With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 02

It was not that he was worried about a robbery, but after watching the evening news, and after receiving the FBI's statistics that stated that after convenience stores and gas stations, bank robberies had the highest increase in incidences, and they attributed the increase in those incidences to the economy. Ergo, a bad economy was the barometer signaling a surge in bank robberies.

He was aware of the danger. The management of the bank and law enforcement agencies routinely faxed directives and warnings. If you believe one group of statisticians who said that violent crime was down because the population was older and was less motivated to commit violent crimes, other statisticians warned that violent crime was up because of the increased population, along with the numbers of those willing to commit violent crimes. A third statistic warned of illegal immigrants who became desperate for money after they were denied good paying jobs, but that warning was area specific to the southeast, specifically Miami, Florida, and the southwest along the Mexican border. Other faxes routinely warned of terrorist organizations that robbed armored cars first and banks second to fund their terrorism. That fax scared him the most because terrorists were without conscience and did not care about killing anyone who interfered with their attempt to get money to fund their cause.

Whether he subscribed to one group of the other, the fact remained that bank robberies, regardless of whether there were more bank robberies or less bank robberies, were now more violent, specifically recalling the bank robbery in Los Angeles where the robbers armed themselves with automatic weapons and bulletproof armor and engaged themselves in a gunfight with the entire Los Angeles Police Department. They would rather die, and did die, than go to prison and they did not care whom they killed to make their escape.

He found himself watching real life police videos and dramas, such as Cops, the Real LAPD, and Caught on Video. Unfortunately, those programs sensationalized reality for television ratings filled him with paranoia that crime was all around him. In one way, it beneficially increased his awareness about crime and gave him some useful insight about criminals, but the heavy dosage that those shows fed the public were negative and, with some scenes depicted as dramatized versions of what may happen, the depictions were not as realistic as they portrayed them to be. Further, even if they preceded the shows with a warning that his was a depiction of what could happen, the drama appeared so real that people usually believed that it was real.

He noticed that always around the holidays, from just before Thanksgiving to just after New Years, that crime, especially violent crime, rapes, armed robberies, assaults, and murders suddenly increased. People who wanted what others had became more desperate in the immediacy of their need for it around the holidays.

He hated guns, would never own one himself, and did not want to die by a bullet. He realized that, as a teller, he was at risk and more of a target, especially around the holidays when peoples' desperation was heightened by the need for money. Yet, his job was a bank teller and he loved it. Call it denial, say it will never happen to me, but he tried not to dwell on the eventual certainty of a bank robbery. If you think about it, it will happen. As a teller, he enjoyed the feel of money when counting it and enjoyed the knowledge of knowing how much money people had in their accounts. If he changed careers, he would miss the hands-on contact between customer and their money, an intimacy and a personal trust nearly as powerful as love.

Chapter 9 "How May I Help You?"

Mrs. Sullivan, wearing the same raggedy jacket each year, needed more help than he could give her by only cashing her social security checks. She needed money; she looked poor.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan. How may I help you?"

"You can cash my social security for me, Michael." She slid the check across the window counter beneath the glass toward him. She adjusted her kerchief, tying the knot tighter under her chin, as if she was getting ready to run a race and did not want it to blow off her head.

"I'm a hopin' today is my lucky day. Mr. Murphy got in a new batch of rainbow scratch tickets, the ones with the cute little Leprechauns holding a pot of gold. I'm a hopin' St. Patrick will smile down his Irish luck on my poor soul and scratch me a winner." She paused, as if she were counting her winnings.

"The grand prize is a million dollars." She put her hand over her chest and closed her eyes. "I can only imagine all the wonderful things that I would buy with a million dollars." She opened her eyes and smiled, "What would you do with a million dollars, Michael?"

"You mean, what would I do with the six hundred and fifty thousand dollars that I would have left after I paid the federal and state taxes?" He smiled, "I'd keep my job, take a trip to Ireland, and buy a new Mustang, a green GT." Michael paused his dreaming to count out Mrs. Sullivan's money. "I'd buy a house near Castle Island so that I could see the harbor from my living room, finish college, go to graduate school, Babson College for finance, and invest in the stock market and diversify my money in long-term, blue chip, growth stocks, convertible bonds to hedge the stocks for inflation, and add some high risk yield stocks for my eventual retirement."

