Hyperbolic Excesses, and Other Torments

I actually got a bonus check from Wal-Mart yesterday. Not that it amounted to anything - about half of a normal paycheck - but I certainly didn't wad it up and chuck it back at them. Which would have been impossible anyway, because I had to talk through a sliding drawer to a disembodied voice to get it. That was before I accepted a clipboard from a disembodied hand and initialed that I received it. The whole process was too stupid to tolerate for very long, so I scribbled and briskly walked away. I'm lucky to have had about four inches of wall between me and the Wal-Mart Fiscal Wizard of Oz - otherwise she would have gotten two sockets full of the most obnoxious eye roll ever produced by anyone over the age of fifteen. I remember walking away thinking, 'You know, I understand the need to keep thieves, hobos, and riff-raff out of the Waltons' Monetary Panic Room, but would it kill anybody to slap a square foot of plexiglas in the wall so I don't have to stand behind the customer service desk and talk to a drawer like a moron?

The need for security? Acknowledged. Talking drawer in the wall? Hyperbolic excess.

Since they refused to Direct Deposit my bonus check (thereby necessitating what I call the Drawer Debacle), I then had to go to the bank. Walking under the awning covering the approach to the door, I heard something akin to a cross between techno and jazz being piped out of an overhead speaker. Puzzled, I paused for a moment. What is being conveyed here? Are the tellers and loan officers inside trying to get me to believe that there's a party inside? That the sign proclaiming the building to be a "BANK", the drive-thru lanes, and the ATM are all just a con to keep schmuck losers out of the hippest club in town?

Whatever the case, I don't get my hopes up - which is good, because once I'm inside the interesting music mix fades in favor of ink jet printers, keyboards furiously clicking under the rhythmic taps of fingertips, and conversations muffled by either distance or glass. Maybe the whole scheme isn't designed for people like me who actually think - maybe it's designed for emotion-driven automatons. You know, the guy (we'll call him Mortimer) who's hacked off and ready to tell Hillary the teller that she needs to either dump a lot of money into something portable, or face the wrath of his index finger, which he hopes will be mistaken for a .45 when he pokes it through the fabric of his jacket pocket. As Mortimer walks up, though, he hears that music mix with a funky beat, stops and says, "Hey, I'm happy," and opens a checking account instead. Maybe that was the plan.

The need to defuse Mortimer before he savages the tellers? Acknowledged. Piping club music to the bank porch? Hyperbolic excess.

Walking up to the desk, I'm frightened by a secretary in her mid-twenties wearing a fire engine red business suit. Noting my entry, she flashed at least 23 teeth and said, "Good MORNING!" with such enthusiasm that you'd think we'd slept together the night before. I tried to reply with like enthusiasm, but I failed. I knew it was a con, too. One, she couldn't be happy to see me as a customer (or client, or whatever they refer to me as in their banker meetings), because I'm just a poor college student who produces little to no income for them. Two, she couldn't be happy to see me as a person, because I was wearing a grungy gray Hanes pocket tee, beat down blue jeans, and my five year old New Balance sneakers that reveal a good square inch of sock through their many holes. Plus, I hadn't showered or shaved for the day. She wanted me to think that seeing me made her day. But I know that a black mood equals a pink slip for my would-be mistress.

The need to welcome me? Acknowledged. Making me wonder whether I'd cheated on my wife the night before? Hyperbolic excess.

As I filled out my deposit slip (yes, people, I actually deposit money when I go to the bank, as opposed to getting cash for fireworks and cigarettes), I noticed that there is a forty-some-odd inch plasma television bolted to the wall about twelve feet up, pointed at the floor where a gathering line would be, but wasn't at 8:30 in the morning (yes, people, I get up before noon). I guess it's there to keep Mortimer from changing his mind while he's standing in line.

The odd thing, though, was the fact that it wasn't turned on. Two thousand dollars of television, impotent to televise. It's usually tuned to some news station or another, complete with a scrolling ticker telling me horrible things that I really could have gone without knowing. As I stifled an urge to make a running jump and push the power button (I could have gotten it, I swear), I wondered if it wouldn't have been easier to have someone at the door handing out yo-yo's and superballs to line-dwellers, and collecting them as they exited. They could even yo and bounce to the beat of that funky music that was playing on the porch. But no. They opted for the screen that cost two grand and is too much of a hassle to turn on. Maybe they carpeted over the remote.

The need for technology? Acknowledged. Turning into some hipster-doofus of a bank with a blank plasma screen? Hyperbolic excess.

Then, as I left, I passed the bank's popcorn stand. Yes, that kind, complete with the wagon wheels and the Westward Expansion-era lettering. (Did any of the oxen on the Oregon Trail pull popcorn machines? I bet there's a popcorn machine somewhere in the Sierra Nevadas that the Donners had to abandon.) I quietly chuckle at the accompanying signage: "Please ask bank associate for assistance with the popcorn." Yeah. I'm going to walk thirty feet out of my way, tap a loan officer who's on the phone with someone on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me, but I'd like a tub of popcorn. Oh, and extra butter, please." I know, I know, appease the kids - but if they're too young for the yo-yo's and the superballs, give the guy at the door pacifiers, too.

The need to satisfy children? Acknowledged. Making parents curse you and your institution as they vacuum popcorn kernels out of the crevices in the backseat of their car? Hyperbolic excess.

As you go through life, you will occasionally be blessed (or cursed) with some sort of power (Yes, you will. Yes, you will. (yesyouwill)*(∞!) [ask your local math whiz - he or she will laugh, and then tell you why]). Just remember that there comes a point when practicality is saturated and excess leaks out. Take care that you don't unleash a dragon when a salamander would have done the job. Then irritated college students, not unlike myself, won't have to vent about your overambition on their blogs. I thank you. Mortimer thanks you. And society at large thanks you, too.

"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."
--Abraham Lincoln