Before I write another word, let me first say, thank God for direct deposit. You don’t know what it was like back when I first joined the ranks of the starving seniors. Why, back then, we all got our cheques from Mr. Smallwood in the mail. Where the poor man, Mr. Smallwood, got all that money is beyond me, but like all the other seniors around here, I’m glad he shared some of it with us. Yes sir, every third banking day of the month there it was in the mail. Myself and every other able-bodied senior around made the mad dash for the bank. Every one of us wanting to be the first one through the door. Which usually mean there was a pile-up inside the porch, cause the bank didn’t open until 10am.

My son, what a racket that was, twenty or so seniors all squat together like sardines in a can. The smell of cheap perfume off the womenfolk battling with the awful body odor of the men who took a bath twice a year, spring and fall, whether they needed it or not. Speaking for myself and some other fellers I know who changed their underwear and socks every month without fail, we weren’t so bad, odor-wise. So there we were, bundled together waiting for the door to open. Some poor missus saying she was down to her last dollar – if she hadn’t won at the bingo game the night before, where she spent $40 on her cards and Nevada tickets. She thought she was going to starve before the cheque come.

There was a missus standing next to me dressed in her new winter coat with a bandana tied down over her hair, a cane in one hand, clutching her walker in the other. The look on her face daring anyone to try and get ahead of her in the line. She had several brown envelopes in the hand that held the cane, most likely her husband’s cheques as well. I could see right away she was the boss. Time seemed to stand still. I was beginning think I was at a funeral. Them that could get at their watches were checking the time so often that they wore the cuffs off their shirts or blouses. Finally, some young woman from inside the bank came up to the door and unlocked it from the inside. The stampede started with a mad rush. I heard some time later that there wasn’t enough found of that poor women to get a DNA sample.

Sure, I was body-checked by this tall woman with dark glasses, I swear it was Big Mary from the harbour; the General we call her down at the Fifty Plus Club. I was slammed up against the lady with the cane, the walker and the multiple cheques. We both went crashing to the floor in a pile of humanity. Well sir, I was stunned for a minute or two. The old lady picked herself up, whacked me with her cane, (thinking I supposed, that I was the one who knocked her down), and bolted through the door. I shook myself off, got to my feet just in time to be number seven in the lineup. If it wasn’t for that body-check, I would have been number two at the counter. Thank God all four wickets were open.

From where I was standing I could see it was Big Mary, alright, she was already at the wicket. Just taking off her dark glasses so she could see her pension cheque. When are people going to catch on to her? The missus who spent her last dollar at the bingo game the night before was at another wicket showing the young teller the latest pictures of her great-grandkids and her lucky rabbit’s foot that she never leaves home without. I was itching to tell her the rabbit had four of them and it didn’t do him any good.

Don’t look now but there’s a new teller working today. Haven’t seen her before, but that’s not the worst thing. The worst is Myrtle, who has just passed her both pension cheques; her own and her husband Sam’s. This is where the crying starts. The young teller has rubber stamped both cheques on the back, stamped the phone bill and light bill on the front, subtracted the total from both cheques and returned the balance to poor Myrtle with lightening speed. Myrtle stands there with the balance in her hand and tears streaming down both cheeks right onto her cane and walker. The young girl behind the wicket asks, “what’s the matter?” Myrtle says between the sobs, “Me and Sam goes halves with the light bill. I pays the full amount of the phone bill cause Sam says I do all the talking. How’s I going to straighten all this out when I gets home?” I was about ready to cry myself, knowing Sam and Myrtle and what they’re like.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Joan is at the other wicket counting out her money, making sure she got the full amount. She’s paying particular attention to the pile of twenties the girl gave her, looking for one with the watermark on the Queen’s right shoulder, cause she won the Jackpot at the Lion’s Club last month after she paid her way in with a similar twenty dollar bill. Meanwhile, I could do with a coffee and a donut. Please God it won’t be too much longer. But look out, the fourth lady has gone into her purse for the third time. It seems her youngest granddaughter got married on the Mainland two weeks ago. She’s got some wedding pictures she’s just got to show the teller. I can hear her say, “now, don’t you think that wedding dress is too revealing?”

Like I said at the beginning, thank God for direct deposit. No more body slams and confusion over bills. Not to mention looking for watermarks on the Queen or too-revealing wedding dresses. And while I’m at it, Mr. Smallwood didn’t really give you all that money out of his own pocket sure, he was as poor as the rest of us.

Cyril Griffin
New Perlican, NL