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  We must have driven around Inglewood for about twenty minutes looking for an ATM.  The closest one we saw was in a gas station.  And, since it was after hours, which meant after dawn, the attendant would not let us passed the locked doors to get to the machine.

We quickly packed back into the car and drove up the road.  My friend Pete Belanger pointed out a 7-Eleven convenience store up the road and stated that there must be an ATM in there.  He glanced across the street as we pulled in the parking lot.  He pointed to the Arby’s and stated that he would be right back.  He had to use the bathroom.  Looking both ways first, he jogged across the street.  I entered the store darting toward the ATM, but to my surprise, was halted by a line of people waiting to use the machine.

One after another, after another, after another -- I waited my turn.  I looked over to the magazine rack for the fifth time, and did not notice anything new.  Someone finally got on the line behind me, and magically, I felt better.  Now, I was part of the line: Not just some lingering booger that was waiting to be picked off.  Well, that is just how I felt.

It was finally my turn.  I swiped the ATM with the magnetic strip facing in the correct direction, and it asked me for my Personal Identification Number.  Now, I am a man who can remember numbers like they were going out of style.  I seem to have some sort of photographic memory when it comes to numbers.  Sometimes, I even wonder if I am slight autistic.  Anyhow, I have had this card for months and have used this card about twice each week since.  And, here is the clincher, I, for the life of me, could not remember the PIN.  I tried and tried, but I just drew a blank.

For satisfaction of the amnesia epic curiosity – I finally realized what the PIN was…two weeks later.

 

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