Of the Sodaine and Lamentable Death of the Legendarie Woody Woodpecker

OF THE SODAINE AND LAMENTABLE DEATH OF THE LEGENDARIE WOODY WOODPECKER

It’s early evening, and I’m at the local bank’s automatic teller machine lobby, doing the necessary paperwork for depositing a check, when four other people enter. Two guys, two ladies, all clearly, from the animated conversation, one group. Since I’m ready to roll and they don’t seem urgent, I go ahead and slot in my card and jab my numbers, first choosing to check my balance, to make sure I have enough on hand to get some cash before the work check clears. In college, I learned from the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world; as a freelance writer, I have learned that freelancers are the unacknowledged bankers of the world.
As the machine blurts out my requested receipt, one of the guys remarks how amazing it is that no matter how many times you use ATM’s, they never seem to make a mistake. Right away the three males are bonded and begin a discussion of ATM’s. How the Postal Service down in White River Junction has all sorts of high-tech handling equipment and still they deliver your neighbor’s mail to you, presumably your missing mail to some neighbor, and somehow manage to cough up stuff two months late. Why don’t they etc. etc. I volunteer that I’m a reporter, and I've fantasized for a long time about doing a story recounting (so to speak) exactly what steps a request for cash goes through so that the right amount, and only the right amount, gets transferred out.
“But what I’d REALLY like to know,” I say, as I redo the choices to withdraw some cash, “is how they got Woody Woodpecker in there. Maybe he’s doing the counting. Listen to this.”
Sure enough, as the money comes through, there’s the old familiar “Nyaa-nyaa-nayaa-NYAAAA-yuh! Nyi-nyi-nyi-nyi-nyi-nyi!” And once again, it’s the right amount.
“I think they should use ATM’s for VOTING,” says one of the guys. “Good idea!” seconds his friend. I’m in the midst of offering that Vermont towns have had good results with fill-in-the-oval ballots and counting machines when, in the background, a quiety female voice quietly remarks, “It’s not working.”
“What do you mean, not working?” asks the other lady. “I mean, it’s not working.”
We guys turn, and see emblazoned across the screen a message to the effect that our branch is not operational and its ATM is not available. No one imagines trying to hack through this. Monopoly told us there would be days like this: Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Woody Woodpecker has croaked.
“There’s an ATM at Usamah’s,” one guy says, and they head down Main Street toward the Middlebury Market & Café. Turns out they’re going to the movies, and the theater, also in that direction down Main Street, won’t take credit cards. Briefly I consider asking whether they were planning on seeing “There Will Be Blood, then think better of it.
As I turn along the sidewalk toward my car, one of the other guys yells, “You really DID take it all!” I turn, sigh, and reply, “I just don’t see how I’m going to fit it all into this Geo Metro.”

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