So after I wrote my previous post, I called the treasurer back and got the bank info. I girded my loins (whatever the hell that means!!) and grimly headed to the bank. I walked into the bank manager’s office and took a seat, waiting for her to finish her phone call. I was feeling like a woman headed for the guillotine. For $500, you can eat an awful lot of cake.
She hung up, gave me her full attention and I crumbled. Told her about our wonderful trip to Savannah. Told her how the evil Girl Scout empire would not take a personal check. Told her about miscalculating the fees and thus charged the entire thing to my credit card. Told her I had TORN UP THE CHECK!!!!
She looked at me bemusedly. “Well, we can fix that,” she said.
I nearly fell out of my chair. The thought that I would not have to do a lapdance for the bank president made me positively giddy.
“What’s the check number?” she asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.
My elation vanished as quickly as it appeared. The check number was on the check, which had been obliterated by me. This was the whole reason I was here.
“Uh, uh, I have no idea,” I stammered, feeling my panic return. “It’s in the bottom of the Jefferson county landfill.” I heard the bells tolling in the distance; they tolled for me.
“Well, let me see if I can find it on your account. There should be a copy.” She tapped away at her keyboard, I poised tensely on the edge of my seat, ready to do whatever she needed me to do, including but not limited to: washing her car; washing her cat; washing her clothes; or even dismembering an old boyfriend. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to get back our cookie money!
“Ah here it is,” she said a few minutes later. “Now I just have to call this company and make sure it hasn’t been cashed and then put a stop payment on it.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been cashed,” I told her wryly, “unless the rats in the landfill managed to reconstruct it and get it to the bank.”
I left with her assurances that it would all be over soon and she would call me. I went off to lunch with Teensy and Wendi, with my cell phone in hand, waiting for her call. I had a perfectly dreadful lunch which I then got free, with a complimentary piece of roulage thrown in for appeasement. But still, no call.
Finally, I called her when I got home. “Oh, didn’t you get my message?” she asked. “I just left you one on your cell. The check should be ready either tomorrow or Monday.”
So all’s well that ends well. We will get our money back and I won’t have to get a job to pay back the cookie money. I feel a bit like a government official, minus the bad hair and the sleazy love interest. And, unlike government officials, I usually don’t make the same mistake twice. Certainly, now I know NEVER to throw away a cashier’s check! Lesson learned!! Thank you for all your kind comments and support.