The thing with Willie is that she’s the Hotel California. Once you check in with Willie, you can check out any time you’d like.
But you can never leave.
And she doesn’t even have the courtesy to involve Don Henley.
Let me give you an example.
The Temple of Doom has a bank. The bank is only open on Wednesdays. And only from 9 until noon.
The Temple of Doom also has a café. The café is stocked with goodies for the residents to purchase for themselves. I assume for grandchildren as well, but honestly my kids are the only kids I’ve ever seen at the Temple of Doom.
That’s pretty funny when you consider what the movie version of the Temple of Doom did to kids.
The café’s supply of goodies comes from Sam’s Club. Each week, an order needs to be placed with Sam’s. Then someone needs to pick it up.
Guess who does the pickup?
Yes. Willie. Willie does the pickup.
And once, I did the pickup.
I don’t want to talk about it.
The Temple of Doom doesn’t have a corporate credit card. So Willie pays for the goods out of her own pocket. Then she submits her receipt to the lady who runs the café.
Who is, naturally, Willie’s mortal enemy. They yell at each other across the lobby when the café lady is working the café counter and Willie is working the front desk.
The café lady turns Willie’s receipt over to another guy. We’ll call him Bernie Madoff because this is a very linear Ponzi scheme.
I’m not sure why Willie can’t give the receipt directly to Bernie Madoff. All I know is that if she did, it would violate some sacred rule in the Temple of Doom charter, forged with lightning by Zeus, thousands and thousands of years ago, before the advent of mortal man.
And, you know, piss off the café lady.
Now, back when Willie was scammed, we had to close down her bank account. Her new bank deposits checks through an app.
I showed Willie how to do deposits with the app. My brother showed Willie how to do deposits with app. I showed Willie again how to do deposits with the app.
Willie can’t do deposits with the app.
So Willie decided to open a bank account with the bank at the Temple of Doom, so she could just deposit Bernie Madoff’s checks the old-fashioned way.
I thought that was a good idea. If there’s one thing you want for someone with memory issues, it’s lots and lots of financial accounts.
Willie didn’t want or need to put Indy on the account. Indy hasn’t written a check since he met Willie in 1968. The only cash he carries is loose twenties a customer used to pay him for his last job in 2004. When Willie was comatose, Indy handed me the checkbook and said, “I really shouldn’t be handling this.”
And he was right, considering the last time he did handle his own finances, he bought property in a Texas land hoax.
I have news on the Texas property, by the way. That might be your Christmas story. Let’s just say it involves Afghanistan, Alec Baldwin, and a last will and testament.
Naturally, Willie wanted me on the account. I am her financial power of attorney and estate executrix, which makes me sound pretty badass.
But really, I think Willie wanted me on the account just to keep me busy.
We made plans for me to come over Wednesday at one to open the account.
Remember how I said the bank is only open from nine until twelve? I didn’t know that then.
I know it now.
Willie has a habit of planning things with me, only for me to find Willie has other plans. Lunch with friends. A doctor’s appointment. A hair appointment.
I usually find out when I’m knocking on Willie’s door to pick her up and no one answers.
Or Indy answers with no pants on, which is also something I don’t want to talk about.
So on Wednesday morning, I called Willie to confirm our appointment.
Willie was all in. Let’s do this.
I went to the Temple of Doom at one o’clock.
No Willie.
Willie was in a meeting.
It was not an impromptu meeting.
I interrupted the meeting to basically ask Willie, “What the Fudgesicle?!”
“It’s OK,” Willie whispered. “The bank closes at twelve.”
I’m not sure what made that “OK.” I didn’t stay to ask.
Willie and I rescheduled for the following Wednesday at nine.
I called to confirm, and actually found Willie at home on Wednesday at nine.
So far, so good.
But remember the Hotel California. Always remember Willie is the Hotel California.
“I misplaced my driver’s license, but it’s OK. I have my Sam’s Club card.”
I sighed as I told Willie you can’t, in fact, open a bank account with a Sam’s Club card.
Willie huffed. “That’s ridiculous,” she sniffed. “What do people who don’t drive do?” she asked.
Well, for starters they probably don’t have a Sam’s Club card since it’s really hard to get a 48-pack of toilet paper on a bike.
Willie has difficulty navigating the internet these days, so I sat down at her desk to order a new license.
“Get me a new registration too!” Willie called out, because she had misplaced that as well and I apparently had nothing to do that day but hang around the Temple of Doom.
I’d just like to say at this point that we still haven’t opened the bank account.
Like Don Henley, I wanted to run for the door, to find the passage back to the place I was before. I wanted to go home.
But I am just a prisoner at the Temple of Doom. Definitely not of my own device.
And I need a captain to bring me my wine.
Good thing I live with one. Now if I could just escape the Temple of Doom.
