Yes, I stopped working at my lovely bank two weeks ago but, I’m sorry, there are still so many gems of poo I have yet to share. Here is an exchange I had with a costumer who did not speak dat Inglersh very well.
As I’m giving him his money and ending the transaction…
Customer: Puerto Rican.
Tootsie: Excuse me?
Customer: Puerto Rican? You? Puerto Rican?
Tootsie: Ohhhh, no. No, I’m not Puerto Rican.
…
Customer: White! WHITE PEOPLE!
…
Tootsie: Yes… I’m white. Have a nice day!
Today was the first of the month and my bank was overrun with pushy customers all day long as they were there to retrieve the Social Security checks that had been direct deposited into their accounts. Let me tell you, this is NEVER a fun day. My bank, which is usually low-key, with enough customer’s to keep you from getting sucked into one of the millions of websites that offer pictures of adorable sleeping puppies, while never so busy that there are more than 2-3 customers in line.
All that changes on the first of the month. I’ve seen awful, horrible, cruel, cruel things on this day and from open to close there is a line from wall to wall. To just add to the horror of the day there was a dead cat in the alleyway behind the bank which, though totally unrelated to my job, was VERY UPSETTING, OK?!
Well in the midst of all that wretchedness, including a customer that threatened me over the phone for someone else destroying his abandoned debit card, there was a customer who came in during a moment of uncustomary silence. I’ve talked to him before and the only thing I had remembered about him was that he had named almost all of his children after himself which I thought was over-doing things just a tad. But today he said something so funny it stuck with me all day and just might have been the only thing that kept me from punching several of my customers (have I mentioned I shouldn’t have a job where good customer service is must?). Right after I had almost cried into a twenty due to sheer exhaustion he said…
“I have 17 kids, 28 grand-kids, and 2 great-grand-kids…AND I’M STILL A VIRGIN, AHAHAHA!”
And it is shit like that that makes my job bearable and, on occasion, enjoyable.
Translation: It’s cold outside but in here…
This is the story of the only proposal I have received thus far and, yes, I do mean “marriage proposal.
His name is Carlos Soledad** and he is Puerto Rican, doesn’t speak any English, is a little on the short side, and…what else? What else could I possibly say about him…? Hmmm… Oh. Right. He’s 70 years old. Maybe 75. Ok, he is at least 75 and maybe older. In other words the only way I could possibly see his proposal as being a genuine one is if I saw his bank account and, oh wait, I have…I’ll stick to maidenhood for now. Though maybe I’ll also stick to not using the word maidenhood regularly as I’m fairly certain I’m misusing it.
A few weeks ago “my” Carlos came into the bank. I think he might be experiencing the early stages of dementia as he always seems to be a little foggy. As one of the few people who spent their youth, we’re talking ages 12-15, working in a nursing home and serving meals to dementia patients I feel comfortable with that diagnosis. It also always takes him a little while to get talking so there is an adjustment period of an eternity 3-5 minutes where he stands out my counter in silence looking at me blankly which I deal with the only way I know how, in uncomfortable silence (stay tuned for my self-help book, How to Make the Most Joyous of Occasions Awkward with a Lack of Tact and an Abundance of Saturday Night Live References, or the abreviated HMMJOALTASNLR if that’s easier).
After he was up to speed on the whole being in a bank thing I asked him how he was…here is a translation…and keep in mind that I really am speaking the Spanish of a 5-year-old, not because I am treating Carlos like a child but because that is actually how un-fluent I am…
Tootsie: Hi!
Carlos: Hello…how are you?
Tootsie: I’m good, how are you?
Carlos: Bad.
Tootsie: Bad? Why?
Carlos: Because I don’t have a woman.
Tootsie: Oh…I’m sorry…?
Carlos: Are you married?
Tootsie: …Um…no…
Carlos: Will you marry me?
Tootsie: Sorry, I don’t think I can…
Carlos: Why not?
