So my wife hands me a check this morning, a post-it note with a bunch of random numbers on it attached to the check then tells me to get my ass to the bank and make a deposit. Well that is not exactly what she said because being the typical male, all I heard was blah, blah, blah…Bank…blah, blah blah. But between the check, the note and my decoding skills, I got the message. To give credit where credit may or may not be due, there was probably a “please” in there somewhere.
Apparently, she had attempted to shoot a photo of the check and send it to the bank over the world wide inter web but that didn’t work. As I am driving to the bank I’m thinking to myself, “Self, who came up with the new definition of mobile banking? I am driving to the bank, so isn’t that mobile banking? What’s so new about that?” In fact, as I think about it, mobile banking as most recently redefined is slightly more mobile than say…a piano.”
And speaking of Piano’s, when I walk into Chase Bank, I am greeted by Adrien Brody:
But hold that thought for a second, because until today I have never been in this bank branch, and it is worth a comment. It is traditional Williamsburg Colonial on the outside but inside conversely, it is a stark combination of tile, chrome and glass – no carpet. I mention the interior primarily because I can hear and see everything going on in the bank. I think I am also slightly under the influence of propane gas; the residual smell of which is all over me, having stopped at Ace Hardware on the way to the bank to re-fill up the tank for grilling season. My senses are either a bit more fuzzy than normal or a bit more sharp than normal, but under any circumstances they are not normal.
So anyway, Adrien Brody greets me with this heavy accent as I walk in the door. It could be Italian, or Spanish, or Turkish. It is definitely not German, I took German in high school. As I walk in, holding my check with the post-it on it, and over to the chrome and glass deposit slip island, Mr. Brody, with accent, asks, “are you making a deposit?” Being a bit obsessive/compulsive but not a smart-ass, think to myself, “thank goodness that’s all I am doing because if I am in this place more than two more minutes I am going to feel the need to start mopping, polishing and Windexing all this tile, chrome and glass.”
Maybe he was profiling me? In my khaki shorts, loafers and golf shirt and generally lacking any ethnic diversity, perhaps I fit the description of the preppy old fart bandit or something.
Through glass cubicle walls I see the back of two bank customers sitting across the desk from a banker, and I can hear Spanish reverberating loudly off tile, chrome and glass. As soon as I finish filling in my deposit slip, Mr. Brody snatches my check, slip and post-it. He leads me to the teller window where he skillfully slips my papers through the slot in the bullet proof glass.
I am wondering, if under the influence of propane stink, Mr. Brody thinks the addition of the deposit slip to my bundle of paper might have yielded it too heavy for me, or maybe I am wobbling, or perhaps he fears mightn’t be able to find my way to the teller window? Upon transitioning my three pieces of paper to the teller, Mr. Brody vanishes his work here done, and I am left alone in front of the teller. She asks me, “Do you have an account here?” Interestingly, she has a Hispanic accent too. Perplexed as to how to answer the question, I simply nod.
I begin to wonder if actually I am here at all. Perhaps I am still back at the hardware store standing too close to the giant propane tank.
Sure enough, the account number which started on the post-it, before it moved to the deposit slip and ultimately back to my receipt confirms the existence of said account. She asks if I need anything else, I say. “no” and bid her adieu.
Mr. Brody, like Jeannie:
‘POOF’ appears from the fog of propane and sees me to the door. I marvel at the amazing the customer service, wonder if it is in fact I who have the accent? I hop in my mobile banking device, and gas my way home.