This pupil of Edward Gorey will not resist visiting his house whenever he's on Cape Cod. I had just enough time to tour the Gorey museum while on a food run--it was my turn to cook for my friend's Cape Cod writer's week--but stopped to look at the Edward Gorey shop first (along with Goreyolatry, I'm mad for T-shirts). I picked out a shirt but couldn't use my debit card because my bank decided I might have stolen it from myself while on vacation. My, apparently, Gormenghast-like bank transferred me from department to department while I explained again and again that I was still me, albeit in a different state. When my bank thawed my debit card--after an hour and a half on the phone--I bought my shirt but had no time to see the museum. Ten hungry writers awaited dinner.
The staff of the Gorey house had witnessed me pacing the green across the street, on my phone, pleading with my bank, and were sorry I couldn't stay to see the museum. The assistant director of the museum wrote a letter asking if a branch of my bank would buy me a sundae to make up for my lost afternoon.
On the way back to my friend's house, I stopped at a bank branch to show the letter. The bank manager didn't think it was funny at all, but I did get a sundae, courtesy of my bank, and Edward Gorey.
