Marguerita is such a nice name—for ladies and for a cool drink on a hot day. I’ve known only two ladies with that name, but I’m intimately acquainted with the latter group. And, life being what it is, the drinkable kind is all that my taste buds were ever likely meant to savor.

 

On an uneventful day a few months ago, I stopped by my favorite liquor store to replenish my dwindling stock of drinkable Margueritas. The manager, an elderly gentleman of the British persuasion, greeted me with typical felicitations and kindness. As I retrieved my prize, I noticed a tag attached to the bottle. I inquired (or enquired) as to its significance, whereupon the kindly and gracious manager validated it and handed me a receipt with the instructions about where to mail it for a prompt and goodly refund of $7.00 from the distributor.  “Not a bad deal, “ I thought. “50 percent off. I’ll update my budget later.”

 

Within the next few days, I mailed the receipt and promptly forgot about it. But the distributor was more attentive, and within 4 or 5 weeks, a refund check arrived in the mail. I tossed the check aside for deposit on another day when I had less to do.

 

The next day I arrived at my bank with check in hand. They had recently installed a new ATM that merely took a picture of a check for deposit without the need of a deposit slip and other time-consuming steps. So I approached the ATM eager to learn of things new-fangled. 

 

I deposited the check into the required slot, and immediately an image of it appeared on the monitor. This was too easy and too boring. But off to my right a very attractive lady was approaching who was anything but boring. She could easily have been a model for the Marguerita label. Oh yes.

 

My attention returned to the ATM. A message was flashing at me on the monitor.   It asked if this deposit for was for my “checking” or “savings” account?  I touched the “checking” box on the screen, and resumed my visual glance of approval of this model-to-be, who was now waiting just 10 or 15 feet away.

 

As my eyes returned to the business at hand, the ATM was flashing a new message: “Is your deposit for $164,110 into your checking account correct?” it inquired.

 

As my finger approached the “Yes” box, it occurred to me that the ATM had only given me the check number, and not the check amount. “Oh well, that’s their problem, not mine. After all, it’s only a $7 dollar deposit.” My finger moved closer to the “Yes” box.

 

Suddenly my heart nearly stopped beating as I realized the number on the monitor had an entirely different meaning.   “Holy moly!” The bank was about to credit my account with my mortgage payoff. Or a new Mercedes. Or a Caribbean vacation. Maybe more. Perhaps this was my cosmic karma coming back to repay me for part of my losses from those painful Bush years.   “Yes. That’s it. There is justice in this universe!”

 

By now my model-in-waiting was growing impatient. I could see it in her eyes. “Press the damned button, dude.   I’ve got things to do other than watch you dance around like a jerk.” 

 

Oh yes, the button. But first I had to read the instructions again very carefully. It was all there and very clear. $164,110 deposit to my checking account. Nothing more, nothing less.   Again, I looked very closely at the “Yes” box. But this time I saw something new.   About two inches from that box I could see the lens of the ATM camera.

 

Wouldn’t you know it? They had perhaps 60 seconds of my face on video tape—bug-eyed, wild-eyed, and half crazy. Muttering and sputtering like a mad man. Glancing to my right while salivating and dancing.

 

Now it was decision time. Once, twice, three times my finger reached for the “Yes” box.   But each time it fell short of its destination.   Now just two images danced in my head. The first was of the bank staff huddled around their own monitor and laughing at me while I was making a fool of myself. The second was of the police leading me away in handcuffs.  

 

“OK, I’ll do the right thing,” I thought. “But I refuse to be the butt of somebody’s cruel joke.” So I looked straight into the ATM camera, and slowly voiced my words: “Read my lips. Kiss my rosy red a**!”

 

I corrected the deposit to the reduced amount of $7.00 and left. As I walked away, the model lady called to me: “Sir," she said with a smile. "You forgot your 'rosy red' receipt."

 

“I don't need it,” I replied. “They have it all on video.”