my recurring day dream is interrupted by the actual theme song to the Price is Right, hosted now by a ghoulish Drew Carey, a skeletal gameshow host version of his former improv self. The TV perches in a corner, so Drew can watch me make deposits, withdrawals, and cash checks for Ipshemeg locals. Between customers I scowl at Drew, getting single moms and college students excited about the prospect of a new car, only to watch them lose at a challenge that is designed to have no wins. the only contestants that win are featured at the end of the show, and usually win living room sets or 3 day trip to New York. The players at the start of the game are still incredibly excited and literally jump up and down like children, squeeling at the opportunity to win (but more likely lose) a jetski on TV. The couples wear matching tee shirts with hopeful slogans emblazoned in Sharpie like 'it's our anniversary!!!!' or 'i'm feeling lucky!'.
The commercials for this brand of depressing daytime television include 'As Seen on TV' products, and different kinds of electric wheelchairs and hearing-aids.
I don't yet have the courage to ask for the remote. I'm not even sure there is a remote. The other tellers are all women, ranging in age from 22 to around 60. They all have children, and 3/6 take regular smoke breaks. These women are easily excitable and constantly reference ailing family members and low-profile gossip, which does little to brighten the predominantly gray and beige interior of the bank. I have little to contribute to their ritualized gossip, as most of my friends live 60 miles eastward in a Chicago suburb. Ginger, although I'm not sure this is her real name, frequently tells me about her ex-husband and latest sexual conquests. She is the closest to me age (her 22 to my 20), so I am obligated to feign interest in her most recent purchases and photos of her two year old son. She changes her hair frequently and wears jeans with rhinestones on days other that 'casual Friday'. I considered her attractive on my first day, probably because she was the only employee not significantly overweight (she's actually quite skinny). Her beauty quickly faded when she returned from a weeklong stay in Guadalejara, her olive skin suddenly a deep orange, and her normally brown curls now a stick straight jet black.
Wayne Brady has taken Drew Carey's place, and 'The Price is Right' is now 'Let's Make a Deal'. This gameshow is identically to the former, but it's evidently 'hip' and 'young' via a youngish black comedian host and more interactive challenges. Instead of flustered grandmothers guessing the price of canned soup, twenty-somethings in costumes participate in skits that somehow end in the acquisition of either luxury handbags or 'zonk' prizes, ie furry plates or a 10 foot long pencil. Unfortunately, contestants don't actually receive these faux prizes. The main difference between the two shows is that contestants that have won something can choose to trade that prize in and potentially win larger prizes.
The current challenge, an offensive skit about a turban clad fortune teller, is suddenly cut short. A hand clutching the remote, followed by an arm, extends past my head and shuts off the TV.
Clumsily, i spin my low quality office chair to meet my employer's tiny blue eyes. I cheerily offer a "hi!!!" and am met with a sterner than i'd like,
"Hello. Could you follow me to my office?"
I momentarily consider staying in my chair, pretending I've suddenly had a mini-stroke like Frankie Muniz.
I awkwardly climb the musty stairs, following him, unable to peel my eyes away from his flat 48 year old ass. His office is a cramped yet unusually clean nook in the corner of the second floor. Tucked behind the women's restroom and supply closet. Despite the location, the office has an almost fresh scent, and I find myself wishing it stank so I could more easily hate him. He is trying to contort his round, pink cherubic face into a look of dissapointment (sp??? no spell check on this fucking computer).
"We're concerned about your internet usage. We need you to complete the assigned tasks before surfing the net. You could lose your computer priveleges if you continue abusing your inernet priveleges. I have been told you were even using the internet during your training."
He pauses, waiting for my explanation.
I consider slowly unbuttoning my floral chiffon blouse, like I saw in a film once. Maybe a mini-stroke after I take off my shirt. After a few seconds I retardedly reply,
"Hmmm. yes. I will...work on.."
"Just take some iniative. Ask the other tellers if they need anything. Even if you're only here for the summer, you need to keep up with the other employees."
"Ohh. Okay, yeah. Sorry about that."
I slowly get up, letting him know I'm leaving but he has time to say other stuff if he chooses to.
He doesn't.
I leave and feel like crying. Then I consider how much more 'trouble' people get into at real jobs and how I am doomed to poor work performances for the rest of my life. I leave hastily, before any actual tears.
I return to my 'desk' (really just part of a countertop at the 'drive-thru' section of the bank), feeling almosy angry at Drew Carey for contributing to my low productivity. In an effort to look busy, I recount bands of one dollar bills by hand, punishing myself.
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