Thus began a sad little game of “Why can’t you marry me?” And “I just can’t,” of course ignoring the fact that this was a poor little old man who had either watched way too many Hugh Hefner documentaries or was totally unaware of the fact that he wasn’t an eligible 20-year-old anymore. I eventually had to send him on his way, unsatisfied, and bride-less.
Today Carlos returned. He approached my window slowly, finally arriving and taking the customary 3-5 minutes to realize that he was, once again, in a bank. I had more trouble than usual understanding him today because he was not so much chewing a piece of gum as he was letting it hang limply out of his mouth.
Tootsie: Hello, how are you doing today?
Carlos: It is cold outside but in here it’s hot.
Now, this is a moment where a better understanding of Spanish would have been helpful. Was he genuinely referring to the nice heating that the bank offered or was he a cute little old man who was trying to flirt?
I asked him to repeat what he said because I thought I might have not heard him properaly and he said it again, but this time let me say it in Spanish (I wish I knew how to do accents on this!)…
Carlos: Hace frio afuera pero adentro esta calientita.
The word for hot is caliente, as most know, but he was doing the cutesy “calientita.” Oh Carlos. Cutesy has an age-requirement. The cut-off is a little fuzzy and varies greatly from person to person, though it usually falls somewhere between the first time you find yourself covered in your own child’s poop and the first time the concept of adult diapers sounds like maybe, a tiny bit, sorta, kinda like a good idea…maybe…Carlos was way beyond either option.
He than asked how much was in his account.
Tootsie: Ten.
Carlos: What?
Tootsie: Ten.
Carlos: How’s that?
Tootsie: Ten.
Carlos: Huh?
Tootsie: Ten! You have ten dollars! There is ten and some change in your acount!
Carlos: Ten.
Tootsie: Right.
And that is the man I almost married. Whether I like it or not, my first proposal will always be with Carlito in an inner-city bank, with a man who probably forgets me every time he leaves the door to purchase more gum he is not going to chew fully. He certainly set the bar high. In all honesty it was pretty adorable…maybe I should’ve said yes…after-all, this–
used to be this–
At my particular bank I am not allowed to exchange coins for bills with non-customers.
“Why?” you ask? That is a typical “bank thing” to do…
Well, lets just say that the last five times I have accepted rolls of coins from customers or non-customers they have ALL been off. ALL. Some are missing coins some are over some have the wrong coins inside the rolls. So assuming that each of those five customers has 5 rolls with them to exchange I have been under or over my balance 25 different days just because of those five transactions. Also, seeing that I am the only teller at my bank on most days I cannot spend an hour rifling through a non-customers trash-bag full of coins. I just can’t. Even when I do feel bad for making someone go to another bank and I help them out my manager, Silver Panther**, promptly gives me a figurative slap on the wrist for making customers wait.
Yesterday, I was, once again, the only teller and we had just locked our doors, though there were three customers in line that I still had to tend to. The next customer came up and with her was a bag I recognized only too well.
Woman: I just have some* coins to exchange.(she started going through her bag)
*By some I would like to clarify that there was a huge grocery store bags worth of random coins.
Tootsie Woo: Do you have an account with us?
Woman: No. Why does that matter?
Tootsie: I’m sorry, I’m not permitted to exchange coins with non-customers, it’s one of our policies.
Woman: That’s ridiculous, why not?
Tootsie: Well, especially in this case, I am the only teller and that is a large bag of change so our customers would have to wait a substantial amount of time before I would be able to help them.
Woman: This isn’t that much change*! I just put it in a couple bags so it wouldn’t break!
*Um, yeah, it was.
Tootsie: Either way, I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to exchange that for you.
Woman: That is stupid. So you’re saying that if I found a customer to exchange this for me you could do it?
Tootsie: Umm…
Woman: They’re a customer!
Tootsie: I’m sorry…
Woman: What?! They are a customer so you have to exchange it!
Tootsie: But you’re telling me right now that you’re going to ask them to do it for you, so in this particular case: no–
Woman: I’m going to ask them! (She grabbed her bag and proceeded to hang out in the lobby)
She went to the next customer in line…
Woman: Do you have an account here?
