Coworker Cantankery

So at this point we’ve covered customer service and how no one should be subjected to offering it. I am now here to tell you that the same jobs forcing people to smile at customers who have lost their freaking minds are also forcing good people of the world to work alongside complete nightmares. 

In support of this statement, I offer you the following:

First, someone has always worked there for 500 years before you, so by the time the vacation calendar gets to you they have picked it over like roadside vultures, leaving you only the most exciting options, like random Thursdays in March. You never get any good days because CHERYL always gets Thanksgiving week and KAREN always gets Christmas and KEVIN always gets the 4^th of July.  

But who can blame them. And honestly, you have more nefarious problems in the world of co-workers. I’m referring of course to the incredibly awful people one is sometimes forced to work with who only grow exponentially more awful when given power. Listen, your friendly neighborhood bank tellers may look innocuous but trust me, the power dynamics behind the teller line are not for the faint of heart. I imagine this applies equally to other lines of work, but gotta stick with what I (used to) know.

My own personal nemesis, we’ll call her Carol, was an infamous villain and also my manager. An unfortunate situation to say the least.

Carol would lurk around with her hunched posture and hawkish nose until she caught some of her less favorite employees (a category in which I unwillingly excelled) doing anything she disapproved of. These things included:

1.     Us quietly suggesting to customers that they NOT do whatever thing she had just suggested they do. We were all in this fairly awkward position a few times a week because Carol had an alarming knack for having no idea what she was talking about, coupled with the habit of issuing wildly inaccurate statements with great authority.

2.     Us rolling our eyes when Carol told us for the 50^th time that SHE HAD BEEN A TELLER FOR EXACTLY ONE DAY AND WAS SO GOOD THAT THEY PROMOTED HER TO MANAGER SO YES SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE IS TALKING ABOUT.

Okay sorry CAROL. I will just tell that customer that they should indeed write their pin number in permanent marker on the back of their debit card, you batty old witch.

Carol once pulled me into her office to ask why I was gaining weight and not doing my makeup. I informed her that I’d taken to drinking many calorie-packed rum and cokes after work these days, and that I had in fact never done my makeup and likely never would.

It would appear that this was not a believable enough explanation because after a long pause, she narrowed her eyes over that hawkish nose and asked me in a lowered voice if I was actually pregnant.

Fuckin Carol.

Then there are co-workers like Sharon. Sharon took up smoking out of spite after no one addressed her complaint that people who smoked got more breaks. When Sharon wasn’t out enjoying straight shots of poison to the lungs, you could generally find her in the lobby, running her hands through the curly chest hair poking out of the faded plaid button-up of her much older husband, who spent his free time in retirement visiting her at the bank. Perhaps this would have been mildly (and I do mean mildly) less offensive if we had not argued on more than one occasion over her stating that she didn’t have anything against gay people, she just didn’t want their love life in her face. Now isn’t that just the curly old chest hairs of the pot calling the gay kettle black.

So, ya know, just more to ponder with the intermittent introduction of the idea that ditching life behind the teller line in favor of six years of long nights in the lab was basically the-worst-decision-ever. Upon recall of Carol's shadowy form, I generally consider the entire thing to be at least a toss up. 

The Nostalgia Games

Sometimes I get into this rut where I play the “why are some of my life decisions the worst” game. It’s a pretty good time. Perhaps you’re familiar with it.

I'm not trying to brag or anything but I was a top player throughout my entire graduate school career, having spent approximately 98.2% of graduate school kvetching about my decision to go to graduate school. 

Furrowing my brows endlessly over dreamy pre-grad days of work being over when I left the building at five o'clock.
Pining over how wonderful it was to go on vacation and then come back NOT to a pile of work, because work didn't pile up when I left my bank teller job, and neither did e-mails. I REPEAT: THERE ARE NO UNANSWERED EMAILS WHEN YOU COME BACK TO YOUR BANK TELLER JOB. 

As I remember, it was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

 

But that's how the “why are some of my life decisions the worst” game works. Listen up, people: Nostalgia = PUBLIC ENEMY #1.

 
It's good to take a step back when kvetching to remember that you were probably kvetching throughout previous life decisions. too, as we humans are wont to do. Upon reading further you will witness the kvetches (is that a word? It is now) of this previously blissful life I've sketched out above.

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Being a bank teller = extreme boredom on Thursday afternoons when no one came to the bank and the clock neveeeerrrrr reached 5 and even though there is literally nothing to do, you are NOT allowed to leave.

It also = every teller except yourself calling in sick on the first Friday of the month, a day also known to every boomer on the planet as lets-go-to-the-MF-BANK day. 
This actually happened once. Fastest but most hungry day of my life.

But the overarching lesson of time served as a bank teller =  customer service is some bullshit. 

May the metaphysical hand of god strike me down every single time I neglect to address this fact when barreling down the rabbit hole of nostalgia.

