Part III -Conclusion of Robber and the Crazy Lady

Epilogue

A few weeks later, the teller and I were summoned to the police station. While waiting for the line up the police detectives and our own bank investigators gathered around to ask a few more questions mentioning that they had viewed the tape.  Teller asked, “So can you ID him from the tape?” “No, the only thing we can see is you,” the detective said, pointing at me.  Oh no! It’s all on tape?  For all to see? I cover my face with my hands.

“The guys had a good time watching that tape. We should show it to you some time.  He pissed you off when he pushed you, didn’t he? We saw most of that, but you eventually moved out of camera shot. But I got a question for you.”  The detective leaned forward,  “When you were standing behind him, we could tell you were thinking about doing something. Were you?”  When I said yes, he clapped his hands together as though he won a bet or something.  “What was it?”  So I recount how Mr. S kept pestering the robber and how, if and only if (stealing a quick look at the bank’s regional manager), the robber had assaulted Mr. S, that I would be compelled to act, that I don’t think I could have helped myself. 

Being experienced detectives they could tell from my body language that I had formulated a plan.  Boy those guys are good.  “But, what were you going to do? That’s what we wanted to know.”  I told him that I was sizing him up and realized that he wasn’t that big. “Yes, we could see that.” That I felt I could easily grab both his ankles and pull them out from under him. His head would have hit the countertop with a lot of force, which should have been enough to incapacitate him, so I could sit on his back and get his arms and hands under control. If he didn’t cooperate, I would have to (don’t say, kick his ass) use more persuasive measures, like using his head like a basketball if need be, because I wasn’t going to fool around if he had an actual gun in his pocket.

Smiling the detective said, “Wished you had.  It would have been something to see. All the detectives could see it coming. We were all sort of hoping, waiting for it.  You were going to KICK HIS ASS weren’t you?  Wished you had. Yup, that would have been something to see.”

Robber and the Crazy Lady-Part II

PART II  (See below for part one)

He spun right into me and we were face-to-face, nose-to-nose, and I was looking at “The Fly.” He had his hoodie pulled down and tight obscurely his face completely and only his eyes were exposed, but those were covered by wrap around sunglasses. No wonder he was unaware that I was standing right behind him. His sunglasses were so dark, and wrapped from the one corner of the eye to the other, so I was nose to nose with those huge bug eye sunglasses. He was as shocked as I. The robber and I simultaneously said the same thing. We both gasped, “Whoa!”  (Owe me a coke.)

Then what happened next could only be described as “I lost it.”  He pushed me out of the way, and said, “Move, bitch.” 

“NO. HE. DIDN’T.  Did he just TOUCH me? Did that guy just have the audacity to TOUCH my person? Wait; did he call me a bitch? He PUSHED me and called me a bitch. Oh, hell no.” Call me bitch anytime, but just DON’T – TOUCH – ME.

I couldn’t help myself.  The monster that is always close to the surface, my lightning quick anger, came flying out as uncontrollable rage. I started to hit him. I started pounding hard on this back with both my hands all the way out the door. I kicked him and punched the back of his head and back.  I let go of so many MFs and FUs that I am embarrassed to this day for the language that came out of my mouth. “GET OUT, YOU MOTHER F! GET OUT OF MY BRANCH YOU MF, F YOU! SON OF A BITCH, F YOU, I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS. GET OUT MOTHER F, BEFORE I KILL YOU.” Well you get the picture.

Terrified, the guy starts throwing money out of his pockets, screaming, “GET OFF ME!” He expected me to stop and pick up the money. It crossed my mind for a split second, but my fury was not yet spent. Five’s and ten’s went flying into the air cascading all around us. I smack him out the door.  In desperation he reaches into his pocket and pulls more money out and now it’s blowing around in the parking lot.  My anger spent, I stop long enough to order people to “Pick That Money Up, I’ll be right back.”  I ran in the same direction as the robber. I wasn’t chasing him down, (Really, do you see the heels I’m wearing?) but wanted to see what direction he ran. I got to the corner, just in time to see him jump in a car waiting for him in the alley.

When I returned, the dutiful customers that picked up money began handing it to me.  I thanked them, went into the branch and locked the doors behind me. I can hear sirens in the distance.

I look around the lobby and it dawns on me.  There were three men in the lobby, and one of them had two young children with him. There was Mr. S. (A man who would never know how much I had his back.)  still wondering what was going on. I cringe. They were witness to my total loss of self-control. They witnessed a woman go berserk and go monkey shit on some poor guy and probably didn’t know what just happened or understand why.

