There are certain things in life I should know better than to do by now.
Leaving the house without checking the weather. Trusting that the gas tank can make it another twenty miles when the warning light comes on. Or believing that the five minutes I spend scrolling through Facebook before bed won’t somehow turn into an hour and a half.
But perhaps my greatest weakness is procrastination.
Take last night, for example.
I knew I needed cash. I’d spent the last few dollars in my wallet earlier in the week and hadn’t bothered to replenish my supply. Not a big deal, really. I could have easily gotten dressed, hopped in the car, and driven to the nearest ATM.
But there was a problem. I was already wearing my sweatpants. And once a man reaches a certain age and settles into his favorite pair of comfy sweatpants, there’s very little that can convince him to leave the house again. Short of a fire, a medical emergency, or someone announcing that AC/DC was playing a free concert in my driveway, I wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’ll stop at the bank tomorrow morning,” I told myself.
Famous last words.
Now, you’d think that in 2026, carrying cash would be about as necessary as owning a fax machine. We live in a world where you can pay for groceries with your phone, order a pizza without speaking to another human being, and send someone fifty dollars simply by tapping a few buttons.
Hell, even the kid selling lemonade down the street probably has a Venmo account.
But every so often, you still need actual money. You know, those little rectangular pieces of paper with pictures of dead presidents on them. And this morning was one of those times.
Unfortunately, getting cash isn’t nearly as convenient as it used to be.
My bank, in its infinite wisdom, has spent the last several years consolidating branches. Apparently, the goal is to make banking easier by ensuring that the nearest ATM is located somewhere between my house and the Canadian border.
Of course, I could use another bank’s machine, but then I’d be charged a service fee. And there’s something fundamentally wrong about paying four dollars for the privilege of withdrawing twenty dollars of my own money.
That’s a 20 percent surcharge just for being too lazy to get cash the night before.
So, on my way to work, I decided to visit one of the ATMs belonging to my bank.
I chose the drive-up location because, frankly, I didn’t feel like getting out of the car.
As I pulled alongside the machine, I was greeted by the familiar glowing screen.
WELCOME!
How nice.
A machine that was happy to see me.
I inserted my debit card and began what should have been a simple transaction.
What follows is a reasonably accurate dramatization of the conversation that took place between me and the ATM.
ATM: Good morning, you handsome devil! Welcome back! How can I help you today?
Me: Well, aren’t you friendly? I’d like to withdraw eighty dollars, please.
ATM: Absolutely! Would you like a receipt?
Me: No, thank you.
ATM: Wonderful! Processing your request!
Several seconds pass.
ATM: We’re sorry. This transaction cannot be completed at this time.
Me: What?
ATM: Would you like to perform another transaction?
Okay. No big deal.
Maybe the machine was running low on cash. Maybe it didn’t have enough twenties to give me eighty dollars.
Or maybe, like everything else in 2026, it was experiencing some sort of technical difficulty that would eventually be blamed on a software update.
I decided to try again.
ATM: Welcome back, you magnificent specimen of a man! What can I do for you?
Me: Let’s try forty dollars this time.
ATM: Excellent choice! Would you like a receipt?
Me: Nope.
ATM: Processing your request!
Several more seconds pass.
ATM: We’re sorry. This transaction cannot be completed at this time.
Me: Are you kidding me?
ATM: Would you like to perform another transaction?
Now I’m beginning to get irritated.
Not only am I running late, but I’m sitting in a parking lot having an argument with a machine that has all the personality of a customer service representative who’s already given two weeks’ notice.
I take a deep breath.
One more try.
ATM: Welcome back, you ruggedly handsome—
Me: SHUT UP!
ATM: How can I assist—
Me: TWENTY DOLLARS! JUST GIVE ME TWENTY DAMN DOLLARS!
ATM: Certainly! Would you like a receipt?
Me: NO! I DON’T WANT A RECEIPT! I DON’T WANT TO CHECK MY BALANCE! I DON’T WANT TO OPEN A SAVINGS ACCOUNT! I JUST WANT TWENTY DOLLARS!
ATM: Processing your request!
An eternity passes.
ATM: We’re sorry. This transaction cannot be completed at this time.
Me: YOU SON OF A—
ATM: Thank you for banking with us! Have a wonderful day!
At this point, I seriously considered getting out of the car and kicking the machine.
But then I remembered that everything has a camera these days, and the last thing I needed was to become the star of a viral video titled Angry Middle-Aged Man Loses Fight With ATM.
I could already picture the comments on a viral Facebook post:
“Boomer doesn’t understand technology.”
“Somebody come get their grandpa.”
“Sir, this is a bank.”
The most infuriating part was that the machine wasn’t even displaying an Out of Service message. No warning. No explanation. Just a cheerful invitation to insert my card, followed by the electronic equivalent of someone slamming a door in my face.
Three times. And each time, it had the nerve to ask if I wanted to try again.
That’s the thing about technology. It’s supposed to make our lives easier, yet somehow we’ve reached a point where my refrigerator can connect to the Internet, my television wants to know my viewing preferences, and my car can tell me when a tire is two pounds low on air pressure.
But a machine whose sole purpose is to dispense money apparently can’t figure out how to give me twenty bucks.
And I’m the idiot who keeps asking it.
Eventually, I gave up and drove away, defeated, penniless, and muttering obscenities that would have made a sailor blush.
So, what’s the moral of this story?
Always plan ahead? Don’t procrastinate? Never trust a machine that greets you with excessive enthusiasm? I suppose all three are reasonable lessons.
But the biggest lesson is that, despite all the technological advances we’ve made, some things never change.
You can have artificial intelligence write your emails, cars that practically drive themselves, and phones that recognize your face even when you look like hell first thing in the morning.
Yet somewhere out there, there’s still an ATM that exists solely to ruin my day.
Anyway, if anyone happens to have a dollar or two they can spare, I’d appreciate it.
I’d really like to get something from the vending machine at work.
And knowing my luck, it’ll take my money and refuse to give me the damn candy bar.
The Seventh Echo is available now from
Adverse City Publishing
© 2026 James Wood
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