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I know I’m going straight to Hell. This should be of no surprise to any of my friends.
Matter of fact, I like to think of myself as becoming the “Greeter” at the gates of Hell, welcoming the majority of my pals with open arms.
One (of a multitude) of reasons I’m pretty much assured of this position, is my complete hatred of forced small talk.
I know some customer service yahoo did a training session for my financial institution and turned all the tellers into Stepford Wives with a customer service chip. They came in to teach them to “make the customer feel like a returning friend.”
It makes me insane. The entire time they are “chatting” with me, I’m putting a response together in my head that would most likely get me jailed.
“Hi Mary, it’s Kathy. I’m going to be making this deposit for you today.”
Thanks a ton Kathy, but unless we’re having Thanksgiving dinner together, do I really need to know the name of the gal who is putting an $80 check into my account? I mean, let’s say I had big money. If I were sending $100,000 through a tube to nowhere, yeah, I want to know your name. I might actually come inside the bank and demand a copy of your driver’s license and a DNA sample, but $80. Really?
“Are you on your way to work today, Mary?”
Yes, and I’m late thanks to all your smarmy small talk. I have like $12 in my account, how can this possibly be taking so long. I’m aging as we speak.
“What bills would you like back, Mary?”
Gee, I don’t know … really big ones that are worth three times more than the check I deposited would be fabulous. “That’s quite some weather we have today isn’t it, Mary?”
Kill me now…
“Your hair is much longer on your driver’s license photo.” Thanks, Captain Obvious. I also lied by 12 years and about a hundred pounds, maybe you could poll the customers waiting in line and see which hairstyle they like best?
“I have an Aunt who has brown hair just like yours.”
At any time during this festive encounter did I inquire about your relatives? And if you send a photo of your kid through the tube with my cash, I will have you fired.
“Well, Mary, I’m making that deposit now. Your receipt should be shooting right out to you.”
Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!
If you say my name one more time, I will cut you.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
Well, yes my new BFF, I’d love for you to come over and we can give each other pedicures and maybe later, we could braid each other’s hair. Super fun.
“Mary, you enjoy your weekend.”
No, no, no, a thousand times no. I thought we had already wrapped up our conversation Kathy. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in… “Do you have anything special planned?”
Special … hmm, let’s see. I was thinking about killing some folks and making furniture out of human skin. Want to come over and help?
“Ok Mary. Hope this weather warms up a bit. Thanks again for your business.”
For the love of all that is holy, Kathy, stop talking. The Minnesota goodbye is robbing me of the will to live.
Next time I have $80 burning a hole in my pocket, I’m going to leave it under my mattress, or better yet,
I may just throw the money in the street and drive over it because I just spent five minutes of my life that I’m pretty sure I’m never getting back.
— In reality, Mary Closner leads a life of high finance and multiple decimal points. She has well over $15 in her checking account at any given time.