"Stephen D Rogers - A Matter Of Interest" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Stephen D)

= A Matter of Interest
by Stephen D. Rogers


Does the fact that I know that the word "private" is derived from the Latin "privus" and that the word "investigator" has five distinct meanings tell you anything about how slow business has been lately?

If my forays into the dictionary aren't proof enough, how about the fact that I took my last bank statement and calculated each day's balance so that I could confirm the average daily balance? How about the fact that I was even now walking into the bank with both my statement and my calculations to ask where I went wrong?

Since I have two accounts at this bank and time on my hands, I figure that I can ask them for a little assistance with my math. Actually, for what I pay them in bank fees, I could probably demand a cup of coffee before class begins.

With the business account, I pay a large monthly fee, and then additional fees for every check I write, every deposit I make, and every check within each deposit. And this is my friendly eighborhood bank. I shopped around, and the branch banks of the larger financial institutions had higher fees and also wanted a minimum balance larger than the annual budget of New York City.

Pausing in the bank lobby, I let myself be impressed at how they were spending my money. Whoever designed this place certainly knew how to make a statement, assuming that the intended statement was "We bankrolled the Creation."

Glancing past the rows of Corinthian columns, I saw three tellers in the distance chatting behind their gilded cages. By the light of the huge chandelier hanging above the center of the room, I could see that I was the only customer in the bank today. Everyone else was probably using the ATM or banking by telephone.

I gazed up at the chandelier, thinking that it was about the size of my car. If the chain ever let go, that light fixture was going to leave a crater large enough to suggest a life-ending comet to future civilizations.

I started across the lobby, mentally apologizing for stepping on carpeting that was more an ideal than something to walk on. If the chandelier did drop, this carpet might just be buoyant enough to make it bounce. Breathing deeply between steps, I soaked up the most enjoyable pedestrian experience of my life.

Slowly I came closer and closer to the three tellers.

The first teller was chewing gum, snapping it as if she was killing time in a cheap bar rather than residing in this temple to affluence.

The second teller had eyes so dimmed by boredom that I was afraid that she would lie to me just to spice up her day.

I approached the third teller, a Dawn Lawrence according to the name plate. How did I break the ice since I was here to ask for a favor rather than to bank? "My mother's name was Dawn."

"That's not my name plate. Someone stole mine."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Perhaps I had been too quick to judge the second teller.

"It's no skin off my nose. Can I help you?"

"I have a question about my bank statement."

"You'll have to see the Bank President." She simply stared at me.

After waiting a moment for instructions, or the Bank President to be buzzed, or something, I decided that I needed to initiate the next step. "I'd like to see the Bank President then."

The-teller-who-wasn't-Dawn pointed a long red fingernail past me towards a gleaming wooden door that was wide enough to drive an armored car through. "He's not in today."

It took me a moment to process the conflicting messages. "Is there someone else I can talk to?"

"There's the Vice President."

Remembering the previous awkward pause, I jumped in with the next line. "I'd like to see the Vice President then."

"He's at lunch."