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09/19/2015

1 Comment

 

e̶l̶ ̶j̶e̶f̶e̶

"alright...let me speak with your manager; this is ridiculous."

I'm a confident motherfucker, but I can see how this was going to problem for me...I was visually outclassed. I shrank a bit.

"Yes, I'm the manager, is there a problem?"

no good morning, no handshake, no offer to come sit in her office to discuss the matter; only a puff of stale coffee breath arrived with her terse question. I could tell by the slight quiver in her voice and hands folded low across her front this broad was uptight. I knew her tragedy, she hadn't been gone down on in a long while; maybe never.
"this is the second time I come here to cash a check and you guys give me a hard time. my wife wrote it out to me...in MY name. I showed proof of who I am, and your teller here says I'm not authorized to cash the check because my name isn't on the account."

she looks at the teller, then at me. there's a pause in the exchange.

I felt like a criminal.

I get it. stringy hair over an unshaven face gilded with pronged dog collar below, filthy grease smeared Levi's full of holes, and a threadbare black wife beater; in their eyes, I'm stealing cash from my estranged woman by filling out a check and forging her signature. 

it was a meager five hundred bucks.

sensing a possible confrontation with a switch blade or sprayed with bullets, the forty-something brunette in her catalog-ordered navy blue skirt suit asks me into her office.

after a failed attempt to reach my woman on the phone, the manager saw that we had a joint savings account there I had forgotten about and withdrew the cash.

my wife wanted to open a joint account, but because I wasn't physically there, I couldn't be included...so she opened it in her name.

this place is all windows. they saw a scarecrow getting out of an old, forlorn 944S that to them was just some unrecognizable old car. I was profiled; pegged as a drunk, a bum, a newly made homeless guy living out of my old car because my woman threw me out. had I got out of the red 911, they would've thought me a rock star offering me tea and asking if I was aware of their high interest yield savings account on a USD$10,000 deposit.

what shit.
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"check this freak out..."
they didn't know about my secret weapon—my woman.

she's my rational voice when mine is too agitated to understand. class, sophistication, poise, she's everything I've long since shed.

I laughed hard when she called the manager the moment I told her what went down.

"Is it because my husband looks homeless? Well, I assure he's not."

"Oh, no, no, Mrs. Deferrari, it's a simple matter of protecting your interests..."

a higher up stiff left several messages on my wife's phone looking to lick her ass clean after she'd made good on her promise to pull our cash out.

every sales person at one point or another had learned from hearing or experiencing such presumptions about the dirty fucker crawling in from skid row being blue blooded royalty.

highball!
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"right this way, sir..."
 


Comments

Joe Sharp
09/20/2015 08:55

It galls me to see bankers treat their customers like dirt. The bankers don't seem to realize that they are a very endangered species. We will soon have no need for them, I only keep enough in my bank account to fund monthly expenses. As their interest rate is not 10,5, or even 1% (it's now zero.25 per cent), all my investment money is in the stock market. Even with this years ups and downs, I'm making between 8 and 11 percent, per year.

Bankers can kiss my 944!

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