Confessions of a Bank Teller (Short Story)

Normally I won't preface a short story with an explanation. Stories shouldn't need any kind of warm up before they're read. They either work or they don't. This one though may need a little bit of set up.

I wrote the original version of this story in college for one of my many creative writing classes. The professor of this particular class, like all the previous ones, instructed us to avoid writing any fantasy or science fiction, as these were considered unworthy genres to pursue. We were to write real world fiction, but more importantly, we were to write what we knew.

So, I wrote a short story about a bank teller who daydreams. At the time, besides being an uniterested student, that's what I knew. The professor, as well as the rest of the class, beat the shit out of the piece. And rightly so. It had no relevant plot or characters, it barely had a setting, and it simply didn't work as a short story.

I have since rewrote "the bank" story, but its failings remain the same. Still, I'm somewhat satisfied with it. It may not work as a story, but I enjoyed writing it, which is probably more important than anything else.

For those of you who decide to read it, I hope you enjoy it. If you don't, that's ok too. Feel free to give me any honest criticism you have. I'd much rather you tell me you hate it if that's the truth, then be told it's good if you really don't think so. And that goes for all my writing.

I'm a big boy. I can take it. You won't hurt my feelings.

One last thing before I get to the story. Any similarities between myself and the nameless narrator is purely coincidental. I am not the nameless narrator in the story. It's just a character. No, seriously.


