FACEPALM MOMENT

A couple came to the bank and approached my colleague at his wicket. They explained that they had not used their bank accounts in a long time. But they knew they had outstanding balances.

"Do you have your client cards?"

No. They did not have their client cards.

"Do you know your PIN?"

No. They could not remember their PIN.

"Do you remember your internet banking usernames or passwords?"

They did not. They had also forgotten that.

My colleague looked frustrated at this point.

"Do you remember your names?"

The couple smiled. Yes, they happened to remember their names. It was written on their driver's license.

You could tell they were in love. They held hands and looked like they were both pushing 40. The woman was beautiful and only spoke a smattering of English. The man acted as an interpreter during the discussions.

The man wanted to know if he could act on the woman's behalf for all her banking transactions because of her language limitations. He didn't want the legal hurdles involved in getting a Power of Attorney. Were there any other options?

"So you want to act on your mother's behalf?" my colleague asked.

WHAT?! They were clearly an item and not mother and son. What was he thinking?

The man bristled at the suggestion that his companion looked like his mother.

The woman asked him what was wrong. He explained to her what my colleague had asked. I could see her self-esteem collapsing.

She looked at herself in surprise. I could imagine her thought process. Was it her poor grasp of the English language? Was it her hair? Did it look tangled? Was it her dressing? Was it not fashionable? Was it her body? Was she out of shape? Was it her flat shoes? Would heels have been better?

Facepalm.

"She's not my mother. She's my wife," the man corrected. My colleague apologized but I noticed the woman had cut off eye contact with him. She looked uncomfortable and heartbroken.

 

It's not what it looks like!

It's depressing when people lose their precious life savings through fraudulent transactions. They can get hysterical and even suicidal. I have worked in the banking sector for long and it's easy to spot signs of financial despair.
 

Tears stream down her face. She's got that desperate, panicked look in her eyes. There's a long line of people and she's the last person on the queue. Her eyes dart back and forth, seeking a knight in shining armor. Chivalry is not dead. A gallant knight, I mount my white horse and ride to her side. I see the absolute terror in her eyes. Between sobs, she tells me she has lost her life savings and possibly a large chunk of her mind.
 

I invite her to the privacy of my office, away from prying eyes, to get the full details of what transpired.
 

"I made a payment online and it turns out it's a fraudulent transaction. I want to cancel the payment before they make away with my hard-earned savings. Please help me."

I urge her to stay calm but that only gets her more agitated.

"Do you have your client card?" I needed to identify the person before me. She could be the one trying to defraud the actual account owner. There are strict procedures when processing transactions. Verifying the client is paramount.

Unfortunately, she doesn't have her bank card.

"Do you have any means of identification?"

She left them at home in her frantic haste to get help at the nearest bank branch.

"Please you're wasting time. Stop the questions and cancel or reverse the payment before it's too late!"
 

But I need to identify her person before I can do anything. She needs to give me some form of identification.
 

She loses it completely. Goes berserk and hurls her phone against the wall. Then takes off her denim shirt and throws that on the floor. She sits down in her black jeans and lace bra, then starts pulling her hair. It's bizarre. I'm not sure how far this could go, so I try to restrain her with a hand on her shoulder. Just then, my manager enters the office attracted by the commotion.
 

Imagine how this looks. I have a hand on a young lady sitting in my office. She's distraught - screaming and fighting me off. Her denim shirt is on the floor, revealing an upper body clad only in a white lace bra. Her phone is shattered. My manager has a troubled look in his eyes.
 

"What's going on here?"

It certainly wasn't what it looked like.

Eventually, we were able to help her cancel the fund transfer she had done.

Movie Clichés: Bank Robberies

Movie Clichés: Bank Robberies

 

Originality in entertainment is hard to come by these days. The real robbery in heist movies are the stolen plots and cliché lines. If the movie is about a bank robbery, then this is how it goes down:

 

*The bank robber takes on one last job. This is it. The last one. He voluntarily comes out of retirement or is forced out of retirement by some bad guys. He's set for life if he can just pull this off.

 

*The plot thickens as he gathers a small crew of outlaws for the job. The crew of misfits often has a badass driver who's clumsy outside of a car. He drives like crazy and is the best getaway driver in town. If a female is part of the gang, then expect her to swear like a sailor.

 

*The robbery never goes according to plan. There's a lot of shooting during the actual heist and most of it is inaccurate. Cops and robbers are more interested in shattering objects around them than aiming at each other.

 

*Kids are always smarter than adults in such movies. It's a rule that must not be flouted.
 

*In their bid to get away, the robbers steal items of clothing to disguise themselves. These will fit perfectly, irrespective of the size or gender of the person from whom they stole the clothes.

 

*A robber who carries a photo of a loved one or describes how he's going to spend his loot, has no chance of returning alive. But the dying robber always lives long enough to say something profound like, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

*When the hero is confronted by cops or opponents, they agree to only attack him one at a time. This is probably part of the Geneva Conventions.