Will Dad bother to explain anything of what just happened to his kids as to why the lady at the bank went crazy?  At home they’ll ask, “Mommy, what does Mother F. and F. you mean?” 

“Where did you hear that Timmy?” 

“The lady at the bank kept saying it when she was hitting that man.”

“The lady at the bank?”

“Yeah, she yelled at him to get out and if he didn’t she was going to kill him too.”  

“JIM, what happened at the bank?”

I was mortified. Only a select number of people have ever seen my Crazy, although, Queen Maker has seen more than his fair share, feel sorry for him. Many years later, I came to terms with my “episode” and hope that the stories told about that day and the crazy bank lady would include my masterful use of expletives making even a grown man blush, and how each precision strike landed with such power rendering the assailant into submission and reducing him into a man-child running from his mama’s whoop ass. (Yeah, I opened that can, industrial size.)

Tomorrow: Epilogue

Robber and the Crazy Lady

PART  I

I thought I would share this story with you.  Apparently it’s a story Queen Maker likes to tell because it almost always seems to impress the guys and shows how kick ass his wife is but in reality falls into the “You don’t want to mess with this crazy bitch” category.  After Queen Maker mentions the incident, his students look for me to recount the story.  It’s a long one, so here is Part I of a three part series.

This happened on a fine summer day at our branch.

I heard an irate voice in the lobby.  A customer was yelling at a teller, “Don’t you walk away from me. Don’t you walk away from me, bitch!”  I looked back in time to see one teller leading another teller away from her window.  That’s weird.  This guy must have been really abusive. Time to step in and take the heat.  I was always willing to take the heat from angry customers; one of my more endearing qualities. I went out to the lobby, hoping to diffuse the situation by inviting the customer into my office to discuss his problem.

The young man quickly moved to another teller window and pushed 70-year-old Mr. S out of the way. Mr. S didn’t get was going on, so he just kept looking up at the man with the hoodie and dark sunglasses and saying, “I was here first. I was here already.”  The young man ignored him and said something to the teller. 

By this time I am standing directly behind the customer, so he didn’t see me at all. Before I can say, “Sir, is there something I can do to help?”  I hear, “Hey do you want someone to get hurt?” showing the teller he had something in his pocket, supposedly something that might hurt someone.  Oh… this is not an irate customer, but an irate bank robber.

The teller looked up and her eyes asked, “What should I do?” I nodded and she began pushing money at him under the glass.  I stood very still.  I didn’t want the guy to see me, because I thought it might set him off. Not like I was trying to surround him or anything.

Mr. S, still unaware of what was going on, started to talk to the man, even pushing him a little with his arm saying, “I was here first.  You pushed me out of the way. I was here first.”

Terrified that the robber might try and shut up Mr. S. I held my breath. Please Mr. S, quit pushing the robber. My mind is racing. If the robber hits or pushes him, Mr. S is too feeble and unstable on his feet. He will hit the floor hard, break a hip, crack his head, or even worse.  If he touches a hair on that old man, I don’t know what I would do. No, he better not hurt him.  If he lays one hand on Mr. S., I’ll have to move quickly. I’ll have to KICK HIS ASS.”

I look the robber up and down.  Hmm, he’s not much taller than I am. As a matter of fact, he’s isn’t very big.  What can I do to immobilize him if he touches Mr. S? He doesn’t know I’m right behind him. I could grab both his ankles and pull them out from under him. Yeah, that’s the ticket.  That would make his head hit the countertop stunning him, then I’ll jump on his back, sit my knee on that arm keeping him from getting whatever is in his pocket out and putting the other arm behind his back with a vicious wrist lock.  If he struggles too much, then I will have to KICK HIS ASS. Luckily the robber was so intent on the money that he continued to ignore Mr. S.  I was relieved but poised just in case.

Now the ultimate goal is to get this guy out of our branch as quickly as possible. The safety of our customers and our employees is our primary concern. It is not worth anyone getting hurt over a few hundred dollars. And who would want a robber trapped in the branch with us anyways?  We prefer the police get him outside. My concern grew again because Mr. S. kept pressing the robber.  While I was focused on Mr. S, the robber spun around to leave, running into me.

Tomorrow, Part II

Triumphs in Adventure or When Sympathy Goes Out the Door

My friend and coworker Z  had a heart of gold.  Her grandparents raised her, so her attitudes and sensibilities were that of a generation before, which made her seem naïve and somewhat sheltered in the way she looked at things.  This made her all the more endearing.

