THE TELLER

How patient will we be for privilege? Even when it isn't there? Especially when it isn't there?

Either you grasp the daily events of everyday life and how to go about getting things done or you don't. I didn't think about such conduct being why it was called a rat race, but I suppose that's what it was all like. I stepped out of the truck into one of the hottest days imaginable, or maybe it was just like any other day. I suppose that was possible as well. I walked to my destination, looking at the establishment before me. 

Mary's Market, the overhead sign declared in bright red letters. Finally had a Mary's open in this area. Took long enough. I'd check out if there was anything worth buying for lunch this evening, but I doubted it. I wasn't in an eating mood, let alone a cooking mood. I entered the building and didn't find it much cooler inside. Just as well, I thought to myself. 

I walked a couple of aisles, looking at cans to pop open and microwave in two minutes, but saw nothing I really cared for. Maybe this can of vegetable smorgasbord something would be decent, and should be healthy for me, too. I picked up a couple of cans, began making my way to the front and put the cans back on the shelf alongside the ketchup, choosing instead to grab the cheesy garlic sandwich spread. Sandwiches were on tonight's menu, or at best, I knew I had a spoon for scooping this stuff out of the jar, if there was no bread in the house. I gave a second thought to at least going and buying a loaf. That was my life. Full of indecisions. I swung around and grabbed a pack of hamburger buns, but no more.  

I walked to the register with the shortest line and stood there. A woman in front of me turned to look at me and gave with some polite conversation about how long it would take to check out. I offered a friendly quip back. I was in no mood for hostility. I took note of how she looked. She seemed older, but then I wasn't as young as I used to be myself. But maybe she was trying to be polite to me for whatever reason; me, standing there with my chipped glasses lens. Yea, I'm sure that was really turning her on. Regardless of her intentions and if I wanted to go any further or not, I looked down at the garlic spread jar I was buying, and said nothing more. She began placing her items on the conveyer belt, then it was time for her to go. I didn't give her a second look. 

Instead I was now noticing the interior sign on the far wall. It looked more like a walk-in closet, I thought to myself, or maybe that was too unfair. Perhaps a drive-thru of some sorts? Well, I had been told there was a bank branch in here that I could use, and that must be it. I stared at it ominously. Did I need an appointment, I wondered. I wasn't in the mood for any ridicule. I was tired of ridicule. I was about to leave and decided, no, that was what I needed to do, get the information on deposits and some such brouhaha. I walked toward the location. 

rounding what was designated the entrance by a sign, I stood behind several other patrons, assembled to speak to three tellers, all young women. What a bank setup, I thought to myself. I wondered how long I'd be there. Actually the line moved fairly quickly, so that was good. Next thing I knew I was first in line. 

As soon as the next available teller was apparent, I walked to her location. I sat across from her at her desk, explained to her what I had done and was trying to do. Just money. Deposit money. Pay for bills with money. She brought up my account and said to me what I needed to know, if nothing else, to put my mind at ease. I was grateful for that I suppose. I stood and thanked and headed to the exit ramp. 

That was simple, I thought to myself, or maybe it was normal. I was finally getting the hang of these necessities of life, I supposed. I exited the building and stood in the bright sunlight, only to realize I hadn't asked about upcoming monetary matters and would such events affect money deposited at any future time, what would that outcome possibly be? I'll just wait and see was my initial reaction, then I thought again, no. I'm right here at this banking location, where I need to be. I can inquire. Shouldn't be any problem. I was about to carry the sandwich spread and buns to the truck, then realized if I got there, I'd just go on ahead and leave. Good thing I had the receipt, I thought. I tied the plastic bag in a knot to close it up, then entered the market once more. Any profiling that may designate me as a possible shoplifter was put to ease with my usual countenance resembling a lost sheep in an empty field. Unless I actually stole something, I couldn't look suspicious if I tried. I made my way back to the banking location and stood once more in the line. 

Once again the line moved rather quickly, so I was pleased by that. 

I stood there, contemplating how I would approach whichever teller I sat across from. Maybe I should just go back to the one I previously spoke to, but nothing says she will be available next, so what should I do? Only thing I could do. 

When the first teller was finished with her customer and this person stood and left, I turned to the person behind me. 

"Go on ahead," I said, "I'm waiting for the last teller to be free, so I can speak to her." 

You would have thought I gave the woman my seat in a lifeboat from the Titanic. 

It was my only option. I wasn't prattling to either of these other women what I was doing and had done and what my question now was. I'd just go to the last woman again. She could answeer my question much quicker than it would take me to explain everything to either of these other two women. 

"You can go ahead," I said to the next person, "I'm waiting for the last teller to be free." 

