I went to the bank the other day. I bank with US bank. They are my Bank. They hold my money. The whole banking thing is very curious to me. I understand the concept well enough; I let them hold onto my money while I am not using it. Then, whenever I need it, I give people my special number and my bank gets a notification on their news feed that says they have to pay $39.95 on my behalf for a kangaroo scrotum money pouch. The thing I am unsure about is how I feel about the tellers. I get this eerie feeling that they think they are my best friends, or that they are having an affair with my mom.
“Chase, how is your family?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“How is school? Are you still at the Y?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
“Yeah? How about your mom? Marie? Right? How is she doing?”
“Yeah, how..do…”
“Oh Marie.. She’s great. She always comes in here right after her jog. Tell her I said hi.”
“Umm, okay, mike.” After I awkwardly stare at his chest to see his nametag.
I feel like I have a step dad; some guy trying to be your best friend while moving in on your mom.
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