“Wait, where’s my card?” I asked Sarah, pausing mid-conversation. Huh? I remembered slipping my debit card into the ATM slot. Pat-down! I checked my purse, my pockets, my wallet – everything. No Visa.
I definitely left it at home. It’s at Peppi’s. In a bout of obliviousness, I had imagined putting my card into the ATM. Simple carelessness. Sarah and I, convinced all was okay, headed home.
I riffled through my drawers. My blue plastic lifeline was missing in action. Needless to say, with a trip to Madrid on the horizon, I needed that sucker. Oh my gosh, I think my card is inside the ATM. I sprinted down the street. Now half past seven, the bank had closed. Peering through the window, I spotted someone. A bank employee shuffled through paperwork in a distant back room, illuminated by the only remaining fluorescent light.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Banging on the glass, I grasped for a way explain my problem in Spanish. The man came near to investigate the source of the ruckus. We were separated by sealed doors.
“Uh, hola, pienso que la máquina comó mi tarjeta.” Hi, I think the machine ate my card. Nice one, Logan.
Rightfully so, the banker stared at me like madwoman. He shrugged and threw up his hands, pointing towards the hours of operation. I pleaded, por favor, Señor! Por favor!
The banker finally caved to my request. I don’t think this was a pay-it-forward act of kindness; I’m pretty sure he was just irritated. He reluctantly disappeared around the corner. I heard shuffling and the sound of metal grinding, mixed with a few grunts of annoyance. In a few minutes he emerged, Visa in hand.
I pressed my passport against the entry way window to prove my identity and he slid my card beneath the bolted door.
Talk about luck!