One afternoon she spotted an elderly man sitting on the curb in front of the bank.  He sat there for a while then would walk up and down the street begging, but eventually would sit down again. As she watched him all day, she kept commenting on him. When he moved out of sight, she would look for him out the windows.  She wanted to offer him a seat in the lobby.  The manager said no.  Z became more and more agitated wondering what would become of this poor man. 

She kept saying, “We have to do something.  Can we call someone?  Maybe he’s lost.  Poor thing, he needs someone.”  Her concern started to become an obsession.  The other women in the office would comfort her or assure her that he looked in good shape and seemed content.  Besides they told her, he was begging, so he would probably get some money soon and then leave to get food or drink.

Being the sweet and caring person that she is, Z couldn’t watch the poor man outside and just sit by and do nothing.  “He reminds me of my grandfather, poor thing.  Maybe he is thirsty, he’s been out there so long.”  So Z took him water, twice.  Soon she decided he needed something to eat, so she took her lunch out to him.  He thanked her for her kindness.  Z felt better, but wanted to do more.  She asked if anyone else wanted to give up his or her lunch.  No takers or more accurately, no givers.  She went out a fourth time to ask if there was someone she could call for him, a relative or friend.  No, he told her sadly, he had no one in the world.  This just broke her heart. 

Soon she became upset, crying over the old guy’s plight.  Finally she called the police to come to his aid, to maybe take him to a shelter.  Before they came she ran out to give the man five dollars.  Z was beside herself with grief and sympathy.

When I worked downtown for a few years, beggars stopped me three or four times a day so my need to help grew less and less.  One day my husband witnessed a man in a wheelchair begging and the next instant, hail a cab, jump out of the chair to catch up to the car, and threw the wheelchair in the trunk.  To watch Z’s concern and generosity reminded me how callous I had become.

The police pulled up and talked to the old man as though they knew him and took him away.  The police officers returned to the branch to find out if there had been any problems with the old guy.  Z, full of concern, ran up to the officers hoping for information and when she returned she was livid. 

Apparently the old guy does this on a regular basis.  It’s an “adventure trip” for him.  He leaves the half way house or shelter and decides to walk in a new direction to see how far he can get, the farther the better, gathering points.  Then he waits for someone sympathetic to help him.  If he can get food and drink, he gets extra points.  If he can get a beer, even better.  He times how long it takes for the police to be called, more points.  When the police take him back, his friends are waiting for him on the porch cheering.  “He gets out of the car with his arms triumphantly in the air.  And the other guys greet him like he’s a conquering hero returning in his regal chariot.”

Z’s anger and humiliation was as intense as her worry and sympathy had been a few minutes before.  She went on and on about what a fool she had been.  “I gave him MY lunch. I gave him money. He played me.” We tried telling her it didn’t matter.  She did what she felt was right and that was the most important thing.  She was being true to herself and that she should feel proud of that.  But that did not console her.  She finally declared, “I will never help anyone ever again.” Maybe one day she can find the humor in it all. 

Banking Life Lessons

Practically my whole adult life I spent working at the bank. I finally set myself free about eight years ago. After twenty years, these are some of the lessons I have learned. 

Life Lessons Learned at the Bank - Lessons #1, #12, and #32

# 1) I’ve learned that the definition of poor is relative.

I had two customers that had nothing, lived sparsely, clipped their Beef Carver coupons and ate there three times a week, taking the leftovers home providing meals for the rest of the week.  Both of the their coats were old, tattered and need of repair. Both women would bemoan their poverty. But one had an account with just about sixty dollars, so she could cash her monthly social security check of $69.  The other had accounts with over a quarter of a million dollars.

# 12) That never buying yourself anything is no way to live.

Many customers had money in their accounts but could never bring themselves to buy anything.  They were obsessed with their large account balances and how much it would grow or didn’t grow, checking it four times a week to make sure it didn’t somehow disappear.  These were children of the depression. They fretted constantly. They were unable to buy a new coat, a new refrigerator, or a new roof because it would take precious money away from their balance. They lived poorly because they were afraid of becoming poor. They sacrificed quality of life for a sense of security. Living in fear is no way to live.

