Warning #2 that I should not work in a retail bank came in the form of an actual warning, a Final Written Warning, in fact (or FWW in cool bank terms).
So we have all of these special secret ways of doing things in a bank and one of them is opening. They say that opening the bank is the most dangerous time for bankers. Well, I started out in this grocery store bank and this was when Britney Spears was pregenant for the first time and I was young and I cared. It was big time gossip.
So I'm standing outside of the bank (still in the grcoery store) and the banker that's opening the branch is suppossed to throw a newspaper on the floor to signal to me that the bank is open. But Britney Spears is pregnant and I can't stop reading People and Us Weekly to save my life. To me, at the time, that was the greatest part about working in a grocery store bank: free reading material and gossip. Loved it.
I was reading for about thirty minutes when I decided that I should just walk into the bank. The opening banker didn't toss the paper and I just assumed that she forgot. We all forget, right? It wasn't her fault.
"Dude, you didn't throw the paper."
Opening banker: "That's because you were being TESTED."
BUSTED! My first major screwup with the bank and they put me on Final Written Warning, meaning that if I messed everything up again, I was out the door: no more free gossip magazines for Holly. FWW meant that I didn't get an "incentive bonus"
"But I don't get one anyway..."
and I also couldn't post to other positions that opened in the bank
"Bullshit. You never told me that you would test me."
Now it was pretty clear that a career with the bank wouldn't go any further than the retail side of things. And yet I stayed. I stayed for the gossip magazines and the lovely PA announcements that we were forced to read over the grocery store speakers.
Attention shoppers! We've got, um, shit. Which one was I reading? No... that's the old one dumbass. Here you do it. No! I did it last time! Fine! You getting coffee? Here, take a five outta my wallet and grab me one, willya? (clear throat) Attention Shoppers! Hey... wait... gimme a Chai Tea Latte instead. Click.
About Me
- Holly Christine
- Writer. Reader. Collector of sunny days. Dreamer. A little weird. Funny. Addicted to Skittles, LOST and Kindle One Clicks. Owner of a poorly trained, but cutest ever Pomeranian. Dream Job: Journey Air Band Member. Pittsburgher. Coffee. Lots of coffee.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Dead at 27: Warning #1
Perhaps this book should be named Dead at 23, because I took up a “career” in banking at that age. I was right out of college and totally depressed because I couldn’t find a full-time job as a copyeditor or novelist.
There were warnings that I was making a mistake.
Warning #1
My third interview with the bank took place in a small office set inside of the grocery store. The manager was young, my age, and for the sake of being humorous and at the same time completely honest, I’ll call him Dick.
Dick: “So tell me a bit about yourself, Holly.”
So I told him what I was: a recent college grad.
Dick: “Just so you know” (here he looks at my resume because he can’t remember my name to save his life and really all that he knows is that his branch needs help and I look like help. He should have called me Help) “Holly, college graduates think they are worth a lot more money than they actually are.”
Hmph! Earth to Holly!
If I could go back, I would walk out of that office right at that moment.
But I didn’t. I stayed and by staying a part of me died in that office. I needed money. Soon enough, my old car would go and the student loans would start demanding money. I felt as if it was my only option, and this feeling of mine was probably the only reason why the bank hired me. I mean, I majored in English! I had no business dealing with numbers. They wanted me because they knew I needed a paycheck. They wanted me to fear.
Dick hated me from the start because I questioned everything he did. Actually, I corrected his language. He said IGNORANT all the time and I told him that by definition, he was ignorant in using ignorant the wrong way. When he said it (Them people are ignorant), the skin around my ear would shove itself into my ear drum. To this day, I can’t hear well. Even my body hated him.
There were warnings that I was making a mistake.
Warning #1
My third interview with the bank took place in a small office set inside of the grocery store. The manager was young, my age, and for the sake of being humorous and at the same time completely honest, I’ll call him Dick.
Dick: “So tell me a bit about yourself, Holly.”
So I told him what I was: a recent college grad.
Dick: “Just so you know” (here he looks at my resume because he can’t remember my name to save his life and really all that he knows is that his branch needs help and I look like help. He should have called me Help) “Holly, college graduates think they are worth a lot more money than they actually are.”
Hmph! Earth to Holly!
If I could go back, I would walk out of that office right at that moment.
But I didn’t. I stayed and by staying a part of me died in that office. I needed money. Soon enough, my old car would go and the student loans would start demanding money. I felt as if it was my only option, and this feeling of mine was probably the only reason why the bank hired me. I mean, I majored in English! I had no business dealing with numbers. They wanted me because they knew I needed a paycheck. They wanted me to fear.
