The Great Check Deposit Adventure

I tried to deposit a check on a Monday in Montrichard. The ATM at my bank technically accepts deposits, just not mine. It bent the check, spat it back out like a polite rejection, and then asked if I wanted a receipt, which felt unnecessary under the circumstances.

Fine. I’ll go inside — except the branch was closed. On a Monday. At 10:30 a.m.

No problem. I needed to drive up to Blois anyway for groceries at Grand Frais, and I’d seen a branch of my bank near there. That one was also closed, this time for construction. The workers told me the ATM still worked, which was true if all you wanted to do was withdraw cash or check your balance. Deposits were still a firm non.

The next day I tried the Montrichard ATM again. Same result. So I went inside. This branch, if you can call it that, had no counter, just two desks and two humans, one of whom may have been mute. Neither spoke English.

I told the man I wanted to make a deposit. He looked mildly panicked and began rummaging through drawers like he was searching for an EpiPen. Eventually he produced a deposit slip. It was in French, and I could mostly piece it together, but I couldn’t actually fill it out. It wanted my account number, the name of the bank that issued the check, and, I’m fairly certain, the names of my known living relatives.

I told him I’d come back. The next day the branch was closed again, this time until Friday. Of course.

Friday arrived. Market day in Montrichard. I went into town with my completed deposit slip and the quiet confidence of a man who had read three blog posts on the subject. Same two employees. Same silence. I handed over the slip and the check. The man tore off the carbon copy, handed it to me, and then tossed the check and slip into a plain cardboard box behind his desk. No stamp. No merci. No indication that anything official had just happened.

I looked at him. He looked at me. That was it. I guess I’d made a deposit.

It went through the following Wednesday.