# 32) Do what you can, now. Don’t wait.

This is a particularly sad lesson.  I’ve watched elderly couples whose love seemed as fresh as when they met. They talked about their future retirement as though they were waiting to begin their lives anew. The trips to Hawaii, getting the fifth wheel and seeing America, the cruises, staying more often at the cabin and how long they have waited to enjoy themselves and their retirement together.  With only four or five more years to go they start to dream and plan in earnest. They would share their aspirations. But their dreams never came true.  A spouse becomes ill with cancer or Alzheimer’s, or suddenly dies. They feel robbed.  I’ve heard the same advice from so many of them. With tears in their eyes, they said, “Don’t wait.  You think you have all the time in the world but waiting until retirement is a lie. They tell you to wait until you retire, the golden years, but it’s all a lie. Don’t wait for a specific time in your life to go do the things you’ve always wanted to do together. Do what you can together now.” 

Friday Ice Cream

I have been having a hard time lately.  My craving for sugar is at a peak and has been for weeks. Every time I drive by an ice cream/donut shop (damn those that have both under one roof), I have to stop myself from jumping out of the car and getting a donut a la mode. At least I have my memories.

Friday Dairy Queen Runs

For a stretch at the bank the turnover was very low, so I had the fortune of working with the same group of incredible women for eight years.  We enjoyed each others company so the work atmosphere was one of the best I have ever experienced. During these years we started a tradition during the summer or at least as soon as the placed opened in the spring, Friday Dairy Queen.  Yum.

A Peanut Buster Parfait, strawberry shortcake, a banana split, a Hot Fudge Brownie Delight, a chocolate sundae, a strawberry milkshake, a Pecan Cluster, a Pecan Cherry Blizzard with extra pecans and extra cherries, a chocolate malt, and a butterscotch sundae.   I do miss those ladies.

Bank Stories Introduction

My first grown up job was working at a bank. Like many young people, I worked in fast food and then retail before landing my first “real” job at the age of nineteen. Looking back on the twenty years that I worked at the bank, I am amazed how much the job has taught me. Besides gaining valuable skill sets, I learned about human nature and life.

As a bank employee, I saw the same people day in and day out. I got to know their habits, their eccentricities, and their fears. I knew where they worked, how much they made, and their account balances. I realized that my relationship with these people went far beyond the usual customer-service employee relationship. It was a relationship that had to be built on trust. Here they were laying their whole monetary life in front of me. It made them feel vulnerable. They didn’t have to say anything, it was all here in black and white and I could read it and interpret it all for myself. It’s amazing the kind of insight and understanding of a person’s life, habits and even their nature by looking at their relationship with money. This relationship based on money is a very intimate one.

Seeing the same folks every week, long-term relationships began to form. I heard about their children, their grandchildren, their bosses, and their spouses. I became a sounding board for their grievances or someone willing to listen to their stories. I sometimes felt like a therapist or a trusted confidant. Some of them became good friends.

Sometimes I represented the evil bank that wouldn’t give them their money, or charged outrageous fees, or lost their deposit, or denied them their loan. Intimidation, threats, anger, tantrums, anguish, insults, crying, and begging were part of the job.

My extended community of customers included senior citizens, veterans, blue collar, white collar, entrepreneurs, young adults, families, singles, divorced, old world, crazies, eccentrics, people with beginning stages of Alzheimer, stroke, heart attacks, dementia, those being taken advantage of and those taking advantage. Over the years there were loans, mortgages, deaths, garnishments, IRA’s, Christmas accounts, college funds, marriages, trusts, funeral accounts, divorces, and gift accounts. I was there to help them through every stage of life as well as the financial transactions that came to represent those stages.

The women I worked with over the years were another new learning experience. When you work with eight women in a fairly confined space you can either come together or fall apart. Throughout the years, there were many that came and went but there was always the core group of four. I’ve worked with some incredible women of all ages, creeds, and race. I learned so much about women. What I liked and what I hated about them. What camaraderie was about. Listening to their stories gave me insight to life's lessons and what it meant to be a woman.

Then there were the managers and assistant managers. Basically good men in every stage of life, from young bucks, career builders, womanizers, slobs, tyrants, in mid life crisis, lazy, industrious, leaders, hard working, sweet, funny, and always, always hungry.

I started out as a teller at the drive-thru. I worked a desk job as a financial representative. I became an assistant manager and then a manager. The bank taught me many things about running a branch and about dealing with people. As a financial institution there were so many regulations and regulatory agencies to appease that the list would be as long as your arm. You soon became an encyclopedia of procedure.

Then there are the scams, the frauds, the forgers, the embezzlers, the check kiters, the counterfeiters, the quick-change artists, the impersonators, the thieves and the robbers. You needed to be vigilante in protecting customers and the bank. More lessons learned about human behavior and its relationship with money.

Thus, yet another section called “Bank Stories” and will be added to my blog.