Confessions of a Bank Teller



You work a customer service line long enough and it’ll destroy any sense of goodwill you have towards humanity. It takes all kinds, so they say, and eventually you’ll help them all- the weathermen, the sports commentators, the shrinks. You’ll help the conspiracy theorists, the good semaritans, the fortune cookies. Each and every one of them is living the lie, the lie that the errands that fill their day not only have to be done, but somehow give them purpose.
Outside the sliding glass doors that separate the building’s entry hall from the lobby, the professional bankers are already gathering. Their eyes, filled with eagerness and longing, are locked to the teller line. As the clock strikes 9 a.m. and a new accounts representative strolls over to the doors to let them in, I remind myself that today is the last day I will ever do this. Today is the last day I’ll help these people live the lie.
“Got your quarters ready?” Steve asks the teller line just before he opens the doors. It’s his thing. It’s what he says.
Oh I’ve got quarters, Steve. I’m locked and loaded. I’ve got everything a professional banker could want. I’ve got Sacagawea dollars. I’ve got halves. I’ve got mutilated money covered in blood. Whatever the professional bankers want, they’ll get.
Steve reads the blank-faced stares across the teller line as a signal that we’re ready and opens the glass doors. The professional bankers enter, ready to ruin my day. Outside the sun is shining like it’s the last time it ever will. The skies are blue. The clouds are puffy and white and perfect. It’s a Bob Ross painting outside. All the world is just how it should be, out there. Inside I’m trapped in my monkey suit, my shirt and tie that proclaim me a professional. I’m trapped listening to bank radio playing from the overhead speakers. I’m trapped saying those four evil words.
“May I help you?”
On most days, my first customer is usually a cum-and-go, a wham-bam-thank you Uncle Sam with a no thrills straight deposit. All I have to do is stamp the deposit slip, write a receipt, and send them on their merry way.
Today is no exception. Mrs. Reynolds just needs to make a deposit. It’s already encoded and everything. The bitch.
Had she come in at any other time, she would have been my hero. The cum and goes, the pop and hops, they get a pass in my book. Really, how can I hate them? It takes all of eight seconds to push their papers and wish them a good one. Before you know it, I’m back to day dreaming. Mrs. Reynolds though is the first. She’s the parasite that gets the whole process started. The nine hour count down to the end of the day has begun, and Mrs. Reynolds is the one that started the clock running. I can’t help but despise her for it.
Before I can even slip into a day dream, customer number two is already waiting patiently for me to call him. He’s not holding a check. He’s not holding a deposit slip. Oh the world of possibilities.
“May I help you?”
If you could hear me, you’d almost swear I was being sincere.
“How’s it going?” he asks. “I’d like to make a transfer.”
A transfer? Really. Like the one you could make on your own if you called our 24 hour line? The one you could make on-line if you had internet banking?
“Ok, go ahead and fill this out,” I say, giving him the yellow-colored form stashed in my stacker bin. “This side is where the funds are coming from, and this is where they’re going to.”
Had customer number two made this transfer over the phone, the funds would have been available immediately. Instead the money won’t officially move until tomorrow. Instead, I’ll be encoding his transfer slip later with the correct account numbers so his funds are moved correctly.
Professional bankers are always adding to the pile.
Customer number two is soon to leave. Numbers three, four, and five are right on his heels. I’m a customer service machine. Faces and names blur as I push people out the door.
“May I help you?”
People are always saying how they have to go to the bank. It’s just one of the tasks on their ever growing to-do list. Trust me, it’s not the case. People don’t have to go to the bank. They want to go to the bank.
There’s a never ending supply of services banks offer to prevent their customers from ever stepping foot inside one of their many, conveniently located branches. Direct deposit, automated phone services, night depositories. Online banking. Debit cards. Atms. They’ll even let customers use their cell phones to bank. Whatever it takes to keep customers away. Yet still they come. Professional bankers never take the hint.
Between customers I start a rock band that conquers the world. I cure cancer. I write a best selling novel. Eventually though the dream dies. It always dies, as I utter those four little words.
