called old and told I may not eat, but my card was being put in a time out. The only thing that could have made the moment worse was if the banker’s next question was, “And when was the last time you actually went to the gym?”

Informing the banker I was born and bred in New York, he said, “So, you didn’t purchase anything in a Walmart in Phoenix, Arizona yesterday?”

“Um, no. I didn’t.”

“Well, it looks like someone has been charging things to your account. At WalMart and Safeway.”

“Oh my goodness! That’s terrifying!”

“Yes, ma’am, it is. We’re gonna go ahead and cancel this card for you, and I’d recommend you close this account, just to be safe.”

“But I’m leaving for Ireland in two days! How fast can I figure all this out?”

He cleared his throat as if to say, You have $200 in your account, you seem to go out for dinner quite a lot, but yet you’re going to Ireland. Don’t choke on your whiskey.

He was right. Who do I think I am? I had two overdraft fees this month and The Gap won’t even allow me any more dark-washed denim. I realize the card cancellation is unrelated to my recklessness—since Fake Me was unaware of who she had swindled while buying armfuls of junk at Walmart—but maybe it takes a scammer in Phoenix to stop the Real Me from committing any more financial harm.

So after work, I darted to my nearest bank to open up a new account and withdraw some cash for my trip. A new checking account and a few twenties in hand, I filtered onto the rush hour subway, desperate for a seat and some sympathy. I squeezed in between a gaggle of high school girls, a sprinkling of sad nine-to-fivers and two moms with strollers. Holding onto my wallet and handrail, both for dear life, I couldn’t help but overhear a mother and teenage daughter next to me.

Daughter: Mom, who are you giving the Tiffany’s gift card to?

Mom: Not sure, probably Kirsten. I still don’t know who to give that Cartier caviar set to though. The only people I’ve seen serve it recently are Barb and Doug. So maybe I’ll give it to them.

OK, so apparently not everyone buckles down when the economy bites the dust. It’s a harsh world out there, and getting harsher—just ask Fake Me, who required my buck for her shopping spree! I know it’s going to be a steep and messy climb out of this hole I’m in, full of ample time in last season’s clothing to think about my sinful ways. I’ll start repenting as soon as my plane takes off for Ireland.