Man1: …(he just stared at her)
She went to the next and last customer in line…
Woman: Do you have an account here?!
Man2: Um, eh, no, uh…
Luckily for me, both Man1 and Man2 didn’t speak a word of English. Man1 then approached my window.
Man1: Buenos dias.
Tootsie Woo: Buenos dias, como te puedo ayudar?
The woman, in her last desperate attempt to exchange her coins went to my coworker Hughie H. Angover** who was dressed casually as it was a Saturday…
Woman: Do you have an account here?
Hughie: No. I just happen to work here.
Woman: Ughhh!
Hughie: (Not aware of the conversation I just had with her) Is there something I can help you with?
Woman: I’m just trying to exchange my coins!!
Hughie: Oh…yeah, I’m sorry, we don’t do that here, we don’t have a coin machine.
Woman: Well, where can I do it then!?
Hughie: There’s a Giant nearby that has a machine and bank a little more downtown that’s not too far–
Woman: You mean I have to walk there!?
Hughie: Yeah, I’m sorry about that–
Woman: My God!!
She then blew through the doors in a tizzy. Hughie came over to me when my last customer had left…
Hughie: Did you see that?
Tootsie: Oh yeah.
Hughie: She looked like she was beaten with a Crack Stick.
And though I’m not sure what a “Crack Stick” is I’m pretty sure I have a good idea.
**Obvious fake name
There is something very Madmen-esque about being a bank teller, even in this day and age. Men, usually middle-aged men, though I don’t want to discriminate (of course I do!!) seem to enjoy coming inside the bank versus using the ATM so they can stare at the young girl behind the counter who is shelling out money to them. When it’s put that way I guess it’s hard to see what’s not to like, but I digress…And on top of the staring most men don’t see any problem with flirting with any teller with a pulse and they often border on the intense and the inappropriate. It’s an ego boost, don’t get me wrong, but after working at a bank for six months in a neighborhood full of creepers I’ve had my fill of unsolicited male attention for at least a year or so.
Among my admirers is Rodrigo**, who graced me with his presence today. Oh joy. The notorious lech and sleaze comes in a few times a week and he only speaks Spanish (fyi I speak conversational Spanish and I was hired as a “bilingual” bank teller).
From the moment I met Rodrigo (well, maybe not the “moment” because when we met the first time he was with his wife…) he has tried to seduce and/or sell me something every time we’ve come into contact with one another. Whenever he comes to see me he opens with, “hola, linda!” (linda means pretty for those who don’t know) and then he looks me up and down, studying my form to the point where by now I’m sure he could chisel a statue of me out of alabaster and pick my boobs out of a line up (if they ever committed a crime of there own accord, sneaky bastards…).
The worst is when I look up from counting his money and catch him mumbling to himself ,”oh, mami, oh wow, que linda, oh wow…” And though he see’s me catch him he does not stop. GROSS.
As I do with all my customers, the day he asked me if I was married I said, ” No, pero tengo un novio.” (no, but I have a boyfriend [ass-hole]) Though I don’t. It’s just a little fib that helps me if people like Rodrigo over-step the boundaries.
He obviously didn’t seem to think my imaginary boyfriend was serious enough to keep him from mercilessly flirting with me. His grand plan, however, was to introduce me to his son, who he believed I would immediately fall in love with a marry (and yes, he said those very words to me). About a month or so ago he had asked for my phone number but I said I wasn’t allowed to give it out to customers so he asked for an e-mail address instead. I gave him a fake one. He came in a few weeks later saying it didn’t work so I gave him the fake one again saying, “that’s weird, try this one.”
Today, unable to reach me any other way, he brought his son in to meet me. Blessings.
He greeted me with his typical, “hola, linda!” and instead of mumbling to himself about me he made all of his normal comments to his son, out loud, in a language he knows I understand. This is a translation of what Rodrigo said to Rodrigo Jr.** (and yes, he made one comment after another without getting a response from his son):
Hola, linda!
This is my son!
I brought him in to meet you.
His name is Rodrigo Jr.
Look at how beautiful she is!
