Page 29 of Wish I Were Here
What?
“I’m sorry, I don’t think that card is working,” the girl behind the counter calls down to me.
“Let me just try again.” I slide my card back in the machine and repeat the same process. Once again, the screen flashes withdeclined.
“This hasneverhappened before.” I’ll admit I’m one of those people who still balances my bank account. I save my receipts throughout the day and input them in a spreadsheet at night. The worddeclinedwas such a staple of my childhood, I swore it would never happen once I had control of my own money. So, that’s how I know I have exactly $2,541.68 in my bank account as of last night. Enough to pay my rent at the end of the month and cover my bills, food, and other expenses until my first paycheck from the university comes in. “Let me try it one more time.”
“Do you have another card?” the girl asks. Clearly, she doesn’t have faith in my third attempt.
The bank card should work. I know it should work. I know there’s money in my account. But a line is beginningto form behind me, so I pull out my credit card and slide it into the machine. A second later, my heart drops to my knees.
Declined again.
This isn’t happening. How can this be happening?
“Everything okay?” Luca has come up behind me just in time to catch the girl behind the counter say, “I’m sorry, but that card isn’t working either.”
Hands shaking now, I shove the cards back into my wallet and check for cash. “I’m sure it’s some sort of mistake. I know I have money in my account, and I barely have a balance on my credit card. I don’t know why they’re not working.” I look up hopefully. “Maybe the system is down.” That’s the only explanation.
Before the girl can respond, Luca slides a card into the machine. It beeps and processes, and the next thing I know the wordacceptedflashes there. I stare at it, my stomach churning.
“Catherine?” calls the college-aged boy making smoothies in the back of the food truck, sliding two cups onto the counter. Luca grabs them, handing me the purple one, and nudges me out of the way of the line.
I shuffle along next to him, one hand clutching the frigid cup, the other digging in my bag for my phone. “I need to call my bank. And my credit card company. Why aren’t my cards working?” My stomach growls again, and I’m suddenly lightheaded. My vision blurs. I come to an abrupt halt and begin to sway. Luca slides an arm around my shoulders and guides me back to the bench. I sink down on the wooden slats and bend forward, breathing hard.
He waves the purple smoothie under my nose. “Drink this.”
I take a sip of the blended yogurt and sour fruit, and luckily my stomach is empty or the contents would be all over my shoes. Luca whisks the purple smoothie out of my hand and replaces it with the chocolate and peanut butter one. “Try this instead.”
I take a long sip, and as soon as the cold, sweet-and-salty flavor hits my tongue, my nausea recedes. “Thanks,” I say, handing it back to him.
“Drink a little more.”
I take a few more sips, and before I know what’s happened, I’ve finished the entire smoothie. “Sorry, that was meant for you.”
“It’s no problem. I love blueberry acai.” Luca takes a gulp of the purple smoothie, gags, and lobs the cup into a nearby trash can with a graceful flick of his wrist.
I dial the number for my credit card company and squirm in my seat as I’m directed through menu after menu of options. Finally, the deep, male voice of a customer service representative comes through the phone. I explain my story, and he reassures me it’s probably some sort of mix-up. He kindly offers to look into it.
I blow out a breath as I listen to his fingers type on the keys.This is going to be fine. It’s only a mix-up.
But when he comes back to the phone, his voice is decidedly colder. “It looks like that account was closed due to fraudulent activity. You should have received a letter several weeks ago.”
“Fraudulent activity?” I sit up straight. “What sort offraudulent activity? I didn’t get a letter about fraudulent activity. Idefinitelywould remember if I did.”
“Hold please.”
And before I know what’s happening, the low tones of a cello playing Pachelbel’s Canon are piped into my ear. “I’m on hold,” I mutter to Luca. “How can they put me on hold at a time like this?”
The music fades, and with a click, the representative is back. “Hello? Are you there?”
“Yes! I’m here.”
“Well, I’ve looked into your account, and it seems the reason it was closed is due to the fact that the owner does not seem to exist. The Social Security number associated with this account is a fake.”
My shoulders slump. “It’s not a fake,” I say weakly.
“Our fraudulent activities division says that it is.” His voice comes out clipped now. Funny how suddenly everyone’s tone changes when you’ve been accused of faking your own existence.