Maybe that was my foolishness. That was my mistake. Too much information. I should have just told people they could go on ahead of me and left it at that, until the last teller was available once more. I'd ask her a quick question, then leave. 

"Go ahead," I said to the next woman. They actually looked astonished I was letting them go before me. We weren't in grammer school anymore, standing in line waiting our turn to go to the toilet. 

"go ahead. I need to go to the last teller," I said to the white-haired couple who approached next. 

"That's allright," the man said, "that's who we also want to go to." 

If they weren't going, I turned to the next person in line, who immediately came forward. With that done, I turned and looked at this man, practically standing right beside me. I didn't look at him long, then turned back to the three tellers. When the next of the first two tellers was free, we sent up the next person. As I looked back, I stole a glance at the couple standing with me, letting these people go ahead of us. Now the suppositions began emerging. I looked back to the tellers. I was wanting to speak to the third teller again, because I had already spoken to her, so I wanted to go to her again and ask a quick question. 

The third teller was white. The first and second teller were not. 

Another person passed by us, allowed to go ahead of us. The thoughts ran through my head. 

He thinks I'm playing favoritism, wanting a white teller, as tho there is something pristine about such thinking, and now he is going to take that magic carpet ride with me. After all, he is white, too. 

Why else would they want to talk to her? Did they know her? Were they just going to chit-chat while the other two tellers worked? 

"He's going to be going next when she's free," the woman said to the man, who was all but inching ahead of me. Did he think I was a crossing guard in the bank? Making sure people went to the correct tellers. 

I then wondered if he would have done this had I not planted the possibility of our being able to go to the white teller in his knobby little empty head. I wanted to hate him for how he made me look, but I didn't know him. I had no reason to know him, to know anything about him. 

Finally I didn't even look back anymore. They felt it was some high horse to go to the white teller and wanted people to go ahead of them, they could send people on. Actually, she was the one directing everyone. He just stood looking forward. 

And then the third teller was free. 

The white woman. 

I made my way back to her and sat down. Just going to ask that one simple question and that would be it. 

"I wanted to know if there would be any problem with this date coming up so quickly this month?" I began. 

Then I decided to linger. She answered my question, but I persisted. 

"No, there won't be any problem," she answered. 

"there won't?" 

"No." 

"Oh, that's good, because I suddenly thought about it when I got outside that I should have asked it while I was in here before." 

I was all but chatting her up. 

"If he was going to take that long, he should have just let us go ahead of him," I envisioned Clem saying. Don't work that way, sport. I was ahead of you, regardless. We don't compare intended timeframes with each other. 

I wondered if they were still standing there, "being nice" and letting other people go ahead of them. White people who had no issue with the race of the teller and gladly sat at either of the first two women when they were available. 

The way her cubicle was situated, I couldn't see the line  or if they were still standing there, and in truth, that was the whole point; they would never know I lingered deliberately to inconvenience them, since they seemed to think only us high-faluting lot go to the white teller. 

I faintly heard people walking out behind me, but never did I turn to see who it was. I must never give them any indication of what I was doing by looking around. They could stand there for an hour, letting everyone else go, or they could tend to their business with the next teller when she was ready. Nobody was concerned with their reasoning. 

"That's what I wanted to make sure," I said to the teller. She must have thought I was hitting on her. Poor thing. 

I just couldn't believe all the decisions and defiance and privilege that had maligned this country of ours was still found in a simple choice of a bank teller. I wondered if they waited for a white cashier to be available? 

I recalled when I had entered another bank, another location. I was actually making a deposit for someone. I stood in line, totally going with the flow of this day-by-day system. The woman in front of me was very elderly, hair completely white, as was her race. The young teller asked her a question, and the elderly white woman responded, meek and feeble. 

"Yes, ma'm." 

The teller made another inquiry. 

"Yes, ma'm," she repeated. 

I stood there and looked away. I knew this old woman remembered segregation, restrooms, water fountains, and now here she was, addressing a young black bank teller with authority. I didn't know this old woman. I didn't know the teller. This wasn't even my bank. I just stood and thought, well, I guess things can move on. Things can change. So maybe this old white woman could handle her business in a polite manner just to get her through the day, then some eavesdropping yokel such as myself could have my eyes opened to how things can indeed change for the better. 

"Anything else?" 

The teller had turned white. No, it was the teller I was having a dialogue with. I was done. Now I stood to leave. 

I walked to the exit area as before, still carrying my bag of lunch. Suddenly I was indeed very hungry. I ventured out the building once more, leaving behind me this teller and that white couple, never knowing if they were still there or not, and I didn't care. If they thought they were following some example of racial elitism with me, maybe I gave them the impression to think twice about doing such a silly thing again. No tellings how long they'll have to wait. 

Just because they are white.