“May I help you?”
Ten minutes into my day and the cum-and-goes have given way to the business owners who have deposits and change orders to make. These are the usuals. These are the customers every single teller on the line knows by name. You don’t ask, “May I help you?” Not to the usuals. They don’t need the foreplay. An exchange of hellos and it’s down to business. They want fives and ones. They want quarters.
Steve was right.
“See ya tomorrow, Bob,” I say out of habit as he turns to leave the bank. But I don’t really mean it. There’s no way I ever come back to this shit. There’s no fucking way. Right?
On bank radio, Paula Abdul is reminding me that she’s forever my girl. Only it’s not even 9:30 yet. It’s far too early in the day for that kind of commitment.
After reaching double digits, you start losing track of how many customers you’ve helped. Judging by the pile of cash-ins and cash-outs towering to the sky, judging by the stack of unencoded deposits and withdrawals that await being done; I’ve helped all the world with their banking. Who else could there possibly be to help?
That’s the thing about a customer service line. It’s never ending. It goes on forever.
“You look like you could use something to do,” says customer number 16 as he strolls up to my window. I didn’t call him, yet here he is, ready to be helped. Apparently the sign that reads, “Wait here for the next available teller” is beyond his comprehension. That’s typical though of a good samaritan.
The good samaritans are always acting like they’re doing you a favor. Whatever their transaction, it’s going to save you from depths of boredom that have ensnared your mind. If only they knew what you’d been thinking about before they saved you.
This particular savior wants to cash a check for $200. As I start to open my top drawer, I ask, “How do you want it?”
“Twenties will be fine.”
I count the money out as fast as I can, make him think that maybe he should recount it. Who knows, maybe I shorted him? He does recount it, then smiles as he leaves.
“Have a good day,” he tells me.
“Have a good one,” I reply.
Between customers the bank is robbed and I’m shot in my left arm with a shotgun. Masked gunmen run off with bags full of cash, bait money, and dye packs while I’ll bleed behind the teller line. The pain in my arm is unimaginable, but beyond it lies the joy of a few extra days off.
Customer number 21 is my first fortune cookie of the day. When he asks how I’m doing, I give him but the slightest of nods, yet somehow he interprets this as a window of opportunity. Pushing back his glasses to fit tighter on his face, he leans in close enough for me to smell the coffee on his breath. This man, in his torn jeans and mustard stained t-shirt, he wants my undivided attention. He’s got something very important to tell me.
“You see this check? This check belongs to a tenant of mine. Look at the date on the check. He wrote this on the first. What is today? The eighth? The ninth? This guy wrote the first on his check and gave it to me today, like he had it in his pocket for a week while he waited around for me to show up. Can you believe that shit?”
Fortune cookies are always doing this. They know they have you cornered. In your customer service role there’s nowhere for you to run. There’s nowhere to hide. You’re trapped, and they know it. You’re stuck there with that customer service smile frozen to your face while they learn ya. They have wisdom that needs to be dropped, and it’s your ass they’ll drop it on.
Between customers I’m updating my resume. Between customers I’m going back to school and getting a real degree. Why didn’t anyone tell me how useless a psychology BA would be?
“Well you know what?” the fortune cookie asks. “Today I told him. I told him exactly what I thought of him. You want to be a drunk? You want to be a pot head? Get a roommate. Get a roommate and charge him $350. Do it right. Your life already sucks. What would it matter? If you’re going to be a pot head, be a successful pot head. Do it right.”
The fortune cookie pauses for me to give some kind of reaction. I’m placing check marks on his deposit slip to show I’ve taken into account that there is cash to go with his checks. I’ve written a cash-in to run with the deposit. In his mind though, I’m a captivated audience.
“He doesn’t have an education. He doesn’t have any vocabulary. He can’t speak right. I told him straight out he was a loser. I said it to his face. But people don’t want to hear it.”
On this, we’re in complete agreement.
On bank radio, Coldplay is asking me, “Who would ever want to be king?”
Apparently none of the members of Coldplay have been bank tellers before.



