Making a deposit at the bank with a fat stack of cash makes me feel like a baller-slash-drug dealer or like Uncle Billy in It’s a Wonderful Life, either way like something awful is about to befall me. So when I get up to the bored teller on a Thursday afternoon, I’m already a little on edge.
She takes one look at my stash, my wad, my racks, my stacks, and her mask of boredom tightens into bland irritation as she says, “It’ll take a second for you to unfold it, so go ahead and step over there and do that while I take care of the customers behind you.”
“It won’t take that long, but okay,” I reply testily, but she actually manages to get through the entire line before I finish and sheepishly make my way back up to her window.
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