Monday, June 22, 2009

Reasons You Should Always Be Nice To Your Bank Teller

I know that it shocks you all to know that I haven't always had the stable career that I have currently. I've had pretty much every job imaginable (except food service. I think I would lose my temper too easily if I waited tables and would end up hocking all sorts of things in drinks and burgers.) So, once upon about 5 years ago, I was a bank teller. I hated this job with a passion although I was really good at it. It doesn't take many brain cells to be able to count to 1000, and that's why I worked with some of the idiots that I worked with.

My least favorite co-worker was a black lady named Gladys. She loved wearing houseshoes to work on Mondays and stripper heels on Fridays. She also had a gold tooth with a martini glass engraved into it. Front and center, ladies and gents. She was the vault teller (meaning she was in charge of the vault and all of it's money.) Indefinitely on a daily basis I had to 'deal' with Gladys. I would either have to sell her money (if I was over my limit) or buy money (if I had none) and we would sometimes have a 5 minute discussion during this time if she was in a good mood. She would tell me her favorite rap songs or theories on how she thought that drinking water with lemons eats away all of the fat in your body. If she was in a bad mood, she wouldn't make eye contact and would ignore me completely whilst snatching money from my hands or throwing it at me. (A bit of a head case, was Gladys).

One Saturday, Gladys was away and I had to man the vault. I was a little nervous because I didn't really want to be responsible for 100K dollars. NOR did I want to be there on a Saturday when I could have been sleeping in. Well it didn't matter what I wanted because I had to do it because there was no one else smart enough. So I approach Gladys' desk and prepare to count lots of money.

Around 1130AM, in walks a lady of foreign descent (she may have been Middle Eastern, I don't really know, it's been a long time, people). She wants to deposit a check and get two hundred dollars back. No big deal. So, I'm sitting there running the check through the check reader and I get out some twenties and I start counting her change (I always counted it three times in order to not be short or over at the end of the day) to myself. "Twenty, forty, sixty..." When I get to 80, I notice that I have a counterfeit twenty that's been in the vault drawer all day. Dammit Gladys!!! You were supposed to catch this! So, I'm counting silently to myself again and trying to decide if she noticed that I noticed the twenty whilst counting. I decided that I hadn't paused long enough to throw up a red flag. This was the biggest conflict of my telling career.... So what did I do? Did I take out the fake 20 and risk being short that day?

"20, 40, 60, 80, 100, 20, 40, 60, 80, and 200. Thank you Ms. ____ Have a nice day!"

Her twenty looked a little something like the bottom one. Oops. I felt a little guilty about it, but she was foreign. She would never know the difference, right? Oh well.


melissa said...

I can not even tell the difference!

Anonymous said...

That is hilarious and I would expect anything less from you.

Anonymous said...


misti said...

gold tooth...with a martini glass engraved on it...would haunt my dreams!!

Stephanie Netherton said...

Is that what that little brown line means? Also, I'm glad you aren't a bank teller anymore. Also, I laughed really hard when you mentioned the gold tooth with the martini glass on it. I'd forgotten all about that!

Nancy said...

How very Shreveport of you.