*****



Five Easy Steps to Robbing a Bank

1- Have an accomplice enter the bank a minute or two ahead of you, with either a puppy or a baby.

2- Enter the bank wearing a disguise and find the only teller (usually a male teller) who isn’t fawning over the puppy/infant.

3- Demand all the money in the drawer. Specify that there should be no dye packs, no bait money, and no GPS trackers.

4- Wish the bank teller a good day.

5- Leave the bank.




*****



Why is it that funeral homes only employ hot chicks?
It’s not even 10:30 yet and the first depositor from one of the city’s many funeral homes is at my window. She’s wearing a black skirt, black heels, and a white blouse that gapes a bit between its heavily strained buttons. Oh how I love those silky white, button blouses.
There is a harem in my mind, and I add to it all the time.
“Been busy?” she asks.
I glance up from counting her stack of cash, making a quick glance here, another there. Eyes like a hummingbird.
“It’s steady,” I reply. “It’ll pick up soon though.”
She nods, but it may as well be a shrug. Why people insist on small talk, I’ll never know. Is silence really that uncomfortable?
Finished with the cash, I move on to sorting through her checks, making sure that all of them are endorsed. What I’m really hunting for though are any notes on the memo lines. Sure enough, I find a check that has one, and I can’t help but laugh.
On a check written to the funeral home for five thousand dollars, there’s a note on the memo line reading, “Grandpa’s funeral.” You can just picture some couple, sitting in their dinning room doing their end of the month budgeting, when they come across the carbon copy of their check. The husband turns to his wife with a blank expression and asks, “Wait a minute. Why did we cut a check for five large to a funeral home? Oh that’s right. Grandpa died.”
Good thing they wrote that note on the memo line.
“Thanks,” I say as I hand her a receipt. “Have a good one.”
“You too.”
I watch her go of course. It would have been a crime not to. Skirts are a rarity and should be appreciated as such. They’re the endangered species of women’s fashion. Like the polar bear, they are not long for this world.
As the sounds of her high-heeled march across the tiled floor fades to the rumble of the proof machine behind me, I’m struck by the peculiarity of mortuaries and hot women. Mortuary chicks are always hot. Always. Like it’s a rule or something. Why is that? Every single one that I’ve ever helped is a sweet piece of the good life, without exception. There must be some greater meaning in it, of life and death, of sexuality and mortality. Freud would know the answer. Whatever it is though, it’s beyond me to grasp.
On bank radio, John Fogerty is begging his coach for some playing time. Put me in coach, I’m ready to play, he sings. I could play centerfield.
Put me out of my misery, coach.
“May I help you?”
The next professional banker waddles up to my window, breathing heavy from the four strides it took him to reach me. Sweat drips down his face and into his rust-colored beard. I look again for my mortuary beauty, but she’s gone.
If not for eye candy, I wouldn’t stand a chance. If not for that one, brief escape, I would have jabbed a pen through my skull and ended it long ago.
Between customers I’m pulling all the bank’s fire alarms. Between customers I’m calling in bomb threats. The FBI considers the threats serious and advises us all to go home. Between customers I’m uploading viruses to our computer system. Soon our entire network collapses, returning us to the banking dark ages. Anarchy ensues.
The guy in front of me, breathing like he’s the second coming of Darth Vader, is telling me how lucky I am to be inside. Outside, out there where I long to be, it’s apparently hot. He’s got to be like the tenth weatherman I’ve helped today already. Despite the wall of window panes directly behind me, despite the fact that I don’t live at the bank and I do venture out now and again, Mr. Weatherman is describing the conditions outside like I wouldn’t have a clue what they were otherwise.
“Stay cool,” he tells me as he taps his wallet on the counter and lurches towards the doors.
I was never cool to begin with.
The line is three customers deep, but I hesitate before calling the next customer. I don’t want anything to do with the suit who’s next. Behind him is a pretty young thing holding a large zip-bag of cash, most of it probably one dollar bills. I’ll hold out for her. In the mean time, I’ll shuffle through my cash drawers like I’m getting organized first before I can call a customer. Finally, another teller calls the suit, and the young girl is mine.
You work a customer service line long enough and you’ll eventually help them all- the platters, the milfs, the trophy wives. You’ll help the perkies, the cougars, the prostitots. Each and every one of them is living the lie, the same lie as everyone else, yet somehow you find a way to forgive them.
Glancing up and down the line, I notice a perfect piece of thickness at Cindy’s window, a heavy-set brunette whose plump frame is still rocking the hourglass.
Add her.
The girl in front of me, the pretty young thing with the heap of cash, wears her hair in a tight knot at the base of her neck. As she leans over the counter to sort out her deposit, the countdown starts in my head. Six seconds, that’s all you have to enjoy the view. Any longer and you run the risk of discovery. But it’s plenty of time. More than enough to savor, and to catalogue.
Julie, the pretty blonde with the cute little nubs hidden behind a lacy, pink bra.
Add her.
“Just a deposit,” she says with a smile. “Sorry for all the ones.”
I shrug. “No worries.”
Riffling through the washingtons as fast as I can, I study the newly added concubine of my mind for any clues as to her profession. This is the game I play, that all the tellers play, with the women who bring in bundles of one dollar bills.
Waitress or stripper?
Most of the time they’re waitresses. Most of the time.
“Can I have my balance?” Julie asks.
“Sure,” I mumble.
At the computer I verify all her information and then jot down her balance on the back of her receipt. Before I leave though, I take a quick peek of the A screen and scroll down to her listed employer.
Chili’s Bar and Grill.
“Thanks. Have a good one,” I tell her.
“You too.”
And with that, she’s gone. The next guy in line, a goofy-faced kid with the beginnings of a thin handlebar mustache hurries to my window and drops yet another mountain of one dollar bills. I recognize the kid right away. It’s Richard, the high school dropout turned pizza delivery boy. He’s always wearing the same damn Iron Maiden t-shirt every time he comes in.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s crazy hot out there, man. Sucks. You’re lucky to be in here with all this air conditioning.”
Aren’t I though?
The pile of ones he’s set on the counter taunt me. The dirty, green paper is wrinkled and frayed. I haven’t even touched them yet and I can feel their grime on my hands already. Damn you, Richard.
When a woman brings in ones, she’s either a waitress or a stripper. When a guy brings in ones, he’s a fucking bastard.
But that’s ok, I remind myself. After today, no more weathermen. No more Richards. I can’t wait. Who knows what I’ll do, but anything has got to be better than this. Right?
I’ll miss Julie though, and the funeral parlor chicks.
“Sorry for all the ones,” Richard says. “It’s all the customers give me.”
I shrug. “No worries.”
If you could hear me, you would almost swear I was being sincere.



