Traversed this morning over the river and through the woods to one of our banks, situated between Far Far Away and Far Far Far Away (roughly), and they had the nerve to not even greet me with cookies.
Anyway, I’m plucking through the latest Time in the lobby whilst they confirm the money straps when the manager emerges from her throne – er, office – to commute amongst the peons. I notice peripherally, between an analysis of the current mortgage market and a precaution against embarking upon real estate ownership, that she has aimed herself toward the money counting room, which never bodes well. Sure enough, she emerges with that false levity in her manner that makes my eyes want to roll into the back of my head and implore that she Reach the Point Now, Please.
“We have a bit of a problem,” she emerged from the teller’s area with a ten-dollar piece of legal tender in each hand. “This is a real bill, and this is a fraudulent bill.” She then, needlessly, proceeded to highlight the numerous disparities between them, in the event that I lacked the capacity for visual inspection.
“…so,” I segued back into my body as her voice indicated the impending demise of her speech. “We need to deduct this from your deposit.”
Really? I never would have guessed! “Fine.”
The entire ordeal would not have proven quite so aggravating had she not eyed me with all the suspicion amassed in years of tellerdom, as though I had painstakingly employed hours I do not have at my disposal in a nonexistent basement to construct the bloody thing myself.
