Jesse
Let me just say to start off...I love working in customer service. I'm learning to be quite chatty and I meet all kinds of interesting people everyday.
And then there's Jesse...
Jesse comes once a day to the bank to drop off deposits from the various tobacco stores his family owns around the cities. Unlike many of the business that bank here, Jesse does not simply pick up the receipts the next day - he comes back for them the same day. As he stuffs the cash-packed envelopes into my drive-up drawer, he mumbles a very precise number of minutes in which he will return for his receipts. "About 12 minutes." And I, knowing that the task cannot be completed in such a small amount of time, always negociate.
My time spent with Jesse everyday is like time you would spend with a stray dog you've taken into your house. You desperately want that puppy to be good and to like you, but no matter how hard you try, he continues to growl when you come near. The nicer I am to this unhappy tobacco man, the further he turns from my jovial greeting. As the holidays approach, I am both anticipating and dreading the business days previous to Christmas and Thanksgiving, when the moment arrives in which I will say, with complete sincerity, "Merry Christmas, Jesse!" What will he do? As much as I continually hope for anything resembling a non-crabby response from this classically "rich but miserable" man, I also shirk from the stabbing look that seems to be all he can muster up. "Now you've made me look at you," he's thinking in his mind, and my punishment for committing such a dastardly deed is to endure a look more withering than could come from any women seem to be so famous for.
But for what it's worth, I hope that my simple hello brings some nuance of cheer into what must be a most dreary, smokey life filled with Cuban cegars. And when Jesse drives up in his Cadillac Escalade tomorrow, I will again hurl my torturous greeting at him, laughing at the agony it causes him. Muuah-ah-ah-ah!
And then there's Jesse...
Jesse comes once a day to the bank to drop off deposits from the various tobacco stores his family owns around the cities. Unlike many of the business that bank here, Jesse does not simply pick up the receipts the next day - he comes back for them the same day. As he stuffs the cash-packed envelopes into my drive-up drawer, he mumbles a very precise number of minutes in which he will return for his receipts. "About 12 minutes." And I, knowing that the task cannot be completed in such a small amount of time, always negociate.
My time spent with Jesse everyday is like time you would spend with a stray dog you've taken into your house. You desperately want that puppy to be good and to like you, but no matter how hard you try, he continues to growl when you come near. The nicer I am to this unhappy tobacco man, the further he turns from my jovial greeting. As the holidays approach, I am both anticipating and dreading the business days previous to Christmas and Thanksgiving, when the moment arrives in which I will say, with complete sincerity, "Merry Christmas, Jesse!" What will he do? As much as I continually hope for anything resembling a non-crabby response from this classically "rich but miserable" man, I also shirk from the stabbing look that seems to be all he can muster up. "Now you've made me look at you," he's thinking in his mind, and my punishment for committing such a dastardly deed is to endure a look more withering than could come from any women seem to be so famous for.
But for what it's worth, I hope that my simple hello brings some nuance of cheer into what must be a most dreary, smokey life filled with Cuban cegars. And when Jesse drives up in his Cadillac Escalade tomorrow, I will again hurl my torturous greeting at him, laughing at the agony it causes him. Muuah-ah-ah-ah!