*****


Never, under any circumstance, say any of the following to a bank teller when they ask you how you want your money:

1- Green
2- Whatever. It all spends
3- In hundreds (when the check you’re cashing is ninety-nine dollars or less)
4- Pennies
5- Thousands (there are no such thing)
6- Doubled
7- Tripled
8- American
9- With pictures of dead presidents on it
10- In twenties. And if you have any extra, I’ll take those too.


Saying these things only proves that humans are dumb animals, and that we all have the same, unoriginal thoughts floating around the same, unoriginal brain.

Please note: There is one exception to this rule. No matter how many times women say it, the response “Any way you want to give it to me” will never, ever get old.


*****



You work a customer service line long enough and you’ll eventually become the enemy. You become the guy behind the guy. You become the corporation and the bottom line. It’s not your fault. Sure, you can say it’s all about the paycheck. You have to pay the bills, right? But that’s not it. It’s the customers. It’s the professional banker who comes in just to cash a $3 rebate check from Office Depot. It’s the customer who just used the drive-up ATM and is now coming inside to break all those twenties into smaller change. It’s the bastard that storms to the counter and screams in your face about all the misdeeds he believes perpetrated against him by the entity you serve.
To them you are the bank, and that’s what you become.



*****



“Can I cash this here?” asks a tattooed, multi-pierced lovely. Her raven-black hair is far too dark to be natural, but it works. I don’t even mind the raccoon eyes, or the hints of goth tragedy that envelope her wardrobe. She can’t hide that she’s hot. Sure, the heavy layers of eyeliner are a tad too much. Even so, I still add her.
There’s a harem in my mind, and I’m always hiring.
“Do you have an account with us?” I ask.
“No.”
Glancing at the check, I see that it’s one of ours. “Sign the back. I’ll need two IDs.”
She signs the back and slides a state issued ID card across the counter, followed by a library card, a Blockbuster card, and a gym membership card.
“I’m sorry, I can’t take these. Do you have a debit or credit card?”
“No.” Her purple lips have shifted from a pout to a grimace. Now she looks more punk rock than goth, and it’s giving me a chubby.
“Voter registration? Military ID? School ID? Gun permit?”
“That’s all I got.”
A quick check of the clock tells me I have fifteen minutes to lunch. The line of customers waiting to be helped has doubled from four to eight. At the check writing stands, customers are sorting through their transactions, racing to fill out their unencoded deposit slips and establish their place in line.
“I’ll have to get this approved by a supervisor,” I tell her as I head off towards the customer service department. A minute or two later, I’m back with the good news. “We’ll go ahead and make an exception for you this once, but next time you’ll need a second ID.”
“I’ll take it in large.”
“You know, if you open an account with us today you wouldn’t have any problem cashing your checks. You could just cash them against your account. It wouldn’t take more than five to ten minutes to open one.”
“What does it take to open an account?”
“Just your ID”
The smirk she flashes is the same as the one I wear on the inside all damn day. “So it takes two IDs to cash a check, but only one to open an account?”
There’s more to it than that of course. The new accounts rep will need a valid social security number, and will have to do a credit check, but I nod and smile and pretend I don’t hear a single note of sarcasm in her voice. I’m a smiling mannequin, dressed for success.
“And if you open an account today with at least a $50 deposit, we’ll even throw in a free I-Pod.”
“No thanks.”
Counting out her money, I take a few last peeks at what’s hidden beneath her Hot Topic ensemble and then wish her a good one. Before she’s even out the door, I’ve already made my way back to the computer and have pulled up the account tied to her paycheck. On the four screen, the page also known as the memo screen, I post a quick note about our lovely, raven-haired beauty and then return to calling customers.
She knows the two ID rule. No more exceptions.


*****


I read somewhere once that women love a man who can make fun of himself. Self-deprecation, the article said, is a big turn-on. The problem though is that you can’t over-do it. Too much self-deprecation and that turn-on quickly goes the other way. But why is that? Because at the heart of self-deprecation is honesty. It’s just not funny if it isn’t true. And the truth about truth is, you can only take so much.



*****


During my hour long lunch, I spend the time downstairs in the bank break room reminding myself that I’m quitting.
The break room is about as sparse as can be. There’s a TV, a microwave, a stove no one ever uses, and a soda machine (which, by the way, is my job to stock). Hanging from one of the walls is a large message board plastered with state and federal laws on wages and employee rights, new job postings, and posters for help lines offering counseling. The posters offering counseling have a picture of an elephant inching away from a mouse, and they read, “No problem is too small. We can help.”
Between customers I’m calling the bank’s help line and telling them how much I hate my job. I’m telling them how my soul is being ravaged, and it’s all the bank’s fault.
By the time lunch is over though, I’m coming around to the idea that this is how life is and always will be. So what if my soul is slowly being ripped from my body? So what if the seconds of my life are passing away like the droplets of H2O in an endless session of Chinese water torture? What’s the point of a soul anyway? It’s useless to you when you’re alive, and when you die it either spends eternity in a realm of puffy white clouds or it’s the fossil fuel that keeps hell running. Those it would seem are your choices, assuming we even have souls to begin with.
At the end of lunch, I’m back on the teller line clocking in. I punch in my log-in, and then the password. Every so often our passwords to clock in will expire and the computer will ask us to come up with a new one. Mine are always the same, with just slight variations.
Iamaloser.
Iamatool.
Someonefuckingshootme.
If you ask me, self-deprecation is the highest form of humor. But only when it’s true.