In support of this claim, I offer you the following:

1.     The guy who actually filed a lawsuit against the bank branch I was working in during undergrad, in which he legitimately requested that an exorcism be performed within our building. This of course did not go far within the legal workings of Bonneville County, but losing his exorcism bid did not deter him from continuing to bank with us. He simply chose to do his business solely through the drive-through after that, and staunchly refused to look at or speak to us the entire time.

a.     Wait, no, he did look at me once. I was keying in his deposit when he turned his head slowly toward the window. Once it had swiveled enough to appropriately allow his beady eyes to rest upon me, he proceeded to snort like a pig into the microphone until I pushed the drawer back out with his receipt. Charming. 

2.     The guy who repeatedly scream-asked me if I enjoyed stealing money from old people after he discovered that $50 from his mothers account had been turned over to the state like a year previously, after five years of account inactivity.

a.     Why yes, sir, it’s one of my most treasured past times. Anything else I can do for you today?

3.     The woman who promptly strode to my manager’s office to complain that I was “loudly bragging about my drunken behavior” after she overheard me telling a fellow co-worker that I had tried a blue tarantula margarita the previous Saturday.

a.     I was soundly reprimanded for this. 

4.     The incredibly agitated man demanding to know why his account was in the negative, but who did not know his account number and stoutly refused to give me any identifying information so that I could locate said account, because he was convinced I would then try to steal his identity.

a.    It appeared to be lost on him that if I was in the identity-stealin’ mood, I would be much more inclined to steal the identity of someone with positive account balances. #justsayin

5.     The woman who came barreling up to my window in extreme panic because the ATM had refused to give her any money. Upon looking up her account I was able to inform her that the ATM could not dispense money from an account that was approximately ten thousand dollars in the negative. The outrageous state of her account was the result of a previously deposited $9000 being removed due to the fact that it was someone else’s $9000 tax refund.

a.     Rather than questioning her suddenly inflated balance, it appeared she had instead made a series of large cash withdrawals before the mistake was discovered, thus leaving a devastatingly negative balance when the deposit was reversed.

b.     As I began to quietly explain this to her she simply backed away from my window while screaming hysterically, “I AM NOT A THIEF GODDAMMIT”, as an entire lobby of people stared at me like I was kicking a dog.

6.     The woman who lectured me sharply for several minutes on the importance of maintaining a professional appearance at work, while several people waited in line behind her, because she did not like what I was wearing.

a.      I was wearing the company-approved t-shirt all employees were given to wear on Fridays.  

7.     The guy I knew from high school who was mad at me about something and took his revenge by telling my manager that I had given all of his account information to his ex-girlfriend.

a.     The best part about this is that I met his ex-girlfriend a total of one time when she was my cashier at Target. I probably told her I thought he was an idiot, but trust me, girl did not need confirmation from me that all of his assets were equally unimpressive.

8.     The savage children in the drive-through savagely demanding tootsie rolls. Some of them would just stare at me with the intensity of an axe murderer throughout the entire transaction. This was unnerving, but since I am also given to staring like that at people who have food that I want, I was generally tolerant. However, those screaming ones with the bulging eyes that would sometimes actually hang their weird little bodies out of the car windows were not getting tootsie rolls from yours truly. This was met with great disapproval from the people who had birthed or otherwise parented those weird little bodies, but I remained steadfast.

a.      I realize I could think differently of this if I ever have a little weirdo of my own, but we’ll just cross that weird little bridge if it’s ever built. 

  

Moving Mischiefs

I imagine that moving is comparable to giving birth in that after a certain amount of time, people appear to forget how traumatizing the whole affair was and start thinking it’s a good idea to give it another go. 

I have vague memories of suffering when we moved to Delaware – like yeah, I remember some exhaustion and a little frustration, but how bad could it really have been? We lifted like ten boxes and drove a couple days, big deal. Probably, I reasoned with myself, the stress mostly originated from the decision to get rid of all our stuff at a series of garage sales (see here) and then attempt to replenish it all when we arrived in Delaware (see here). We’ll just avoid that stress this time around by packing ALL OF THE THINGS and making a quick 700-mile U-Haul jaunt. Easy peasy. We don’t even have that much stuff…I predict one day of packing, 30 minutes of loading, then off to our glorious new life in a blaze of top-down-tunes-up glory, where we will then unload for 30 minutes and spend no more than one day unpacking and situating.

Lolololol.

Suffice it to say that after the surprise of having more than 10 boxes of crap to our name came a myriad of other sweet surprises. Like when we got a 20-foot U-Haul truck so we’d have “plenty of room” to pack the 500 bicycles that Taylor owns and then having to throw the bicycles on top of everything in a fit of rage because it turns out we actually own enough stuff to fill up a 20-foot U-Haul truck. This is completely counter to everything we thought we stood for in life.

