I enter the Bank of America. It looks like a college library, with numerous cubicles for studying. I need to deposit a check. Instead of using an ATM or a teller, I am required to use this antiquated system which seems to combine an old fashioned carbon copier and a morse code transmitter. I see from the transaction logs that I have been here before. In fact, I am the only one who has ever deposited a check here before.

I have a problem getting the machine to work, so I approach the woman at the customer service desk. She informs me that the transaction I am trying to make is impossible. I ask “Isn’t this where I can deposit a check?” I am puzzled as to why a bank will not allow this most basic of transactions. The woman refuses to answer any of my questions. She just stares at me silently and eventually puts her head down on her desk. [Note: In waking life, I become very scared if someone does not answer me or acknowledge me when asked a question. There is something terrifying about being utterly ignored when I am speaking.]

I demand to see a manager so that I can make them aware of their employee’s poor customer service and unprofessional behavior. I end up talking to a security guard. As I am speaking to him, he runs away, zig-zagging through the bank like a child on the playground. I decide to leave the bank, thinking they have lost a customer. For some reason, I turn back and go back inside, but the bank has been abandoned for years, dust and cobwebs draping across overturned chairs and empty desks.