*****



You work a customer service line long enough and you eventually learn how to read people’s minds. You know what the customers want even before they even ask. It’s not that you’re psychic, it’s just that you’ve done this all before.
Occasionally though, someone will throw you a curve ball.
“Can I get a--” Dave begins, then stops as I hand him a withdrawal slip. Dave is an accountant with offices upstairs. The bank only takes up the first floor of the building. All the rest of the space is leased out to small businesses. Most of the business owners not only rent from us, but bank with us as well. It’s a win/win for everyone.
“No matter how much money I get, I always seem to need more,” Dave tells me, scribbling a haphazard line that is somehow his signature.
I count out five hundred in twenties to Dave and then send him on his way.
“Have a good one,” I tell him.
The next woman in line will not be added. She’s a middle-aged woman, of average height and weight, dressed in the typical jeans and sweater of a stay at home mom just out running errands. Her appearance though is not what disqualifies her. Really, had I been on my game, I would have added her already. She’s definitely a milf. By the time I notice her though, her stumbling throws me off.
Watching her approach, I’m immediately convinced that she’s drunk. The unnatural wobble, the flailing of arms, it’s like she’s taking a sobriety test and failing horribly. If I asked her to touch her nose, she’d probably gauge out an eye. Truly, she’s a sight to behold, and I can’t help but love her for it.
That is, until she opens her mouth and ruins everything.
“I’m not drunk,” she proclaims as soon as she reaches my window. “I have a disease that makes me walk this way.”
It’s hard to hide the disappointment from my face, but somehow I manage.
“What could I do for you?”
“Do you have the new state quarters?”
“No. Sorry. Not yet.”
“Well why the hell not? They were minted over three weeks ago.”
“We never know when we’re going to get them. We’ve placed our order, but the shipments come at random.”
Her sigh of displeasure has the weight of full day’s work in it, and for a moment I almost forget which side of the counter I’m on.
“Fine, will you call me then?”
“Sorry?”
“Will you call me when they get in?” She asks. Without even waiting for a reply, she drops her purse to the counter and finds a pen and a paper. With angry, jerky movements she jots down her name and phone number and pushes the piece of paper across the counter. “Call me when they come in. I want two rolls.”
Her business done, she stumbles away, nearly barreling into my next customer.
For the briefest of moments I consider throwing the phone number away. She can’t possibly be serious. The idea of calling someone to let them know that the new state quarters have arrived seems so preposterous, I can’t help but think she was joking. Maybe she was drunk, and all that talk of a disease was a ploy. But I know that’s not the case. Her anger was real. Her sigh of discontent real. They mirror my own.
“May I help you?”
Between customers I write award winning screenplays that become record breaking summer blockbusters. I invent an airborne truth serum that once put into the envirnment spreads all over the globe, forcing every human on earth the speak only the truth. Customer service industries the world over are irrevocably destroyed. Between customers, I’m sleeping on a hammock swaying in the warm breeze on an uninhabited island in the south pacific, an empty margarita glass in one hand and a still smoking cigar in the other.
“Where I know you from?” asks the Asian man with three business deposits. Each deposit is loaded with cash, meaning that he and I will both be here for a while.
I shrug. “You tell me.”
“I see you before,” he insists. “Where I see you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You play poker?”
“Nope.” I wish I played poker.
Between customers I’m headed up the hill to the casinos in Black Hawk and Central City. Between customers I’m going all in with a dead hand, bluffing my way to poker stardom.
“I know I see you somewhere. You have familiar face.”
“Was it here?” I ask.
“Could be.”
There’s no doubt about it.
On bank radio, Timbaland tells me it’s too late to apologize, but I don’t remember saying I was sorry. What do I have to apologize for?
Out of the corner of my eye I can see my supervisor Brian coming down the line, a stack of mail in his hand. This is how you chase the sun. Not in the number of customers you help, but in the side duties you have to finish between them. The customers who come in, they’re what’s keeping you from getting the real work done.
“Mail?” Brian asks, as if I have a choice. I nod my agreement as I finish up with my poker player friend. “Sure.”
“And when you’re done with these, come back to my desk. Christine and I would like to have a talk with you.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“May I help you?”
Between customers I’m in the back conference room with Brian and Christine. They try to let me down easy. The bank is going in a different direction, they say. It’s nothing personal, they say. It’s just, they’re looking for tellers who care about the customers, and who like their job. They’re looking for tellers who smile.
“My lord, it’s windy out there,” says the old lady creeping up to my window. She places her cane across the counter and does her best to straighten the hive of tangled silver that is her hair. “I could barely open my car door.”
Old women are obsessed with the wind. And cash envelopes. They always want cash envelopes.
“I just need to cash a check, dear. I’m going to the grocery store.”
It takes nearly three minutes for her to find the check, sign it, and pass it to me with a shaking hand.
“How would you like the cash?”
I should know better than to ask, but that’s the job.
“Well, let’s see. I’m going to need bread. And milk. And Harry will want his chocolate covered almonds. Harry loves his almonds. And I’ll never hear the end of it if I forget. But Arlene wants to meet for dinner tomorrow, and I’ll need tip money, so I’ll need some ones. I’m not exactly sure where we’re eating. I’d just assume go to Country Buffet, but Arlene says she’s tired of it. She wants something different. Maybe we’ll go to Perkins. Or that nice Italian place that’s right next door. I forget what it’s called. Those places all have the same name. Now, let’s see, what else did I need money for? Oh, that’s right. The boy who mows the lawn. He’ll want his five dollars.”
“So a mix of everything?”
“Mostly fives. Nice ones. None of the wrinkled ones you’re always handing out. And put it in an envelope for me.”
I count the money out slowly before putting it in an envelope, not wanting to have to recount it if she decides I’ve gone to fast.
Cane in hand, cash in purse, the old woman departs to battle with the wind once more. Another satisfied customer.
I’m a customer service machine.



