The Credit Union With No Name

I have a savings account at a credit union. (This is like a bank with better candy in the waiting room dishes.) There are credit unions for police officers, teachers, and military men. These unions are all named things that go with the supported population. Apple for teachers, Navy Federal for sailors.

And then there's the credit union with no name, for government employees. I'm not kidding. The statements come on plain paper with "Account Statement" written on the top instead of a bank logo. The statement envelopes have a post office box as a return address, with no logo, and the box is at the post office nearest to *your* home.

My dad works for the government, along with a million other people. When I asked him what he did for a living (with an eye to getting him to come speak at my elementary school on Career Day), he told me he read newspapers. This matched with my experiences, where he brought home heaps of newspapers and ripped out occasional articles for a folder in his backpack. So I went back to school and told them all that he read newspapers. Being as I was in a class with the scions of U.S. Senators, sports legends, and people who owned things like newspapers (the public schools are really GOOD around here), no one was impressed by my dad. "My dad has a stupid job," I used to sigh.

What my dad really has is a twisted sense of humor. The bastard reads newspapers in eight different languages and does translation and analysis. At about the time I was bemoaning his lack of star power at Career Day, he was getting his picture taken at a fancy dinner with the Reagans and some kind of king. Where he was the interpreter. Jeez. I could have moved up at least two notches in monkey bar society if only I had known.

But aside from my social climbing aspirations, Dad was trying to do right by me. He set up an account at his credit union in my name with the minimum deposit of five dollars. This was so I could continue to get access to the services and the interest rates even after I turned eighteen and flew the coop.

I was not aware of this at first. But after I'd been at college (in another state) for about a month, I started getting these mysterious account statements. They were addressed to me, the return address was a P.O. box in that city, and they informed me I had five dollars and change. The amount went up by a penny every statement. I stared at these in confusion and then forgot about them.

I traveled around doing theater, and for a few summers I didn't have a fixed address to speak of. My parents were transferred overseas, so I didn't even have my parents' home as a default. But I finally landed at a fraternity house in Blacksburg, Virginia... and the statements started coming to me again. I shacked up with the asshat who turned out to be a deadbeat... and the statements followed me to his house. I moved upstate, and so did the Account Statements.

This was starting to creep me out.

The deliciousness of being stalked by a bank ended when I asked my dad about it, and he told me about the credit union. What he didn't tell me was the bank's address, and so my penny dividends continued for another six years as I grew annoyed with the deadbeat, moved to my own apartment, moved to my current address, married someone good and sweet and strong.

Finally, I asked for the secret address. My account held seven dollars and seventy four cents, and I had finally gotten bored watching the glacial growth. For more than twenty years, this account had existed. It was time to get better acquainted.

The credit union was located just down the street. Go figure.

Since the most of my money is in a budget and accounted for, I figure this "extra" account should only keep the "extra" money, so I took over all my change. I had been keeping a stockpile in the closet, with neat little rolls of coins made from the contents of the piggy bank in the laundry room. I deposited 335 dollars. More than half of that was pennies. It seemed fitting.