21/7/95

One Fine Day at the Bank

What does it take to get a little personal attention around here?

    Otto and Hannah were having a fearful fracas. "You know what's the biggest problem in this country?" Otto hollered at his wife. "A person can never finish a sen--"
    "The biggest problem," she hollered back, "is that people like you never --"
    "Never what?" he barked back.
    "-- Never shut up long enough to --"
    "There you go generalizing again, as if I --"
    The phone rang, and she picked it up. He walked away mumbling to himself. "Who does she think she --"
    "It's for you."
    He took the phone, but before he could say hello, the line abruptly  disconnected. He cursed softly. "Sonofa--"
    "Shh!" Hannah had turned on the radio. "Listen! There's been another --"
    "We interrupt this dialogue," the announcer said gravely, "to bring you an on-the-spot report from --"
    "-- This is Ada Vahav, coming to you live from Kiryat Ata, where--"
    "Hey," Otto cut in excitedly, "that's where --"
    "-- Where we live, I know," Hannah retorted, "Now would you --"
    They listened as the reporter told of the latest bank heists. It was an epidemic, and as such things are wont to be, speculation was rife, police were baffled, the public was up in arms and the press was having a field day. The Palestinians complained that Israeli robbers were stealing their savings, the Syrians wondered just what kind of people they were trying to make peace with, and the BBC carried a special report on "The Jewish State: Tunnel at the End of the Light Unto the Nations," probing evidence that the Chosen People were not such brilliant bankers as history had portrayed them. 
    Israel Radio assembled a (first-rate, probing) team of (thought-provoking, incisive) analysts to get to the bottom of the (nationwide) scourge (which had spun out of control).
    The debate was, to be sure, riveting:
        "I tell ya, it's the Russian --"
    "You're telling me it's the mafia? You don't know what you're talking about, it's the Palestinian --"
    "You're both wrong, this is an Israeli thing, it's John Q. Public fed up with the banks and it's Peter robbing Paul to pay back Paul. If this keeps up we're gonna see every Tom, Dick and Harry doing a Bonnie and Clyde just to keep up with the Joneses. Now is that Israeli or what?"
    Hannah tsktsked. "Imagine. Regular people taking a morning off work to go and stick up a bank because they can't earn enough to pay the overdraft. And they're getting away with it! I tell you, it's -- hey, where you going?"
    Otto had half a mind not to tell her. That half won out. "Just because a person puts on a hat means he's going somewhere?" With that, he was gone.   

PERAMBULATING APACE, Otto made for the center of town, and who does he see running in the opposite direction but Morty, his brother-in-law. "Hey, Morty!" he called. Morty pulled a mask over his face and darted down a side street. At the next block, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Lieberman from downstairs. "Nice day, no?" he called as they whizzed by. Strange, Otto thought, he'd never seen the Liebermans on a motorcycle before.
    A couple of kids skateboarded by, toting plastic Uzis and saying "bang, bang!" at everyone. And everyone said, "How cute."
    Otto arrived at the bank just as Berg was coming out. Not Berg the travel agent, but Berg from the old-age home. Berg burst out of the bank, taking the steps three at a time, and leaped into a waiting taxi, ignoring Otto's friendly how do you do. It struck Otto as odd.
    In the bank, Otto got in line behind Mrs. Levy, whose son was a manager at the bank on the other side of town. Mrs. Levy pretended not to notice Otto, even when he tapped her on the shoulder. Peculiar, he thought. 
    Then in walked Gluck the butcher's helper, taking his place behind Otto. To Otto's great surprise, Gluck said hello. They chatted for a while, discussing for a long while the merits of fresh versus frozen.
    "So what brings you here?" Otto asked. It turns out Gluck was making a deposit. Of all things!
    Everybody in line overheard. Each one insisted he take their place in the line. "You see that?" Otto said to no one in particular, "people can be so friendly sometimes."
    "Next!" the teller said. It was Mrs. Levy turn, but she wasn't paying attention. Otto prodded her, and as she stepped forward he wittily called after her: "Leave some money for the next guy!" She didn't smile.
    Like any good Israeli, Otto craned his neck to watch her transaction.
         Aha! A withdrawal.
    She took the money and ran, pretending not to hear Otto saying she should give his regards to her son.
    "Next!"
    Otto smiled jovially at the teller and wished her a good morning. "What do you want?" she snarled.
    "I'd like --"
    "Get on with it, I don't have all morning."
    "I'd like --"
    The two kids with the plastic Uzis unexpectedly pushed in front of him and slipped a note to the teller. "We were in the middle of a transaction," one of them explained. Otto could only shrug.
    The teller seemed to be having a bad day. It was the way she yelled "Nu?" at him, so that her eyes bulged, that tipped him off.
    "Cash, please," he blurted.
    "Don't have any," she countered.
    He'd never heard of such a thing. "But this is a bank!"
    "That's right, mister, and it's first come first served. I'm not authorized to give any money unless you can provide proof of a weapon, it's a new directive."
    "But I don't have a gun, I just want --"
    "So go out and buy one. 'No gunny, no money,' that's our new motto. Next!"
    "Wait," said Otto. He whipped out his credit card. "Will this do?"
    She laughed mirthlessly. "Don't be ridic--"
    Otto suddenly lunged forward, pressed the corner of the card against her throat, and announced his condition for sparing her life: "Gimme money!"
    She swallowed hard. "All of it?"
    Otto was losing his patience. He pressed harder on her jugular. "Give me," he hissed through clenched teeth, "a hundred shekels, take it out of my account, print out a receipt for me to sign and let me outta here or you die."
    The teller blinked. "You mean you're not a robber?"
    "Argghhhhh!" he explained. "I'm a client, a customer, an account holder, I've been banking here for 20 years and for 20 years I've been treated like I only come in here to rob you, and you know what? That's why I decided to come to the bank today, just to see what it takes to get a little personal attention around here!"
    A number of robbers in the queue were getting impatient. "Nu, I'm late for work," one of them muttered.
    "Don't interrupt!" Otto shouted. He felt liberated.
    The staff managed to scrape together a hundred shekels from loose change no one had bothered stealing. Otto released his hostage so she could enter the withdrawal in the computer and print out the receipt.
    He counted the coins and shoveled them into his pockets. "Thank you," he said to the teller. Triumphant, he straightened his hat and walked away.
    A manager sprang up out of nowhere and barred the door. "Thought you could get away with it, eh?"
    Otto kindly explained that he was not a robber. The manager called over a passing policeman. "Arrest this man," the manager ordered.
    Otto showed them his receipt to prove his innocence.
    The manager grabbed the receipt. "There's your proof," he said to the policeman. "This guy made a withdrawal without paying the service charge."
    Otto blanched. "But I --"
    "You've robbed my bank of NIS 2.10," the manager said. "Did you really think you'd get away with it?"