*****


The conference room where Brian and Christine have taken me has a clear view of Wadsworth, the street that never sleeps. Cars whiz by ten to fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, except for the ones pulling into the turn lane that leads to the bank parking lot.
Out there, that’s where the real line starts. It only finishes at my window.
“How long have you been working here?” Christine asks me.
The three of us are huddled around the end of a long conference table that stretches the length of the room. Despite our presence their, the vacant chairs along the rest of the table make the room feel empty, like the three of us are only ghosts.
“Three years,” I reply.
“That many? Wow, how time flies. Well, you’ve done a wonderful job during your time here. You’re hard working, reliable, and you seem to get along with everyone.”
Yes, it would seem so.
“Have you put any thought into becoming a senior teller?” she asks.
I nod. “Sure. Are you offering me the position?”
“We are. We think you’ve earned it. You’ve shown you’re responsible enough, and we’d like to see you grow with our company. There’s plenty of room for moving up. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to put a little more cash in your wallet, now would it?”
My smile is warm, my voice filled with enthusiasm. On the inside though I’m a little boy who just watched his puppy get run over.
“Then I accept,” I tell them. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
If you could hear me, you would almost swear I was being sincere.



*****



A Bank Teller’s Dating Tips for the Single Male:

1) Never date a woman who carries a purse big enough to hold a bowling ball. If she really needs a bag that big to carry all her shit, then she’s way too high maintenance, and not worth the trouble.
2) As early as possible during the first date, ask to see your potential lover’s driver’s license. Should your date look better in the driver’s license photo than she does in person, end the date as quickly as possible and run for your life. Trust me.
One of two possible scenarios is happening here. A woman who looks better in her Driver’s License photo is either letting herself go (and probably hasn’t hit bottom yet), or she’s capable of looking good, but your punk ass wasn’t a good enough reason for getting all dolled up. Either way, it’s all down hill from there.



