Moving on.
When I moved from Maine I had to leave the comforts of my small town bank (the kind where they will call you if your account is nearing being overdrawn, or if you’re depositing a non-round number- -the cashier is apt to throw in a few pennies from their own pocket. It’s the bank where I got my first small car loan- -and I was able to get this at 21 because the branch manager went to high school with my mother and “oh, why not?" It’s the kind of place that Wilford Brimley would endorse in a commercial; a magical and helpful institution of goodness) and switch to a larger, more evil institution.
This bank doesn’t let you forget for a minute that your patronage is ultimately insignificant, your concerns (large or small) are inconsequential, and that in addition to raping your bank account little by little every month- -they may also try to sneak into your home and rape you while you sleep at night. After months, and probably thousands of dollars paid in overdraft fees and god-knows-what-else- -after debating hiding my money under the mattress and in carefully dug holes in the back yard- -I decided to switch to what felt like a “more local” bank. Not precious and loving like my hometown bank, but seemingly a step up. The first day I walked into the bank, there was a woman seated neatly at a desk who welcomed me. “Well, that’s nice,” I thought. Her friendly greeting was the tiny uplift I needed in my day.
The next time I went to the bank, the same woman greeted, “Hi! How are you today?” Sigh. Oh, that’s nice. She’s nice.
Shortly after that, I entered the bank and she greeted, per usual. I smiled back. I thought to myself, “that’s nice.” Then I assumed my position in the line. After a minute or two of waiting, she chimed in from the corner of the bank, “Thanks for your patience, Folks; we’ll be right with you.” I freshly appreciated the acknowledgment that I was slightly inconvenienced by having to wait in a line.
Let’s go ahead and fast forward several months of going to this bank with regularity.
I walk in and what formerly seemed like a polite and friendly acknowledgment, is now wholeheartedly evocative of the inane squawking from a parrot that only knows two phrases. I must have been in a fog the first several times, because now I’ve caught on that when she greets you, she’s not even looking at you when she says it- -she’s actually looking through you. She’s an automated person. She’s a Walmart greeter with better pay and benefits and a better door at which to greet people. Every time she greets me I hear, “Polly want a cracker?”
Once the first greeting has been robotically reverberated in your direction, you get in line and wait for the other phrase she’s been programmed to say… “Thanks for your patience, Folks, we’ll be right with you.” It’s like, “REALLY?!?! Thank you! I’m the one who just voluntarily got in this fucking line! I know what a line is all about- -it’s about fucking waiting. I’ve prepared myself for the waiting aspect of this line all ready!” Then as more people saunter in on their lunch hour, you hear the greeting TEN…THOUSAND…FUCKING….TIMES. It’s like the admin with the shrilly voice from the movie “Office Space” that only udders one phrase, except it’s not funny when it’s real and you’re living it.
Then the line gets longer, and for the entirety of your wait, the parrot lady is continuously thanking you for your patience. It becomes more like a taunt. Like, “I’m killing you. I’m killing you with my kindness. Do you feel me pushing your buttons? Pushing…..pushing. You can’t get mad, I’m too nice.”
It’s worse when the line suddenly gets too long, and she gets up from the desk to help. This is the absolute worst thing. The extent of her Teller niceness supercedes the “going out of your way” niceness that a Special Education Teacher may have. It evokes shudders and dry heaves. She thanks you for every step of your transaction. She thanks you for existing. She thanks you for going through the motions of normal respiration. “Thank you for waiting (original.thanks.).” “What can we do for you today?.......Oh, I would be HAPPY to do that for you today?” “Speaking of, how are you today?” “Oh, thank you for signing that check.” “Your signature is lovely.” “Thank you for waiting while I punch these numbers into the computer.” It’s a running verbal catalog of everything that is taking place, real time, but in the form of a “thank you.”
Worse still, she has a lazy eye. So, as she’s being nice and you’re internally seething at how ingenuine it feels, you feel BAD that you feel this way….because she has a lazy eye. It makes that bitchy internal voice cajole, “Oh great….get mad at someone with a disability. Real nice. You’re a terrible person.”
Everything about this woman reminds me of the desperate compliments delivered by someone with no friends who wants very much to be accepted, even by perfect strangers. She was likely that girl in high school- -the invisible one who was so painfully nice that people didn’t trust her. Being THAT nice just doesn’t exist anymore- -not in that flagrant sense where it’s inescapable and forced on you. It just gives you an uneasy feeling. It makes you think, “What the hell does this woman do when she goes home for the evening? Is she killing the neighborhood cats? Is she really into hardcore German feces porn?” The mind employs endless hobbies and pastimes for this person whose sincerity is perceived as creepy.
The punchline? The punchline is that this woman frustrates me to no end, and now I’ve written this, and now I feel bad for writing it…..BECAUSE SHE’S SO NICE (the lazy eye is just an added dig). And there you have it. She wins and I am a PMSy bitch. Even the Russian judge gives that one a 9.
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