 

GINGERBREAD HOUSE CONTEST

GINGERBREAD HOUSE CONTEST

 

My office organizes an annual Gingerbread house design contest. It’s a labor of love that gets us into the holiday spirit. Two teams tagged ‘Red’ and ‘Blue' engage in erecting the most beautiful structures. It’s fun to see who can make the best decorated gingerbread house. Combining mini marshmallows, gumdrops, icing sugar, candy, spices and sprinkle. 

 

The Gingerbread houses are displayed in the open office on a raised platform. Staff vote for their preferred house using the provided red and blue ballots. I led the Red team this year and we worked hard on our edible house. My colleague, let's call her Miss P, was in charge of the Blue team. Team Red took the lead immediately.

 

Miss P let out a cry of disbelief at the growing pile of red ballots in the transparent box. Then she said to herself, "What the hell?" 

 

She walked over and stuffed all her blue ballots in the box. 

"There! We won," she declared. We all stared at her slack-jawed in shock. 

 "Why did you do that?" I asked. "Now it's all messed up."

"I never lose," she said. 

You'd think we were seven-year-old kids back in grade school. 

RIP-OFF MECHANICS

RIP-OFF MECHANICS

 

A friend lent me his Dodge Caravan. The car had a strong whiff of cigarette smoke and stale beer. There were also stains that resembled the color of light-colored mustard or ketchup.

 Nonetheless, I was glad to have the car. While driving, I observed that there was this crazy sound when I stepped on the brakes. A loud thud - the mother of all thuds and you know how mothers can be - followed by crazy vibrations. 

 I got worried and went to a mechanic. He gave me the bad news. The brake pads were worn and it had affected the drums. The pad runs on the disc, causes scoring and critically impacted the brake performance. I needed to fix the car urgently, or else! 

 As it turned out, the mechanic was a dodgy fellow. There was, naturally, a non-refundable fee for the diagnosis. I would get the full bill after the required extensive repairs. I didn't have the amount of cash he mentioned and a sixth sense told me this was a rip-off merchant.  

 It occurred to me that the sound I heard when I stepped on the brake was like something being flung about. I also remembered that my friend keeps a lot of junk in the trunk of his car.

I opened the trunk and the clutter was unbelievable. A spare tire, two switchblades, shoes, duct tape, tire iron, jumper cables, electric cables, work gloves, shovel, etc. It was like looking for weapons of mass destruction that may or may not be hidden away in Iraq. Some, if not most, of the items were useful things one should keep close at hand. However, the collection of handy items were lying about in an untidy mass. I eventually tidied up the clutter. I drive out and step hard on the brakes, the noise is gone. The brakes are just fine. It was the clutter that made the crazy-loud thud as the collection of items were thrown about in the trunk. 

HANDSHAKES

HANDSHAKES

 

Handshakes are weird and gross if you think about it. Two creatures grasp one of each other's limbs, in most cases accompanied by a brief up-and-down movement of the grasped limbs. This ritual marks the beginning of any sort of business partnership. It finalizes an agreement and begins most social interactions. 

 

We don’t even know what the other party has been doing with their hands. I don't want to gross you out with the endless possibilities. Sure, maybe they wash their hands occasionally. But how often and how thoroughly? 

 

If aliens arrived on Earth, they would find this human behavior absurd and incomprehensible. Aliens are going to think we are weird creatures engaged in a silly ritual before any face-to-face interaction. 

You know what? I'm just going to keep my hands behind my back, going forward. It’ll be cool to see how people react. I will simply smile and act like I missed their social cues. Definitely going to  get some confused looks. 

 

 

PUBLIC TRANSIT

PUBLIC TRANSIT

On the bus transit, you can bet your last dollar there are old gums stuck to the bottom of seats by benevolent persons. All you need do is crack one off, if you need it.

It was not nice what happened to me on the bus. I got on the bus and spotted an empty seat beside an elderly gentleman with a fuzzy beard. It was the last available seat. As soon as I made to sit down, the man gave me a funny look, stood up and moved away. He remained standing, holding onto the metal pole of the bus with one hand. Our gazes held for a second, before he turned away, fuming.

A lot of people prefer sitting alone on buses, so moving to an empty seat happens often and doesn’t bother me. But there was no empty seat on this bus. It wasn't a matter of wanting a seat closer to the exit either. It was apparent his exit point was not close.

"Am I not cool enough to sit next to or what?" I wondered. I was sure personal hygiene was not the issue. I was well-groomed and fashionable, if I may say so myself. Was the man a racist? I thought long and hard about it and almost got a migraine in the process.

Another stop, another passenger. This time, it was a woman. She was in her twenties and wore a pale green and yellow dress. She noticed the free seat and made a beeline for it. The man with the fuzzy beard quickly blocked her path.

"Stop! It’s wet! The seat's wet!"

I noticed now there was a visible wet patch on his pants. Some people don’t bother checking and end up sitting on wet seats or chewing gum. The woman was spared the discomfort of sitting on the spilled water? Someone’s sweat or pee? Heaven knows what a weirdo had left behind on the seat.

I smiled and my migraine immediately receded. Sometimes we read too far into things. We read signals and hidden messages that are not actually there.