Dick hated me from the start because I questioned everything he did. Actually, I corrected his language. He said IGNORANT all the time and I told him that by definition, he was ignorant in using ignorant the wrong way. When he said it (Them people are ignorant), the skin around my ear would shove itself into my ear drum. To this day, I can’t hear well. Even my body hated him.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Country: Piano Lessons
My piano lessons started at the ripe age of four in my grandmother’s house on her Steinway. I learned the basics, but was still far from being a professional by the time we turned country.
My country piano teacher was a little odd and very strict. She made weekly visits to our house to keep me up to date on my piano skills. Mom attempted to enroll Chuckie in piano lessons, but my teacher gave up on him on day one. Piano lessons on day one are simple, one-handers. Always a Multitasker, Chuckie played the lesson with one hand and kept the other hand in between a bag of chips and his mouth. The Piano Teacher didn’t like the Potato-chip-C,C,C move very much and the next week, she was back to one student. Throughout the years, I had one goal for the piano: Learn to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise then drop the lessons like a bad habit. I wasn’t interested in piano enough to become all dreamy and professional. I wanted one song.
I think I practiced Fur Elise to the point of violence. Not one member of my family can listen to the song without wincing: I played it that much.
On the next to the last day of my lessons, my teacher walked into the house with (quite literally) cherry red hair. When my mother asked about her new haircolor, my teacher replied that she read somewhere that Jello could be used to set your hair at night. She set her the night before with Cherry Jello, thus creating the whimsical red. Note: you can use Jello to set your hair, but don’t go picking a flavor, unless you desire to eat it or smell like that flavor for days. Go with unflavored. Or be different. Whatever.
On that same day, I played Fur Elise for my teacher like I never did before. It was a beautiful, magical moment and I knew right away that I didn’t want more. Finished. But for some reason, I didn’t share this breakthrough with anyone else.
The next week, my teacher showed up as scheduled and while I watched her car pull into the driveway, I quickly ran out into the field behind the house. This was, apparently, my way of making a statement. Crouching down behind the vast cover of grass, I watched and listened as my mother and teacher screamed for me. I turned my back and covered my ears, waiting, patiently and fearfully, for my teacher to leave forever.
She did leave forever and I was reprimanded heavily by my mother for the embarrassment and not listening to a damn thing. I think I was grounded for a week. But being grounded for a week really meant that night, with the threat of a week. I woke up and cleaned the house the next morning to guilt my way into an ungrounding. To this day, I can play Fur Elise by heart.
My country piano teacher was a little odd and very strict. She made weekly visits to our house to keep me up to date on my piano skills. Mom attempted to enroll Chuckie in piano lessons, but my teacher gave up on him on day one. Piano lessons on day one are simple, one-handers. Always a Multitasker, Chuckie played the lesson with one hand and kept the other hand in between a bag of chips and his mouth. The Piano Teacher didn’t like the Potato-chip-C,C,C move very much and the next week, she was back to one student. Throughout the years, I had one goal for the piano: Learn to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise then drop the lessons like a bad habit. I wasn’t interested in piano enough to become all dreamy and professional. I wanted one song.
I think I practiced Fur Elise to the point of violence. Not one member of my family can listen to the song without wincing: I played it that much.
On the next to the last day of my lessons, my teacher walked into the house with (quite literally) cherry red hair. When my mother asked about her new haircolor, my teacher replied that she read somewhere that Jello could be used to set your hair at night. She set her the night before with Cherry Jello, thus creating the whimsical red. Note: you can use Jello to set your hair, but don’t go picking a flavor, unless you desire to eat it or smell like that flavor for days. Go with unflavored. Or be different. Whatever.
On that same day, I played Fur Elise for my teacher like I never did before. It was a beautiful, magical moment and I knew right away that I didn’t want more. Finished. But for some reason, I didn’t share this breakthrough with anyone else.
The next week, my teacher showed up as scheduled and while I watched her car pull into the driveway, I quickly ran out into the field behind the house. This was, apparently, my way of making a statement. Crouching down behind the vast cover of grass, I watched and listened as my mother and teacher screamed for me. I turned my back and covered my ears, waiting, patiently and fearfully, for my teacher to leave forever.
She did leave forever and I was reprimanded heavily by my mother for the embarrassment and not listening to a damn thing. I think I was grounded for a week. But being grounded for a week really meant that night, with the threat of a week. I woke up and cleaned the house the next morning to guilt my way into an ungrounding. To this day, I can play Fur Elise by heart.
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