"Oh, Michael, why in dear God would you keep your job?"

"Because I would miss my customers." He winked at Mr. Foley who stood behind Mrs. Sullivan. "I love servicing people like you, Mrs. Sullivan." He touched her fingers beneath the glass handing her the money. "I'd keep my job because I would miss you."

"Blarney," she smiled blushed her face and, pulling her fingers away, waved a hand at him, "A winning lottery ticket is wasted on you."

"What would you do with the six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Mrs. Sullivan?"

"I'd buy me a fur coat," she cocked her head as if she was already wearing it and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, "a full length mink that fell to my ankles." She looked back at Michael, "A mink like the ones that they have on the Price Is Right, but with a hood." She raised her arms, as if to put the hood over her head, and Michael could see the dirt stains under her sleeves. "One that has those big sleeves like a muff, so I could stick my hands in when it got cold out and keep them warm." She lowered her arms. "I wouldn't need to wear gloves because the mink would keep my hands warm." She said with a shiver, "I'd never be cold, again."

"Then, I'd go to the jewelry store and buy the biggest diamond ring they had." She looked up at the ceiling, again, as if the ceiling held the answers before returning her attention to Michael. "And I'd buy my husband a Cadillac, sapphire blue with blue leather seats, and give the rest of the money to my children, so that they all could buy houses and cars. And, of course, I'd give a big check to the church." As if the dream had been enough to satisfy her yearning of winning the lottery, she smiled, showing her missing teeth.

"I wish you luck, Mrs. Sullivan, but don't go spending all of your money on lottery tickets. It's going to be a cold winter and that's when the greedy oil cartel raises their prices."

"I have electric heat, Honey," she smiled.

"Well, after everyone fell for the electric company's deregulation campaign and voted for that question on the ballot, Boston Edison requested hearings to raise prices. Their reason for the price hike is as illogical as their greed. Today's Boston Globe reported that the price Edison pays for energy has raised so, they have tripled the surcharge that they charge the consumer." He shrugged, "It doesn't matter if you have oil, gas, coal, wood or electric, it's going to cost everyone more this year to stay warm." He watched his words fall short of his intended target but persevered. "Best you open a savings account now and start—"

"Oh, I will, Michael. I'll open up an account next month." She waved her little bit of cash at him, as she hurried to dash to Murphy's Convenience Store. "I'll see you next month, Michael."

Mr. Foley, unshaven and thinner and looking at Michael through bloodshot eyes, had been out of work since they moved the shoe factory to Mexico and laid everyone off two years ago. He needed a job; he looked desperate.

"How are you, Mr. Foley?"

"There's something seriously wrong with you, Michael, if after winning a million dollar lottery—"

Michael raised his eyebrows giving Mr. Foley a whimsical look.

"Okay, six hundred fifty thousand, that you would still keep your job." He smiled. "McCarthy is paying you way too much money, 'cause you're too damn content."

"I'm not much of a dreamer, Mr. Foley," Michael smiled. "How may I help you?"

"Well, you could give me your lottery ticket, if you ever come across a winner and I promise to show you how I'll spend it."

"If you're giving away winning lottery tickets, Michael, please buy me a car, a new Chevy, before you go and give all that prize money to Foley," said Mr. Shea who stood in line two customers behind Mr. Foley.

"I would never waste my money on scratch tickets, but if I ever come across a winner, it's yours," he said to Mr. Foley who had the same dreamy eyed look that Mrs. Sullivan had on her face when she thought about spending her imagined winnings. "But you have to promise me you'll buy a fur coat for Mrs. Sullivan and a car for Mr. Shea."

"Yeah, sure, okay, I promise." Mr. Foley turned and looked down at Mr. Shea.

"A blue Impala, Foley, with leather interior," said Shea.

Mr. Foley smiled and turned his attention back to Michael.

"You know, my son, Donald, works for the FBI, and he told me that a promise is legal in court. He said it was," he rubbed his chin searching for the right word, "it was..."

"A verbal contract," said Mr. Shea.

"Yeah, that's right." He thanked Mr. Shea with a look and turned back to Michael. "That's what he said, a verbal contract, and in a court of law, a verbal contract is just a legal as a signed one."

