quirkiness

I have one very good reason for not getting direct deposit: The Cute Bank Teller.

He goes by the rather unfortunate but potentially endearing name of Travis, and his left hand bears no ring. (Oh yes. The first time I saw him, ten-ish months ago, I checked.) He has a sweet smile and a friendly semi-shy manner. He was Very Nice to me after I stormed in one day demanding to talk to a manager about a ridiculous hold on a large check which would pay off my college debt. (I thought, ha, buddy, you're quite diplomatic.)

Well, after ten months of behaving myself, I'm glad to find that he now knows me by name. The past few times I've flown in at the edge of the close of business with my paycheck in hand, he has looked up, smiled, and said across the room, "Hey, Sarah, how are you?"

Today when I went to deposit that precious check, he was in another room, and Connie, my second favorite teller, waited on me. We were chatting about the weather while she deposited my check when Travis came by to use one of the nearby machines and said, "Hey Sarah, how are you?"

Ooooo. One of these days he's going to ask me out. Unless he's gay.

Then afterward as I filled up my gas tank at the ghetto gas station by Meijer, I noticed a police car stopped by a large group of people, and as I passed them to leave, I saw that the cop, who had gotten out of his car, was the same Billy Zane-looking cop who had chatted me up in such a friendly manner when Smoking Neighbor Ted fell down the stairs last month. We made eye contact as I passed.

Don't worry; I know from my dad too much about what cops are like. But still, that was a pretty fun hour.