Payday should be a happy time. That is, unless you're divorced and that damn judge awarded your damn ex-wife half the damn equity for your damn house, and after docking your damn pay the only damn thing left in your damn check is a coupon for a free punch in the face. But otherwise, payday should be a happy time.
Payday hasn't been a joyous occasion for me lately, because whenever I go to the bank, I have to deal with what is perhaps the slowest bank teller in the history of time. Somehow I always get this same guy, and he's slower than Stephan Hawking doing sign language. He's so slow, if he entered a typing contest in 1988, he'd still be trying to finish. He's slower than poorly-made pudding on a chilly morning, or a Ralph Fiennes death scene in a chick flick.
I wouldn't be bothered by it if he was just lazy, but I'm pretty sure he's doing it on purpose. There's no other way to explain the exaggerated, "in your face, jerkhole" slowness he performs. It's like watching a person with Down's Syndrome when they're stoned. Either he hates me, or there's an invisible sea of marmalade surrounding him as he works.
Here's how a simple deposit usually goes: I walk up to him and say hello while presenting my paycheck and license to him. He ignores me and continues typing very slowly on his keyboard, roughly eight words per minute. There's literally a 10 second delay between each letter he types, even though the guy has his hands on the home row keys. He ignores me for a full five seconds before slowly looking up at me with a tired look. Then he takes my check and slowly brings it near him, studying it intensely for another 10 seconds, as if I had made it myself using construction paper and a glitter pen.
Finally, he picks up my license, studies it for an equal amount of time, and then studies my face to compare it to the license. I grow uncomfortable because I don't really know what the hell to do when a man stares at me for that long of a time. Do I stare back at him? Do I not stare at him and instead stare slightly to the side of him? How often do I look back at him to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep?
After another three minutes of ultra-slow typing (*click* five second wait *click five second wait *click*), the check is filed and I get my cash slowly pushed toward me. What the hell is wrong with this guy? Most of my Wells Fargo transactions have taken two minutes, but with him it takes 10 minutes. I get so frustrated, angry, and uncomfortable that I just want to lean over the counter and shout, "GO FASTER, YOU SON OF A BITCH! HERE'S ALL THE CANADIAN COINS LEFTOVER FROM WHEN I CASHED IN MY CHANGE! JUST . . . GO . . . FASTER!"
I smell a conspiracy, and it reeks of stinky, inadequately-refrigerated injustice. Is it because I'm devilishly handsome? Is it because my calves are finely tuned, like those of a Greek god? Is it because I come straight from work, and smell like fiberglass insulation? Did I hit his grandmother with my car and not realize it? Do I remind him of his molesty uncle with the funny mustache and cold hands?
I don't even have a mustache, reader.
It may be time to call in an ass whooping for this teller. I know people in the Wells Fargo system, dear reader, and though they're likely incompetent and wary of doing actual work, they're the type of people who own socks and multiple handfuls of quarters to roll in those socks. Those are the only ingredients you need to make a bank teller go faster. That or a belt with "FOR VILLAIN DISCIPLININ' ONLY" printed on it.
Hear me now, bank teller. This is war.
