These days, everyone hates bankers, but I decided one day to take it a step further.
But in my defense, he kinda had it coming. I don’t even know his name, but I knew him all right; I knew him on sight. I knew him from the day I went in to analyze the perks of getting a new kind of account at Chase (because I’m a money dork). This guy, pasty and creepy and with a huge fakey jack-o-lantern grin, was not a genuine person interested in answering my questions. He was interested in speaking to me like a child and trying to sell me a high interest credit card. I’m the exact wrong person to try to hornswoggle into debt. I kept asking about the high interest savings account and he just sat there sweating profusely, smiling and telling me why I needed a line of credit. I can’t stand people who waste my time, especially when it’s almost sunset I want to go roller skate.
So a couple months later, I’m driving past my bank, which I do on a daily basis because it sits on a little residential street where I can avoid a busy intersection with a red light. (Here in California, this kind of thing matters.) I’m rolling down the street in Bomb Diggity, my beloved $350 Gorilla-mobile . . . and who do I see kinda sorta trying to jaywalk in front of me? That’s right . . . him. The sweaty, arrogant banker-man who represents to me in that moment every dirty trick that the entire banking industry is trying to pull on the public.
This ain’t Boston, where you can just dart out in front of oncoming traffic. This is LA, god-dammit, and unless you got a crosswalk, you don’t have shit, buddy, so I just kept on going. Besides he looked like he wanted to cross, but that he had decided to wait until I passed. My window was down and as I passed by, he scowled and yelled, “Asshole!” and flipped a couple fingers my way. Wrong fucking move. I’d had it with this guy. How dumb is he to yell at a person driving by? He still had his bank name tag on, for chrissakes. So I did the only thing I could do.
I slammed on the brakes, threw the stick shift in reverse and stomped the gas. I got a good look at his eyes in my rear view – lot of white and fear. He ran up to the side of his car, which was parked on the street and looked like he was about to climb on top of the hood. (I didn’t give him much room – I’m a precision driver like that.)
I opened my car door, took a deep breath, looked him dead in the eye and calmly said, “Good afternoon, WHAT exactly is your problem?”
That felt really good.