Voices in My Head

I had been out shooting for about three hours on a very windy day in New York when I tucked into a midtown branch of our bank to make a deposit. My hair, frizzed out like a bad perm, had a mind of its own and thwarted any attempts to control it. Martha has pointed out to me in the past that when I look like that, I look like I should smell but given the city that I was walking around in I think that I would go relatively unnoticed.

Right, so I stumbled into the bank with head full of wiry red hair, a Russian camera around my neck and a large army bag across my chest. Digging around in my bag as I walked through the second set of double doors a guy in a blue suit walked up to me.

“Ma’am what brings you to the bank today?”
I ignored him and continued walking towards the row of tellers.
He moved in front of me, not in an aggressive way but more of a slight blocking maneuver.
“I’m just going over to the tellers.”
“Are you making a deposit?”
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I tilted my head and stared at him a little harder. He stared back but there was uneasiness behind his eyes.
“Um, well, if you are making a deposit I can help you with that over at my desk.”
“Why?”
“This is just a service we are providing.”
“Why?”
“The bank has been doing this for a few months. I can help you at my desk. It’s right over here.”
He corralled me into his little slot of windowless cube farm hell. I handed him my deposit and he punched numbers into his computer. I watched every move he made.

While we were waiting, he decided to make small talk.
“So, cool camera. What kind is it?”
“Russian. Why am I sitting here?”
“This is something the bank has been doing for a few months.”
“Not at the cranky east village branches. And what is it that you are doing?”
“Well, um it is a more personalized service. I just put everything in and in a few moments, the teller will bring you your receipt. I want to check and make sure you are in the right account.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“We like to check and make sure our customers are in the right account for them. There might be a different account that could meet your needs better. I see here you have a checking…”
I stopped him. “Look, I do not handle anything except deposits. If you want to up sell us you have to talk to Martha.”
“Ok, well, I just wanted to make sure you were in the right account.”
He kept saying it like it was code and I should have known what the hell he is talking about.
We stopped talking and waited for the teller.

After about a minute of slightly uncomfortable silence he asked, “So what do you take pictures of?”
I hate it when I am asked this because, yet again, no one understands what the fuck I am talking about and they don’t really care anyway. I should just tell folks I shoot dead things and then watch that spin around behind their eyes.
“I am a street photographer.”
“Oh. Interesting.”
I looked at him. He’s young, within two years on either side of 30, dark hair and eyes.
At his point it occurred to me that under the guise of personalized service this guy’s job is also the first line of defense incase a nut job might walk into the bank. He can stall them with his personalized service bullshit while the real security is deployed. I suppose it’s not to hard to believe that a middle-aged woman with crazy hair might be there to shoot up the place demanding her own individual bail out. This idea made me laugh and I decided to get chatty.

“So how you feeling about your job security?”
“The bank is fine. It’s doing great actually.”
“Well, that’s fantastic, considering that our money is here but what I meant was, how are you feeling about your job security?”
“Well my job isn’t very secure at all but the bank is doing just great.”
The teller walked over and handed me my receipt. I do not get up; instead, I decided to continue with the chatty part of my mood.
“So how long have you worked here?”
“Two years.” He replied while standing up. He extended his hand, indicating it was now time for me to leave his cube.
“Oh, I see and now we’re done?”
“Yes, we are done. All done and I thank you. You have a great day, ma’am.”

How odd it is to collect a paycheck for meeting weird people all day long. Kind of like the Wal-Mart greeter but only with more personalized service that neither person really wants to have.

As I headed back towards the doors, I saw his reflection in the glass as he walked up to another disheveled person. Several folks dressed in business attire floated seamlessly by.

“Yes, sir, what brings you to the bank today?”