"Mr. Foley, I agree with you. Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea," Michael looked down the line at his customers. "You're my witnesses." Michael smiled, raised his right hand, and placed his left hand over his heart. "I promise to give you, Mr. Foley, any and all winning lottery tickets that I come across in my lifetime, so help me God."

"There's no Bible for you to place your hand on but, as you were a man of God—"

"Am, Mr. Foley, still am."

"I'll take your word on it." He reached in his pocket and took out his passbook. "In the meantime, that is, until you hand over your winning lottery ticket to me, I need to withdraw money from my savings, fifty dollars, please." He handed Michael his passbook. "I have an interview tomorrow at Home Depot." He ran a hand across his mouth and made a sound like a man dying of thirst. "I need a haircut, a shave, and my shoes shined."

"I'm sure you'll get the job, Mr. Foley. They'll hire you on the spot."

"D'ya think so?"

"Yes, I do." Michael smiled nodding his head.

"I hope so, Michael." Mr. Foley accepted the receipt of his passbook, opened it to see the balance, and waved the book at him. "It's been a long while since I've had extra enough income to make a deposit instead of a withdrawal." He smiled at Michael, turned, and walked away counting his money.

"Knock 'em dead, Mr. Foley."

"Thanks, Michael," he waved good-bye and ducked in the liquor store across the street.

Mrs. O'Reilly always announcing her arrival and her departure from the bank with a cough, still without health insurance, no longer talked about the heart operation she needed. She needed that operation; she looked sick.

"Hello, Mrs. O'Reilly. How may I help you?"

"Oh, just stopped in to cash this check from my daughter." She had the nervous habit of rubbing her hands, as if forever soothing them with crème. She signed the check, handed it to Michael, and rubbed her hands. "It's for my cough medicine. The doctor said that I'll stop my heart if I keep on coughing like I do." She sighed and rubbed. "But my medication has doubled in price since I started taking it." She shrugged and coughed. "It's so expensive that I take half of what I should and do without it on the weekends."

"It's not good to change the dosage without consulting with your doctor, Mrs. O'Reilly." He paused to count out her money and slid the cash beneath the glass to her. "See Jack Callahan at the Senior Center, he'll put you in touch with a state agency that may help you with the cost of your medication or, maybe, the pharmacist can give you a generic brand." The pasty pallor of her complexion stopped him from ending the transaction. "You have family in Canada, don't you, a sister in Ontario?"

"Yes, my sister moved there years ago with her husband and three kids. Her husband worked for General Motors for years in Flint, Michigan, until they moved the operation to Canada, laid-off everyone, and closed the factory. What General Motors did to Flint was criminal." She stopped talking to cough and to rub her hands. "He was skilled at fixing machinery, so they kept him on and transferred him to Ontario." She paused, again, to put the money in her purse. "The children are in college and he must be close to retirement, now. My sister said, when she left the United States—"

"My point is, Mrs. O'Reilly," interrupted Michael; "the exchange rate from American dollars to Canadian is very favorable, and the medicine in Canada is much cheaper than it is in the United States." He nodded his head over to Mrs. Ahern who just entered the safety deposit box vault. "She buys her medication in Canada. She goes there with a bus full of senior citizens from the United States every three months. The ones who can't make the trip have their prescriptions transferred there and mailed here. Perhaps, your sister can pick up your medication for you and mail them to you and you can reimburse her for the cost."

"Thank you, Michael, I had no idea." She smiled, "You're so very helpful. My sister did mention medication being cheaper there, but I couldn't see how I could have her buy it for me. I'll ask my doctor how I can transfer my prescriptions there." She smiled at him, again. "When are you going to let me fix you up with my granddaughter?"

"Oh, I prefer to find my own dates, Mrs. O'Reilly. Besides, your granddaughter just turned 18. What would she want with an old man like me?" He smiled, "But, thank you for considering me."

"Old man? How old are you, Michael, twenty-one?"

"I'm twenty-four and will be twenty-five in a couple months."

"Well, you'll never find anyone here at the bank. You need to go out and have some fun." She smiled until her smile turned into a cough and until she walked away."

"Feel better, Mrs. O'Reilly."

