I was but a mere 27 years old. Far too young to die, I thought. Of course, since I am here to tell the tale, I obviously didn’t die. Not physically, or spiritually. But legally, “aye, there’s the rub,” whatever that means. Legally dead is another issue.

I had packed my pick-up truck and hauled off to Pennsylvania to visit my cousins for a week. They lived in a town that was barely a wide spot in the road, cradled among the Appalachian Hills. The main activities appeared to be cutting firewood, stacking firewood, and decorating your yard with carburetors, radiators, axles, hubcaps, snowmobile carcasses and motorcycle skeletons. Very scenic. So I wasn’t even home when I died.

My mom, meanwhile, was at work in the office of our family business when a local mechanic stopped by.

“Hi,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Mom smiled. “You?”

“Well, I’m okay,” he seemed hesitant. “Is Camy all right?”  (Wow, there’s a loaded question.)

“Yes, last I talked to her. She’s in Pennsylvania at her cousin’s for a few days. Why?”

“Ah, well, uh, she paid me for some work I did on her truck, and well, uh…” He seemed lost for words. “The check bounced.”

“Oh, that’s strange. She’s usually pretty careful about that, but I can cover it for you.”

“Well, that’s not the problem. It’s just that, well, here, take a look.”

He handed her my check, stamped “Return to sender. Party deceased.”

“Isn’t that curious?” My mother laughed. “I think if she had died my nephew would have mentioned it, or his wife would have called, if he was too busy.”

Mine was a sudden death. Quick. Complete. Painless. The Bank had killed me off. Closed my account. Bounced all my checks. When one of the largest, most influential and powerful financial entities in the world bumps you off, you’re dead.

By the time I returned from Pennsylvania, things were a mess. I had no clue as to why this had happened. But my mother, whose experience dealing with banks and their idiot-syncracies was far more extensive than mine, had a theory.
My grandmother had died a few weeks previous. She was 65 years older than me, lived in a different city, spoke a different language, had a different social security number, and had never had any account with any bank–ever. Yet, to The Bank we were one and the same person, now deceased, dearly departed, and definitely dead. Go figure.

Nothing to do but head for the local branch and see if I could join the “undead” and return to the land of the living. I approached The Bank manager–a prissy little man I disliked.

“Can I help you?” he snapped.

“Yes. I think The Bank made a mistake.”

He tsked. I hate when men tsk.

“You know,” he said. “People always think The Bank made a mistake. But then, it turns out it’s their own error after all.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Not this time.”

Then he sighed. I hate that too.

“Okay. Let’s see what you have here.”

Without a word I handed him a stack of my bounced checks.

“So?” He glared up at me. “What’s the problem?”

“You see the name there on the checks?” I asked.

“Yes. So?”

“That’s me. Do I look dead?”

At that time, younger, thinner, prettier, tan and fit, I knew the answer was, No.

“Oh, my!” He nearly jumped out of his chair.

And now comes the classic line. The one you all have probably never heard, and I will never forget.

“The Bank must have made a mistake.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” I smiled, sweet and lovely, as he turned red and sputtered. I love when men sputter.

My good name and credit was quickly restored and all was well again.
But sometimes, I wonder if I didn’t miss a golden opportunity. I had already made it to Pennsylvania when I died. From there I could have migrated west, or north, or even south, on to a new life. I could have chosen a new name, like Abigail McLintock, or Elizabeth Kinkaid. Something American sounding, like I’d always wanted.

But it was too late. The moment had passed. My brief encounter with death was over. There was nothing left to do, but live.

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