I had gone to the bank to sign the paperwork for the mortgage on the new house my wife and I recently purchased.
Upon arriving at the bank, we were greeted by the branch manager who escorted us to his office.
On his desk was a stack of papers I assumed comprised the mortgage documents. Next to the stack of papers was a framed mortgage certificate and a decorative engraving with my name; however, both the certificate and engraving had incorrectly used my former birth surname which had been changed more fifty years earlier when my mother’s second husband adopted me in 1971.
The bank manager apologized for the error saying that while he would immediately have the errors corrected on the certificate and engraving, we would have to manually modify my surname in the contract in every instance it appeared. Apologizing again, the manager said while that would take hours to do, he was going to step out and ask his secretary to order in lunch for us .
As I sat down at the table with the stack of papers preparing for the time-consuming task at hand, I suddenly realized all of the hullabaloo was over my name and that my wife’s name was nowhere to be found anywhere on the documents despite the fact that it was her money that paid for our new house.
The bank manager’s secretary, an older woman who reminded me of a relic from an old black and white movie, came into the office and said she could make some copies of the documents to save me some time and asked if I had any of my own paper she could use as using my own paper would save me money due to the fact that paper was more expensive if I had to buy it from the bank.
Turning to the woman, I told her I obviously didn’t have any paper with me and suggested that we use the backsides of the original documents.
With a somewhat puzzled look, she nodded and said she supposed it would alright to do that.
The woman took the stack of papers and left the office where my wife and began unwrapping the sandwiches the woman had left for us.
Then I woke up.
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