Mrs. Duffy, always bragging about her twins, did not mention that they graduated high school last year and, forsaking their American dream by abandoning their hope of going to college, they served retail customers at the mall, instead. Her children needed an education; she looked sad.

"Hi, Mrs. Duffy. How may I help you?"

"I'm a week late with my loan payment, Michael." She tore out a coupon from her book, filled it out, and handed it to him with her check.

"How are the twins?"

"Driving me crazy with boyfriends." She looked over at the student aid applications.

"It's the age," he smiled. "They'll grow out of it, get married, and have kids. Then, your grandchildren will be the ones driving you crazy." He laughed.

"Grandchildren are a ways off, I hope," she said returning his smile. "Will they charge me a late fee?" She said while still staring at the student aid applications with her voice drifting away with her attention.

"No, Mrs. Duffy." Michael stamped her check, stapled the coupon to it, and gave her a dated receipt. "You are still within the bank's grace period."

"Thank you, Michael."

"If I hit the lottery," she picked up the student aid application, opened it, and looked through it. "I'd see to it that my daughters were college educated." She waved the brochure at him like a stick which reminded him of how his mother waved the wooden spoon over the stew pot when talking as she cooked. "It's a crying shame that these colleges with their application fees, registration fees, dormitory fees, meal plan fees, medical fees, tuition fees, and book fees can get away with charging poor, hard working people like us more than we can afford to pay to send our children to college when they are rich with wealthy endowments and do not even need our tuition money." She replaced the student aid application in the plastic holder and left the bank.

Mr. Shea came in every day fumbling through his pockets for the few dollars that he needed to make change for the bus and the train, after he no longer could afford to repair his 15-year-old Chevy Caprice wagon. He needed a car; he looked tired.

"Good morning, Mr. Shea. How may I help you?"

"You can buy me a new car, Michael, if you hit the lottery, that's what you can do for me. One of those new Chevy Impalas will do very nicely, thank you very much. I like the back end of that car. It reminds me of my old Chevy."

"Sorry, Mr. Shea, but did you not hear me? I already promised my winning ticket to Mr. Foley. Maybe, he'll buy you a new Impala. Actually, did you hear him? He promised that he would buy you a new car, if I gave him my winning lottery ticket."

"Ha! That cheap Irishman wouldn't buy his mother a pint if she was dying of thirst." He dug deep in his pocket and pulled out two wrinkled dollar bills. "I should buy change by the rolls, at least enough for the week but," he handed Michael the money, "I hate having change jingling in my pockets or rolling around in my briefcase." He laughed, "It must have something to do with my days as a paperboy." He laughed, again, "Back then, the good news only cost a nickel, today, the bad news cost fifty cents."

"There's always the transit pass, Mr. Shea."

"Yeah, if only I were as organized as you, Michael." He took receipt of his change, pocketed it, and said, "You have a good day, now."

"Thank you, Mr. Shea, you too."

Too concerned with the daily happenings within his community and too immersed within the personal problems of his customers, Michael needed a life. Unable to alter anyone's life but his own, he started his new life with a change, albeit, a forced one.

Chapter 10 Earth Bank

"Either you accept the transfer, Michael, or we will have to let you go," said Mr. McCarthy, the Branch Manager. He waited for Michael's response before reacting to his silence.

"Don't be a fool, man. You cannot throw away the years that you have invested with the bank. Earth Bank has more opportunities than Neighborhood Bank could ever offer you."

Michael waited for Mr. McCarthy to finish knowing that it would be a while for him to talk himself out about Michael's future.

"Earth Bank is a global financial institution with branches world-wide and has billions of dollars in assets, whereas, Neighborhood Bank is a three branch local institution with millions of dollars in assets. The opportunities for advancement are greater with an organization that employs 10,000 people over one that employs 100."

Michael knew that it was a better career move with more opportunity and more money, but career advancement and making more money were not his major concerns right now. He knew from those who had been through similar takeovers that the first thing they did is to transfer their employees, transferring some out of state, while others, who had commutes so long, had to relocate if they wanted to keep their jobs. The corporate office did not care if those transferred employees stayed or quit, giving them the ultimatum to either move or leave. He knew that they would perceive him as one of those employees and, either way, if he decided to quit now or temporarily go with Earth Bank and resign later, eventually, he was out of a job.