Posted on August 18, 2009 - by Rasham

Bank of Non-Human Interest

I walked into the bank to turn a check into funds received, and I was immediately approached by an employee with a series of questions, beginning with “what can I help you with today?” I reluctantly surrendered my intentions to this floating teller and she replied “you know we have machines that can do that for you”. I calmly replied that I would rather complete the transaction via human/human interaction, and proceeded to stand in line. Prepared with the appropriate slips and signatures, I slid the documents beneath the bulletproof window and into the hands of a teller, whom upon realizing the nature of my request said “you know we have machines that can do this for you”. My eyebrow raised, my mouth opened: I calmly replied that I would rather complete the transaction via human/human interaction and proceeded to stand before her. I maintained composure despite my bubbling subconscious which was eager to perform a disgruntling act of ‘let me tell you what I KNOW’.

ACT 1 SCENE 1: At the Bank

(Enter customer, whom after two brief conversations with bank employees is now angered and frustrated)

Teller 2: You know we have machines that can do that for you…

Customer: (deep breath, throat clearing) Yes. I know. They’re called ATMs and I am well aware of the advantages of electronic customer service machines, that they are efficient, intelligent, trustworthy, and hardly unreliable. Yes, I understand that this machine caters to us savagely undereducated and horribly impatient customers, that we respond positively by the blinking lights and flashing images, and indulge every opportunity to push big silver buttons. I know that these machines are a wise investment, and as such you should commend your employer for having realized that his potentials for profit are increased by replacing man with machine. Yes, that’s right, encourage people to use these machines and perhaps someday soon your paycheck will represent the value of your work: zero American dollars. You should be praising people like me, who are so disgusted at the thought of an increasingly automated existence we still choose to deposit our pay in the presence of another human being. Forgive me, but you are human, are you not? Because if you find the need to contemplate your existence in relation to a machine, perhaps I will have my check, and translate it elsewhere, where it is obvious to the staff that I bothered to open the doors because I wanted to be with the people inside, and never once had a desire to share a portion of my afternoon with a machine on the corner of a filthy street.

(End scene)

I walked across the street and sat on a park bench to await the arrival of my favorite bus (note sarcasm), the 57. Here sat a woman who commented on my blouse (a plain black t-shirt with a hole in the collar), my jeans (who’s jeans?), and my socks (I wasn’t wearing any). She was feeding my mood which had grown into an overwhelming shadow of malcontent; the only salvation I conceived would have been in the power to turn off today. I was annoyed and beginning to over heat in the 12 o’clock sun.

The sight of those baby blue numbers on the face of the bus was like that first sip of beer made all the sweeter by a carefree aura similar to what you become in New Orleans. I paid my fare onboard the bus and my right hand waited patiently above the birth place of transfer stubs. It waited, and waited: suddenly I was pulled out of my thoughts by the agonizing down time and looked up at the bus driver who was looking at my hand and who said, “Does that mean something”?

“Transfer”, I choked.

“Oh, okay!” he remarked, his playful personality being exposed, his smile representing a man who was obviously much, much more than a bus driver. I received my transfer and shrunk into my seat. I was slightly humiliated, but that quickly evaporated when I accepted this as a lesson learned. You see…

I was so absorbed in thought which transpired after my mental attack of the girls who recommended the machine that I unknowingly compromised human/human interaction by refusing to engage the bus driver. He caught me, that brilliant man who refused to allow my offensive neglect of his presence to pass, in which I attempted to bypass the human and directly entertain the machine. I took ownership of my hypocritical act and laughed as I sat alone on the bus: though we may be quick to reflect our worldly distaste upon others, we too are guilty of similar behaviors: but we only know this when made to confront the truth by the authority of say, a witty bus driver.