The Sonia Show

Writer. Podcaster. Beer drinker. Old movie watcher. Mother. Goober.

Bank tellers


Yeah, so, sometimes I have to go into the bank and deal with an actual living human being instead of using an ATM machine.

You’ve probably never been inside a bank before, huh? Back in the day, people used to have to go into a building called “a bank” and hand something called “checks” to a person called a “bank teller.” The bank teller would then put your money in your account for you. If you wanted to get cash, you had to fill out a “withdrawal slip.” It was a pain in the ass. Ask your grandparents about it. Also, call your grandparents. They miss you.

So anyway, usually, I can get in and out of the bank quickly, unless I go to the Well Fargo on the corner of Mission and Ocean in the Outer Mission. That bank is strange; so strange it could have its own A&E reality show.

The line is always crazy long. There appears to be extra security, and there’s a security camera set up behind the tellers, and huge video monitor by the teller windows. While you are standing in line, you can watch yourself on this big-screen TV. It’s very distracting. “Oh my god! Is that really what I look like?! Oh my god! My shirt is inside out!” One time in that bank, the man behind me had a beeper. A beeper?! The gentleman in front of me was wearing acid wash jeans. I thought maybe when I walked into the bank I had walked into the past. Another time, I watched a man dump a brown paper bag full of cash on to the counter to make a deposit. Yeah, that’s not questionable.

The last time I went to that bank, the bank teller informed me that she was 1 years old when I first opened my checking account. Gee, thanks. That makes me feel awesome. I responded by saying, “That reminds me of the time I took the ferry to Shelbyville …”


Author: The Sonia Show

I'm a writer/podcaster/mother/goober in San Francisco who likes to drink beer, shop, laugh and make other people laugh, watch old movies, feed my unhealthy obsession with pop culture, kick breast cancer's ass, go on adventures with my mighty, mighty good man David and my awesome autistic son, Calvin, wear orange and root for the San Francisco Giants, participate in general jackass-ery, talk about TV, eavesdrop on strangers' conversations, make nerdy “Star Wars” and “Simpsons” references, and post personal things about myself on the web for all to read, which makes me some sort of literary exhibitionist.

3 thoughts on “Bank tellers

  1. “Also, call your grandparents. They miss you.” Love it. And I would except that all my grandparents have passed on. However my grandfather did make it to about a week shy of his 104th birthday. Go Giuseppe! He kicked serious ass. I miss my grandparents. Now I’m getting all maudlin. The third martini is not helping. I didn’t get the gig at Esurance. I’m wallowing. What’s wrong with me, Sonia?

  2. I’m sorry to hear that you didn’t get the gig, Joe! There’s nothing wrong with you. You are super hire-able!

  3. Don’t patronize me, woman! Clearly there is something wrong with me!
    Just kidding. Yeah, it blows. And thanks.

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