*****


Back on the teller line, I’m having a hard time getting my head around things. Luckily for me, the customers are there to distract me.
“Where’s your ATM at?” asks a man wearing a cowboy hat.
“It’s a drive-up ATM, located on the north side of the building.”
The man scoffs. “You don’t have one inside?”
God how I wish we did. I wish there was one right where I was standing.
“Do you need a withdrawal slip?” I ask.
He motions for me to give him one, and that’s the last word between us until I’m handing him a stack of twenties and wishing him a good one.
Between customers I’m telling Brian and Christine that I won’t be taking their job. My rock band has just signed with a major label. My novel has just been published. Between customers I’m debating the existence of God, of determinism, destiny, and free will. If there is a God, and if everything that happens in this world happens according to his plan, does that mean God wanted me to be a bank teller? Did God choose this for me?
How depressing is that?
The next customer in line, a tall blonde with tight fitting jeans and a low cut blouse, is gabbing away on her cell phone somewhat louder than she realizes. The other tellers are hesitating to call her, reluctant to fill the sting of such a blatant insult. To me though she’s the perfect customer, and I wave her over before anyone else can take her.
“May I help you?”
Before she’s even reached my counter I’ve already decided to add her. Her feminine “V” is just far too tantalizing in those jeans for me not to.
There’s a harem in my mind, and it’s open 24 hours a day.
She places a check on my counter, written to cash. Her eyes briefly find mine as she continues to discuss her social life with whoever’s on the other line. A glance is all I get, but it’s more than enough.
The other tellers would be indignant at such treatment. They would scoff and rant and fume at the rudeness. How dare she, they would ask their fellow tellers once the woman had left. It’s not lost on me how obnoxious she’s being. I’ll admit, deep down inside, it grates on me too. You know you fucked up somewhere in life when your job includes helping customers with no qualms of using their cell phones while you help them. You’re not worthy of a hang-up. You can do your job just fine whether they acknowledge your existence or not.
Believe me though; it’s well worth the insult.
Cell phone junkies are the best customers of all. They’re the only ones you can be honest with. The only ones you can take the customer-service mask off for.
Miss thing prattles away while I check her account, never once saying a word to me about her transaction. The check clears, and I’m back to retrieve her money. It doesn’t matter how she wants the cash. I don’t ask. I wouldn’t want to interrupt her conversation. Instead I select whatever’s easy for me, then I spill the cash across the counter so she can see that it’s all there. If she wants it counted out, she can say as much. But she doesn’t.
No goodbyes. No well wishes. I don’t hope she has a good one. I just want her to leave, and she does.
I can’t help but sigh as she goes.
Why can’t they all be like that?
“May I help you?”
I didn’t see who it was in line before I asked, so Mr. Anderson has to politely decline my offer. Mr. Anderson, you see, is a stalker. He’s waiting for Jill.
Old men are always doing this. They come in once or twice a week with their straight deposits that should take all of twenty seconds to process, then spend the next half-hour shooting the shit with their favorite teller-line mistress. They flirt, they share a laugh, all the while they’re studying their favorite teller-line beauty so that they can save the image for latter.
Old men, I suspect, masturbate more than thirteen year olds.
Is that what I have to look forward to? Is that what I will become? A hunched over prune, all head-over-heals in puppy love with whatever beauty is forced to talk to me in the name of customer service?
There’s a harem in my mind. And I think there always will be.
“May I help you?”
A pasty-faced teenager slides his way to my counter and drops a sack full of coin.
“Got a coin counter, dog?” he asks.
“Unfortunately we don’t. I can count it by hand if you want, or you can take it to one of our locations that do.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
Between customers I’m berating myself for my day dreams. Imagination is not freedom. It is the highest form of masochism. Imagining a better, more entertaining life than the one you have only makes the reality of your day-to-day nonsense seem that much crueler.
Counting coin is easily the worst part of the job. It’s tedious, it’s disgusting, and it’s the ultimate proof that you’ve been qualified to do be a bank teller since the third grade. Worst than that though, it gives customers the chance to chat with you while they wait.
“That’s the change I keep in the ashtray of my car, yo,” the kid explains. “Whenever I’m at a drive-up or wherever and they give me change, I just dump that shit in the ashtray. Once I have a bunch, I turn it into paper. You’d be surprised how much you can save that way.”
Screw savings accounts. Get yourself an ashtray.
“Are you guys hiring?” he asks. “I’d love to work at a place like this. You work with some damn fine shorties.”
Mixed in with the bacteria-coated coins are bus tokens and foreign currency. I set these aside in case he wants them back.
“Yo, you got any suckers? You used to have suckers.”
“We keep them on the back counter now. People kept taking the baskets,” I explain.

Setting the candy in front of him, I watch him pick out a root beer flavored dum dum before putting the basket back where it belongs.
“Yo, it is mad hot out there. It’s nice to be inside for a minute.”
Always with the small talk. Always with the chatter. You can tell yourself that without these people you wouldn’t have a job. You remind yourself that this is how you earn your paycheck. But that’s a glass is half full argument, and you’re not really buying it.
Small talk is the sign of a fragile mind. These are the people who if you locked them up in solitary confinement they would come out gerbils.
Eventually the pile of coins are rolled and counted. Eventually I’m sending my dog on his way with a “have a good one, yo.”
On bank radio, Paula Cole is asking me, “Where have all the cowboys gone?”
Between customers I’m changing the station.

*****


You work a customer service line long enough and the day will eventually end. As impossible as it seems, it’s almost time to close the doors. There’s always that last customer though. Always that one that manages to slip in at the last second.
“You’re almost out,” the man says, echoing my thoughts.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“Just need some cash,” he replies, slapping a check to the counter.
“Twenties?”
“Sure.”
Normally I would be screaming in my head at this point for the man to take it outside. If all he wants is twenties, he should be using our ATM. But the end of the day has taken hold of my mind. I’m already in my car and headed home. I’m kissing the wife. I’m hugging the kids. A ball game is on the TV, a beer is in my hand. The prospect of a soft bed looms in the distance.
I count out the man’s money and push it across the counter.
Dumping the cash in his wallet, the man gives me a salute. “A job well done, soldier. Have a good one.”
A good one is exactly what I need.




*****


The automatic doors part to allow me outside, and the night swallows me. The bank, the day, the blur of faces and the flood of voices, I’m leaving them all behind.
Inevitably the wife will ask me about my day, and I will shrug.
“Just another bank day,” I’ll tell her.
For a moment though I stand on the threshold of the world, letting the moment sink in. I’m done. I’m finally done. No more calling customers. No more fake smiles. Tomorrow I will call in and say my goodbyes. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for a new job.
Tomorrow will be great.
If you could hear me, you would almost swear I was being sincere.