Her name is Tootsie Woo. ##
Tell her how beautiful she is!
…..
He’s embarrassed.
I looked up to see the extreme blush on Rodrigo Jr.’s face and felt so uncomfortable for the both of us. I had been hoping this would just be a meeting for me and Rodrigo Jr…but no. Before they left Rodrigo the elder put down a piece of scrap paper asking me to write down my number so his incredible catch of a son could call me later. What was I supposed to do!? I had told him I had a boyfriend. I had told him I wasn’t allowed to give my number to customers. I had given him a fake e-mail address! TWICE. My first thought was to give him my brother’s number to set him off the trail but then I was afraid he would bother him while he was at school. My second thought was to give him a fake number, ANY fake number but realized Rodrigo would always come back to ask again for the real one. So I panicked and did something stupid. I gave him my REAL number. Ay dios mio.
I can only hope his son is as lazy and unaccomplished as his mother says he is (that’s right, his mother!) and that calling me will join the ranks of “getting a job,” another task he hasn’t completed. And if he does call I can always tell him I’m a female impersonator…that might do the trick.
##obviously not my real name
I work at a bank.
I would like to say it’s my day job but it is just my job job.
However, this ain’t your grandma’s bank. I don’t mean to overdo it with the metaphors but it is the OZ of banks. It is Wonderland and I am Alice. It is the black sheep of all banks, the Charlie Sheen of the family, if you will, and it’s story needs to be told!
The problem is, how do I go about telling the story of this unique, beautiful, disgusting, herpes-ridden bank without giving away too much and getting myself fired? I suppose it is just a risk I’m willing to take. But to be safe, from now on I will refer to where I work as a shmank and I will refer to my position as shmank shmeller.That should do it.
My shmank is in the worst neighborhood I have ever been in. EVER. And I’ve driven through the wide, child-bearing hips of Texas a few times, east to west and west to east, so that is saying a lot. I don’t like Texas…
I often pass crime scene markings on my way to work and one time passed a couple of grazing chickens that appeared to have escaped from the fried chicken place down the street.
Also, in the course of 5 years my shmank has been shmobbed 3 times which is pretty revealing.
Inside the shmank is one unarmed security guard who is my height (an unimpressive 5’4″ instead of the 6’10” I might have advertised earlier) and who is 20 years old and as doofy as they come. Don’t know what doofy means? Perhaps it’s because it isn’t a real word, but it is as it sounds…d-o-o-f-y. Doofy is as doofy does. It is derived from the Latin word “doofus maximus.” I also am protected by a wall of “bullet resistant” PLASTIC that covers everything except a huge rectangle whole that exposes my entire face and torso. Nice.
What is also worth mentioning is that I work with an extremely diverse group of people, a veritable sitcom waiting to happen. Not a sitcom like Friends which is as diverse as a NASCAR picnic, I’m talking…ok, well a truly diverse sitcom doesn’t come to mind so use your imagination. I don’t want to get into everyone’s specific nationality so suffice it to say we are all from very different places and it is glorious. Perhaps when we get more comfortable with each other (and when I have left my job job for good) I will let you know a little more about everyone, but right now it is simply to risky so deal. Ok, I said DEAL. CALM DOWN. WHOA, attitude.
My shmank’s diversity is what makes it so amazing and because of that I need to warn you that I won’t be shy when it comes to the retelling of a story, even if it might seem a little dicey. I am merely acting as a scribe for the days events. My costumers are certainly blunt when it comes to the taboo issue of race which is surprisingly refreshing in today’s overly PC-ed society, so I refuse to miss out on the comedic gold their honesty provides me with. There is just so much natural, human, humor that comes out when people from literally all around the world are thrown into my tiny neighborhood and are dealing with the stressful act of withdrawing money when they occasionally confuse the words “sixty” and “sixteen.” Or “six-hundred,” ouch.
I love all my customers (except this one crazy biddy who called me a bitch once) so this is, above all else, a twisted declaration of love to all who enter El Banco Del Diablo.
You’ve been warned.
Adventures of TootsieWoo 