475. That Time I Wanted To Be A Bank Teller

I was still in college. It was summer. I needed a job. I thought long and hard about what type of job would suit me and cater to my needs, mostly my need to have extra spending money. Why not go right to the source? I got a job at a bank.

Here at the bank, I could touch other people’s money all day long. I think “pet” might be too strong a word in this case, it might have been more like—

Wait, let me back up and tell you how exactly I got the job (and no, this time was not through a headhunter named Kimberli):

I rifled through the newspaper, set aside the beckoning “Style” section (I will come back to you later, Style! I promise!), and unfolded the “Help Wanted” section. (Obviously, this was waaaaaay back in the days before computers and electricity and cars and probably even wheels.) I took the top off my trusty yellow highlighter (left over from my Psych 101 class) and circled a few ads that looked appealing. Ads like, “Wanted: Markteing Representtve, great oportunoty, work 3 days/ wk, pay is potentialy $50K per year. No experiese neccsary!”

An ad for “Bank Teller Training Classes” flung itself off the page at me (mostly because it was spelled correctly) and demanded I pick up my (rotary) phone and dial the 800 number. After I made the call, I made another important call: to my father, who I needed to ask for the $300 to pay for the class.

My father is the kind person who never once looks at his watch while a family of 17 baby ducklings crosses the street, making him miss 10 green lights.  My father is the kind of person who will lose his place in line at Starbucks to help an old lady in a wheelchair struggling to get the door open.  He smiles at people he doesn't know, and he picks up stray trash that is not even his to throw away in the garbage can.  Clearly, he is my polar opposite in every way.

He did not say to me what the 42-year-old MOV would most definitely say to my young sons if they asked for $300 for some scam Bank Teller Training Class: “Three hundred dollars? Are you out of your mind? You don’t need some idiotic class! They are just trying to make money off of you! The bank that hires you will teach you what to do. And honestly, how hard can it be? You just need to know how to count.”

What he did say, “The bank that hires you will teach you what to do.”

This is the part where I whined and begged and tried to convince my (wise) father that the class was of utmost importance and the bank manager would most likely not even give me the oh-so-coveted interview slot without the golden certificate.

“MOV,” he said, not unkindly, “It would probably take you two weeks to earn back the $300 that the class costs. Maybe just apply to the bank you want to work at, and see what happens?”

Is it any wonder I turned out so neurotic with such an incredibly unreasonable dad like that?

I had no choice, and no check for $300. I did what he said. The bank hired me immediately AND they did not even so much ask if I had taken a Bank Teller Training Class!

I liked working at the bank, but then one day I woke up and realized that even though I got to “visit” the money every day, it was not technically mine. I needed a job where I would make lots and lots of money, more money than I could possibly count, a job like …

Flight Attendant.

MOV