The Check

“The Check”
Chuck Martin
Money scares me. Well, not money exactly, the transacting of the green stuff. I don’t do much banking and I leave that unpleasantness to my wife, Laurene. She writes the checks; pays the bills; manages the 501’s, 409’s or whatever the numbers are. She’s the banker in our family. I thought c.d.‘s were for music. Now you can save money with them.

One day in Whitewater, Colorado I receive a $20.00 check for a poem accepted by Fence Post Magazine. The check’s bank is in Greeley, Colorado, with no branches in Grand Junction, the closest town to Whitewater. My daughter’s Credit Union is connected in some way to mine in Paso Robles, California. I figured it wouldn’t be a problem getting the check cashed, as it was for such a small amount.

At her Credit Union in Grand Junction I presented my check, plus my A.T.M. card to the lady teller. She was heavy set, young, wore too much makeup, and sported long black fingernails. She said she had to contact my branch before she could cash it.

Why,” I asked, “You have my debit card, and both branches are associated.

She shrugged. “It’s just policy.

After many tries she finally connect with someone in California. She handed the phone to me. I looked at the phone, then her. “They want to verify it is you.” She said.

I said, “Hello.”

It was a man but I could hardly make out what he was saying.
“Mr. Martin where were you b…” It sounded like he was disconnected.

“Lost him,” I said handing the phone back to her. “I’m a little hard hearing. I
could hardly understand him.”

She placed her ear to the phone, said something, and handed it back. “He’s still there, he wasn’t cut off!”

I said, “Hello.”

I heard a faint, “Your mother’s maid…”

“Gone again,” I said.

She took the phone, spoke to someone, and hung up. “He said he is refusing to identify you with the information provided. I‘m sorry I can‘t cash your check.”

“It’s only twenty bucks,” I said.

“Sorry.”

“Well, how about I go outside to the ATM and pull out twenty buck-a-roo’s ,” I picked up my card and flipped it back and forth between two fingers. “I’ll give you the twenty, you write your name and mine on the bill, then cash my check. If the check isn’t good the twenty dollars will secure it, and if it’s good I’ll return for my twenty. What say you?”

She stared at me dumbfounded. She tapped her black fingernails on the counter. I could tell she was considering my scheme, kind of rolling it around in her head. Finally, her eyes widened, she gave a sigh, and shoved the check over to me, “Sorry, against our policy.”

I left feeling dejected. I thought my proposal a good sound one. Banking is not what it used to be. Where’s the trust?

Clabahan, Pudding, & Trains

“Clabahan, Pudding, & Trains”
Chuck Martin

“Whadaya like for breakfast?” Billy asked.
“What do you have?”
“We got aigs, bycon, ham, oatmeal, puddin’…, ” he said.
Pudding, I thought, it’s funny they’d have pudding for breakfast in Ireland. I wondered what kind, chocolate, tapioca, vanilla. We were going to Ireland the next month, to spend time in my friend Billy Hyland’s home and travel by train around the country. He lived in Garryhinch, Portarlington, located in Offaly County, in the midlands.
Billy picked us up at the Dublin Airport, and drove on a freeway, and on narrow roads through many mazes of hedge rows, seemingly both at the same speed. Driving by each church, graveyard, or a long-ago accident scene, Billy would cross himself. With an air of relief we arrived safely at his home in the country, met by Billy’s wife Maeve, and five year old, son, Johnny.
When they visited us in the states, Johnny was fascinated by our parakeet. He wanted to see him fly, so he banged on both sides of the cage. Feathers flew everywhere. I yelled, “Johnny, stop banging that cage!” He marched up to me announcing, “Ya’ve broke me heart, ya clabahan.”
I asked Billy, “What’s a clabahan?”
“Oh, it means something like nin-com-poop. His grand father calls him that all the time.”
The next morning after arriving, Maeve fixed breakfast consisting of eggs, a mountain of red skinned potatoes, and soda bread. “Want some puddin’?” Maeve asked.
“Sure,” Laurene, and I answered.
She placed two small, round pieces of meat on my plate, one white and one black.. Pudding in Ireland is not “pudding” as we know it. It is a sausage. Both tasted dreadful. It was quite hard swallowing, I hoped my look of displeasure didn’t give my distaste away.
My wife, Laurene, and I were to travel by train in Ireland. We planned on making a round trip to the coast and back. The day after arriving Billy drove us around the mid-lands and we had a great time visiting and adjusting to a new country.
The night before we were to embark on our train ride Billy took us to his “pub”. Everyone in Ireland has their own pub, and Billy’s was named, “The High Chaparral” after our TV show. Billy bought the rounds, and we sat there drinking Gunnies and chatting. I said I’d buy the next round, and ordered at the bar. The barman put a pint glass up to the spout, filled it up, and sat it down in front of me. When I picked it up to take a drink the barman reached over, slapped my hand, and took the drink away. “It’s not done!,” he shouted. He took my drink and refilled it. You have to wait for the foam to go down, and then it’s to be refilled. Shame on you if you try to drink it before it’s “Done!”.
The next morning Billy took us to the train station in Portarlington, but had to leave before the train arrived. “Billy, trains on time?”
“No, no, never!” Billy said seriously walking away toward his car.
A train pulled in right on schedule. Well, I thought, Billy’s wrong, it’s right on time.
The seats on Irish trains face each other, with a table between you and the other passengers. Across sat a young lassie with red hair, a freckled face, and wearing a green and tan uniform. The girl said she was returning home from collage.
I relaxed and looking out the window saw cloudy skies, green hills and meadows. I figured the train must be doing 90 as I would see a train coming our way, and within a blink of an eye, and a swoosh, it would zip by.
“Where you folks going?,” the lass asked.
“Cork,” Laurene said.
“Oh,” eyes wide the girl exclaimed, “You’re on the wrong train!”
“Where’s this one going,?” I asked.
“Why, Galway, sir.”
“Well then,” I said, “ we’re going to Galway. You see, it doesn’t matter. Turning back to look out the window, I thought, Billy was right, trains aren’t on time in Ireland.
I love Ireland; the green country side; the friendly people; the pubs; the trains; and a cold Gunnies. I decidedly do not like Irish pudding for breakfast. It is made of blood and offal. I looked up offal and found it to be the edible, internal organs of an animal. I guess they named Offaly County, Ireland, after their pudding. I had noticed Laurene, had taken a small bite, and pushed it away. I thought, “You should have done the same, you Clabahan.”