A Day of Banking
I recently had to go to my neighborhood bank to take care of some financial matters. It was one of those banking things that couldn’t be taken care of by a teller, but instead required the attention and expertise of someone sitting behind a desk.
I entered the bank, signed the log, and sat quietly as I waited for my name to be called. The wait was longer than I had expected, considering the bank was fairly empty. I watched as the customer service person talked and joked with the loan representative, neither woman in any particular hurry to work. I don’t know what they were talking and laughing about, but perhaps they were just expressing their joy for not being bank tellers.
I didn’t mind so much having to wait for the customer service person, but it would have been somewhat easier to accept the wait if I knew that she was busy with another customer, rather than just talking story with a co-worker. I occasionally glanced over in her direction, trying to make eye contact with her so that she would know that I was waiting to be helped. In between that time, I studied the various art pieces, admired the grandeur of the architecture, and watched the other customers come and go.
Eventually, a soft voice called my name, and I jumped from my seat. We greeted each other with a smile, and I followed her towards her desk. Her high-back leather chair looked considerably nicer and much more comfortable than the chair that was offered to me, which was one step above a wooden stool and one step below a lawn chair. She asked what I needed help with, and I explained that my bankcard was about to expire and that I would like to order a new one. The brief rolling of her eyes was a subtle sign that she didn’t want to take care of this petty task. She asked me if I was aware that this request could be made online, and I told her I didn’t know that. She opened the top drawer on the right of her, glanced inside, and then got up from her desk to ask her loan friend if she had a particular form on hand. She returned with the form and sat with a sigh that was clearly meant for me to hear.
What I did next, some might consider an act of evil. Others might see it as something that will eventually come back to haunt me in the future. I’m unsure why I did what I did, but perhaps it was a spontaneous desire to cure boredom. Maybe it was an unplanned social experiment to see how someone would respond to a particular suggestion. Or perhaps it was just a way for me to mess with the head of this particular someone from the bank. Whatever was the cause or reason behind it all, once I started, I couldn’t take it back.
“Do you know that you have ghosts in this bank?” I asked.
She quickly looked up from the form that she was filling out and looked into my eyes. “What? Really?” Her eyes then gazed toward the high ceiling, attempting to see some ghost-like figure. She seemed to be more fasinated than fearful, which was a good thing. I felt a responsibility to offer her some assurance that all was safe and there was nothing to fear. I had seen enough television psychics to play the vague game of sharing brief tidbits of information.
After the paperwork was signed and the transaction complete, I thanked her for her time and assistance and walked away. I honestly felt a regret for having lied to her, but not so much as to tell her the truth. I looked back over my shoulder and saw her gazing the ceiling as she slowly walked towards her loan friend. I thought to myself, now they have something to talk about.