As a side note, I tried getting rid of non-essentials when I started packing, but you’d be amazed at how deftly I can manipulate the definition of “non-essential” when I’m holding any given object in my hands, no matter how long it’s been since I’ve touched the thing. For example, I came across a little blue china tea set I saw at a thrift store approximately four years ago and just HAD to have. I haven’t used it once. I don’t drink tea. It matches nothing else I own so it doesn’t even get displayed. Perfect candidate for donation, yes? Oh no, my friend. Time for the what-if game. WHAT IF one of the new friends I make in Indianapolis just LOVES tea and comes to my house and requests a SPOT OF TEA? It’s hard to make friends as a grown-up, do I really want to handicap myself like this to save some space in the corner of one box? I think not. And so, despite the fact that I don’t keep tea in the house and would thus not be solving the unlikely problem of an impromptu tea party with a brand new friend (not to mention my general hatred of guests in the first place), the tea set was diverted to the “keep” pile. Also known as pretty much the only pile…but I digress.

Okay so then shit really hits the fan when you remember how many address changes loom on the horizon. You’ve lived in a place so long you don’t even remember whom you’ve been slinging that address out to.

Because I did not actually have a forwarding address (because Taylor and I were like, WE’LL JUST MOVE TO INDIANAPOLIS AND FIND SOMEWHERE TO LIVE ONCE WE GET THERE, which actually ended up working out but is typed in caps because I realize what a ballsy move that was), I needed to get one. So, I toddled on down to the Post Office and they were like, “No, you can’t open a post office box from a distance because we’re the worst” <end exact quote>. However, UPS was like, “Hell yeah baby, let’s do it”. Or at least their website said something close to that. So I investigated a few UPS locations in Indianapolis and started down the list.

The first two locations didn’t answer. I tried each of them twice with an average ring total of 532 times. No luck.

However, an individual who was potentially 13 years of age answered at the third location after only about 224 rings.

Let’s call him Kevin.

Kevin answered the phone in the same tone he likely assumes when his mom tells him to clean his room. I told him I needed to open a mailbox at his location before actually moving there so that I could forward my mail.

His response: “Ummmmm, yeah, I don’t think we do that.”

Me: Well, I’m looking at your website right now and it says you do, I just need you to send me the forms so I can get them notarized and send them back.

Kevin: Uh…well…I don’t think we do that.

Me: Kevin, trust me, you definitely do it. In fact, it says here I just need form 1583 notarized along with a copy of 2 IDs, so if you wanna just go ahead and send that over, I’ll be on my way. Pretty busy today, Kev.

Kevin: Wullllll, like, I don’t know. Like I think we’ve had problems before or something so we just don’t do it.

Me: Kevin. May I direct you to the company’s website for further instruction? Sounds to me like it’s still a thing. Let me help catch you up.

Kevin: Yeeeeeeaaahhhh I don’t think we do that.

Me: KEVIN. I’m sure you’re great but it looks like you haven’t dealt with this particular situation before so it might be best if I talk to someone else. (Translation: Any chance there is an adult in the house, KEVIN?)

Kevin: Uh, I don’t think anyone else will know.

Me: Let’s give it a try!

Kevin: Yeaaahh I don’t think so. BUT, there’s something that’s like really important for you to know. So if you open a box with us and then move, you have to file a forward request with us and not the post office, and we charge for that. You know, because it would be you moving…not us moving.

Me: Wow. Thank you, Kevin, for your incredible foresight and factual acuity. Tell me, what are the chances we could talk about opening the box before going over the rules of eventually closing the box?

Kevin: Yeaaahhh I don’t think we can open one for you.

HOLY JESUS, KEVIN. Maybe we come back to this after you’ve attempted puberty.

Moving on to the fourth UPS location on the list. Patrick answers. On a human expression scale of 1 to 10, Patrick is in the negatives. However, Patrick gets shit done, a rare quality it would seem. I explain my situation (this is accompanied by the occasional grunt from his end, which I take as comforting acknowledgment of the precarious spot I’m in), after which he says, “Yeah. We can do that”. Hindsight tells me I should have recorded this call for the training purposes of young Kevin.

I express my undying love to Patrick. He grunts and hangs up the phone, presumably overcome with emotion. He e-mails me the correct form.

Taylor drives 30 minutes to meet me at a Delaware UPS where we pay $10 to notarize this form, after which I walk all over God’s green earth to find a scanner so I can e-mail it back. These feats accomplished, Patrick provides us with a 6-month mailbox lease for the nominal fee of $140, and voila – we have a forwarding address a mere six hours after I dialed the first UPS store. I then call approximately 500,000 places to provide this address knowing full well I will have to call all 500,000 of them back once we get an actual address as I do not plan on spending $300 per year for a mailbox.

I will have you know that I pursued this painful and expensive venture so doggedly because there were two important items of mail that I happened to know would be sent out around the 6^th, which was one day after we’d be leaving our old address and who knows how many days until we had a new address. So, I made sure to call these two places first and provide them with my hard-won UPS address. I made them slowly repeat this address back to me. Then as a back up, I filed a forwarding request with the post office, complete with their stupid $1 fee.

And how, you might ask, were these long and arduous efforts rewarded? I will tell you. They were rewarded with a text from my previous landlord, on the 14^th of June, with a picture of the two pieces of mail I was particularly worried about, which had been delivered directly to our old address.

The moral of this story is that nothing matters. And that UPS should really do something about that Kevin guy.