The Bank Dick

I'm in my bank a couple of times a month and one of the tellers is at war with me. I'm not sure if she just doesn't like me, if she doesn't like men, or if she doesn't like her job. Or maybe she likes it too much and she is on some kind of power trip. Regardless, I feel like I am being harassed.

A typical transaction goes this way:

I have a check for around $2,000. I usually keep a couple of hundred out and deposit the rest. I smile, hand her the deposit slip, say "I'd like to make a deposit.", I endorse the check in front of her, and hand her the check.

Then she takes forever looking at everything, checks something in her computer, looks at everything again, turns to me and asks me for some ID. EVERY TIME!

This time I said, "I have an account here."

"I know that, sir, but I don't know you."

"I'm the guy you do this to every time I come in here." I replied.

"I don't know who you are, sir."

"What's the difference? You have an account number and my signature on file."

"This might not be your account" she answered.

"So, you think I might be trying to fraudulently deposit $1,800 into someone else's account?" I asked.

She looked momentarily confused then said, "It could be someone else's check."

"With my name on it, that matches the name on my bank account. I signed it in front of you and you have my signature on file in that computer, which you already checked." I clarified.

She stared at me, eyes flashing, then stubbornly said, "I need to see some ID"

I sighed heavily, removed my wallet, took my driver's license from the plastic window and handed it to her.

She smugly took it and began inspecting it like a Gestapo agent at the Swiss border. Finally she hands it back to me and makes a miniscule note on what appeared to be a piece of scrap paper.

I thought, "What the Hell" and asked, "If I was the master criminal that you seem to think I am, wouldn't I have false ID?"

"This is why we have to check so carefully." she said.

"Just in case, THIS TIME, I screw up and give you my REAL ID?"

She ignored my question and asked, "Do you want this in twenties or bigger bills?"

"Twenties are fine." I mumbled.

The hell of it is, I left the bank knowing that she would check my ID the next time I saw her.

You know, I've been thinking. Maybe I shouldn't bank where my wife works.