fhqwhgads

I was sitting on the couch the other day, as I am prone to do, and a commercial for a local bank comes on the television. The bank says that they now have machines that will change your coin into cash, and it's free... even to non customers. (I know... coin is already "cash"...but try to keep up with me here.) Like I'm guessing most of us do, I have a large jar full of change. I hate carrying coins in my pocket, so at the end of the day, I dump my coin into a large jar sitting on my dresser. After many months of washing windows at intersections, playing the tuba in front of the local coffee house, and turning the crank on the organ grinder while Gustav the monkey puts on a fez and dances a little jig, I have a lot of change built up.

I've used these coin machines before in the grocery store, and I usually walk out with a good chunk of cash. However, the machines at the stores charge you around 8 cents per dollar that you cash in. But according to the actor dressed like Ben Franklin, the machine at the bank will do it for 0 cents on the dollar, which is considerably cheaper. Well, I'm sold, so today I headed down to a local branch. I won't mention the name of the bank, but it shares its name with a certain actor who had a failed attempt at a late night show some years back. So, I walk in to the Alan Thicke Savings and Loan (ATS&L for short), and I see that there is a line at the machine. "No problem" I think to myself... I have nothing else going on today. It's kind of disturbing when your complete plans for the day include changing coins into cash and returning Anchorman to Blockbuster...but I digress.

I'm standing in line at the ATS&L, and I watch as the guy at the machine furiously dumps a backpack full of change onto the conveyor belt. All kinds of coins were pouring out of his bag... coins, buttons, safety pins, lint... all kinds of goodies. I pondered the exchange rate for a pound of lint, when suddenly the machine stopped. The guy looks back at the guy behind him, holding his green Folger's can full of change like it was his newborn son, and gave him a dumbass grin. Mr. Folger's then looked at me, holding my glass jar with "Sunkist California Pistachios" painted on the side, and rolled his eyes. A woman sitting at a nearby desk sprung into action, and quickly ran toward the machine with her keys in her hand.

While Ms. Keymaster was working on getting the machine going, I noticed that two other people had gotten in line behind me. This free service sure was catching on. I flashed a quick smile to Captain Ziploc and Seniorita Sweatsock behind me. It was at this point when I realized that there is absolutely nothing inside a bank lobby that intrests me enough to stare at it for the 5 minutes it takes for Ms. Keymaster to empty the machine and get it running again. Bored out of my mind, I pick up a pamphlet titled "Fun with Home Equity" and read it as if I was really interested in having fun. Ok, honestly, I didn't read it... I just looked at the pictures a couple of times and wondered what kind of people had fun with home equity.

The machine was back up an running in no time, and it was now Mr. Folgers' turn to step up and feed the beast. He starts dumping his coins in, and the thing is purring along at breakneck speed. After a few minutes, the thing starts spitting out coins like a cheap whore. (note: I know that prostitutes do not, traditionally, spit out coins, but sometimes it's tough to come up with these similies.) Ms. Keymaster steps back up to the plate and starts to take apart the machine again. This time she goes and fetches a can of compressed air and a screwdriver. After puffing and prodding the machine for a few minutes, she looks at us and sheepishly says "Cat hair." I look back to see if Backpack Boy is still in the bank so I can pitch him a mean look, but he had already left.

Before you know it, I was at the front of the line. I dumped my jar onto the belt, and the machine gladly ate the coins like a cheap whore. (note: See, it fits this reference much better). I prevented what could have been a very uncomfortable scolding by Ms. Keymaster by saving a paper clip seconds before it got gobbled up. After a short time, my coins were gone, and the machine printed out a ticket for over $90.00. Woo hoo!

Now, I have to stand in the teller's line to get my printout redeemed. I'm listening to a teller talk to Mr. Folgers, and she asks him "Do you have an account at the Alan Thicke Savings & Loan?" He politely tells her "No", to which she replies "Well let me tell you all about the benefits of having an account with our bank." And then it hit me... I had just fallen for the oldest trick in the book. I was on the time share vacation, waiting for my free blender, and now it was time for the sales pitch. What was making me nervous is the fact that I have been known to be very suggestible at times. I never thought that I was, until recently when my buddy and I were trying to figure out what movie to see, and he told me "fhq, you're very suggestible some times", and I thought "You know what, he's right."

So I began to prepare myself to fight the evil siren's song. I'll tell her that I'm moving to Morrocco, or that I only have a few months to live, or that I just like the ATS&L as a friend, and I'm not ready to make a commitment yet. When it's my turn, I step to the teller, and hand her my ticket. I try not to make a lot of eye contact because I don't want to lure her into a conversation. On the other hand, I try not to make it look obvious that I'm not trying to make eye contact, because I want to appear natural to the security guard in the bank. I don't want him to see me slip the teller a "note" and then start to scan the room suspiciously. What I decide to do is to just make eye contact with one eye, but that was harder to do than it sounds.

She counts out my money a couple of times in front of me, and then slips it under the protective glass, into my hands. She says "Thank you very much"..... and that was it. I stood there for a second, waiting for the sales pitch, but much like my first high school girlfriend, it never came. I continued to stand there like George Costanza in the episode with the Sunshine Carpet Cleaners, waiting to be brainwashed. The teller just smiled and said "Next please." Brokenhearted, I turn around and almost bump into Ms. Keymaster as she was rushing toward the machine to help Captain Ziploc claim his fortune. I wondered why I wasn't "account holder" material, and I exited the ATS&L, never to return again. That is, not unless Gustav learns some new dance moves.

Your friend in commerce,
fhq