Waiting for the money shot

My bank, presumably as a cost-efficiency measure, recently installed a phalanx of automatic teller machines adjacent to the lobby and in all but one of the drive-through lanes. These new marvels of banking techology will never be used, however, because my bank has made a fatal mistake.

They hired Kent, the Cute Teller.

I just learned his name because today, two months after he began stamping deposit slips and cashing checks, the bank finally installed the black plastic engraved nameplate on his carrel. Actually, to describe Kent as cute is an understatement; he is, in fact, the muscular, tow-headed Lucky Vanous of financial services. Inasmuch as it is possible for a youthful blond with an easy smile and bee-stung, pouting lips, he smoulders. He is MTV sex personified.

Because of Kent, I have resigned from Direct Deposit.

Last week, I changed $300 into pounds sterling although I am not soon planning another trip to England.

Today, I reordered checks although I have six books of carbonless duplicate drafts sitting on my desk.

The woman ahead of me in line was using her text pager to inform a co-worker that today would be good time to purchase traveler's checks for her Caribbean vacation in May. She looked only slightly abashed when she noticed me watching her frantically punch buttons on her Blackberry. "We have a sort of 'alert network'," she said, "to let each other know when he's working."

In the 20 years or so I've been using FDIC-insured institutions, Kent is the first teller I've wanted to tip. He flirts with everyone. He's awfully good at it.

"Would you like big bills?" he asks me when I cash my paycheck. "I have some very big bills back here."

I shudder and briefly consider asking for a couple hundred dollars in nickels or Sacagawea coins, just so he'll take a few extra minutes to count them out.

When his hand brushes mine as he hands me a receipt, I nearly blurt out a very indelicate suggestion containing the phrases "hard currency" and "substantial penalty for early withdrawal."

I don't, however, and as I turn to leave, I notice that the line behind me has grown to include 14 housewives and a local florist who appears to be clutching an enormous jar filled with unrolled coins.

Dismal economic forecasts be damned. Interest rates, in Kent at least, are way up at my bank.

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