"Your identification, please?"
Celia showed him her wrist plate.
"Ah, Mrs. Sponsor, I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but this is such a large amount that we'll need your husband's personal verification. Bank rules, you know."
"This is my husband."
My irritation mounted. "I'm Sponsor," I said to the teller, flourishing my wrist band. "What's the difficulty?"
"Ah, Mr. Sponsor, would you like to step in a moment and speak to our chief cashier?"
"I haven't time," I blurted sharply. "Give my wife the money!" We were already ten minutes late to our school appointment.
The teller looked abashed and hesitant.
"Look here," I demanded, "if we don't get better service around here I'll take my account elsewhere!"
That did it. He fussed around and finally handed Celia the bundle which she had some trouble fitting into her purse. "Small denominations," she explained. I gunned our car peevishly, I must admit, and the acceleration shoved her back into the seat rest. We were ten minutes late already. I should have called my office.