Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Invisible to teenagers

As I was filling my gas tank this morning I glanced up and noticed a credit card sitting on top of the machine. It was a platinum card for Bank of America. Ah, mamacita, a debit card. As per the little photo in the upper left corner, a brunette with a cute smile and just young enough to get my ass thrown in jail for trying to nibble the nipplies left her card behind for all to share in the wealth. Bless her generous, stupid heart.

What teenager has a platinum card? I don’t have a platinum card. And if I did I’d damn sure not leave it sitting ON TOP OF THE FUCKING PAY AT THE PUMP! Especially if it was Daddy’s checking account. But then, that’s just me and I’m fucked up like that.

I topped off my tank, to hell with those cutesy little stickers that warn not to or else goblins will eat my soul, and tossed the abandoned credit card onto my front seat. Now maybe the right thing to do was to bring it inside, but who’s to say the owner went inside or would know to come back for it at this location? And who’s to say the remarkably sharp clerk behind the counter inside with a mouthful of broken teeth in a lovely shade of moss would make an effort to return the card to its owner, let alone keep it safe? Honestly, I felt like a thief, but hoped nobody would find out until I’d had time to locate the owner and prove my intent. Worst case, if she was nowhere to be found I’d cut it up and trash it and she’ll never have to experience fraudulent charges whether she realizes it or not.

Fortunately for both of us, her name was Meghan Thingamabobber. Not really. But unique in a similar way. I gave Jazz a jingle at home and asked her to hop online and find someone by the last name of Thingamabobber in my zip code. She found 1 total. Ironically, his name was Jay. Jay Thingamabobber. Daddy, I’m sure.

I wrote the number down on a dirty Starbucks napkin I almost used to pick my nose with last week. Went with the pants leg instead. Good job. I dialed the number and got this:

Her: Hello?
Me: I’m calling for Meghan Thingamabobber
Her: Yeah…?
Me: …is this Meghan?
Her: Yeah.
Rude little shit. Me: I have your Bank of America card.
Her: Huh?
Me: You left it at the Citgo. I found it this morning.
Her: I need that.

You’re welcome, ungrateful little brat.

When I drove to her house some time later she answered the door wearing a tight, red tank top that made me want to do naughty things with her not-quite-legal appendages which strained against the cotton, begging to shake my hand and vice versa, I'm sure. Maybe in a few more months when the stiff jail time falls from her plate of goodies to savor I’ll come back and swipe my own debit card between the boobies and see what it buys me. Try as I might, I was unable to maintain full eye contact when I handed her the debit card.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir? Ah, hell. There went that fantasy.