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Bank Account

Many afternoons I stop in at Bank of America to make deposits for the small company I work for. Today's visit came with a show.

Drive-throughs being a rare commodity these days, I walked into a BoA branch in north Seattle that I've patronized many times. As usual, there was only one teller, so I stood in the poky line.

Suddenly shouts came from the cubicle area. A white woman was yelling at the temporary bank manager who'd apparently been helping her. He was a slightly built man of indeterminate race with an advanced fashion sense. At first I couldn't make her words out, then I heard, "I'd hate to dress like you do! I'd be embarrassed!"

This from a person in old-school gray sweatpants.

"I'm a businesswoman!" she bellowed. "Are you gay?!" she demanded.

The manager, trying to get her out of his cubicle, kept his voice low, but he answered, "Yes I am."

"You should kill yourself!" she yelled. "I hate gays! I hate Blacks, and spics," and some others I couldn't hear. By now I got a good look at her, and saw a face that suggested mental illness. This wasn't simply a hater, so I abandoned my impulse to stand in queer solidarity with the manager. Getting her out of the building was clearly what mattered.

He succeeded, after she ranted some more, and we in line remarked to each other on the unexpected excitement.

When I reached the teller, she told me that they're trained to deal with such events. I talked to the security guard outside, who said he's there to stop bank robberies, and it's the bank employees who are tasked with handling unruly customers.

Those employees aren't paid enough. And after enduring that homophobic spectacle, neither am I.