Mr. Frederic wants his money

"I'd like to close my account Miss, please," he talks in a polite, cheerful voice. It is 8 a.m. and I've just arrived to work at the bank. The cool autumn breeze still clings to my hands as I greet him with a handshake.

He had been waiting for a banker patiently. Sitting down, I eye the elderly African American gentleman in front of me.

Great, I think wearily. What a way to start the day. The bank had just opened and my day was already going in the wrong direction. My goal is, as the bank managers constantly reiterate, to open as many accounts as possible. And here I am, starting my day by closing one. I tuck my bag away, straighten out my crisp bank uniform, and sign on to the bank's computer system.

And there he sits, this elderly gentleman. He is dressed rather shabbily, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and worn-out brown pants. He almost looks out of place in the bank's lavish interior.

Located in the heart of Columbus, Ohio, this was the grandest and soundest bank in the downtown location. Nonetheless, he appears quite calm and confident. Suddenly he grins at me, somehow detecting my reluctance at closing his account. His teeth aren't well kept, but his smile is warm. He was my Polite-Mr.-Nice-Guy, I nickname him mentally for the moment.

Quickly, I regather my thoughts and put on my best "closing-account-poker-face", if there is such a thing.

"Oh! Well, I'm sorry to hear that Mr. Frederic," I say after taking a quick glance at his name on the computer screen. Ernest Frederic.

"May I please have your identification to verify your account?"

Handing me over his ID card, his hand trembles ever so slightly. Old age, I attribute quietly. He seems to be in his late 50s or early 60s. His clean cut curly black hair was starting to gray on the sides of his head. I shoot through the routine closing questions; did the bank do something to upset you? (No ma'am.) Is there anything we can do to keep you as a customer of this bank? (No ma'am.) Do you need a credit card to help you finance your temporary transactions?

Smiling, Mr. Ernest Frederic explains, "Miss, I assure you the bank has been very kind and pleasant. I just need my money right now, and I don't want no fees feeding off my account. When the time is right I will re-open my account. And no thank you ma'am, no credit cards."

Fair enough. At this point there was nothing more I could do to retain the customer except take the last resort by running to get my manager. This is routine practice made by the bank to keep customers from switching banks: involve the manager. However, being located downtown, traffic often comes as a disadvantage. My manager was late this morning, leaving me to handle Mr. Ernest Frederic single-handedly. So I carry-on closing his account.

As I study his account making sure there are no pending transactions, my Polite-Mr.-Nice-Guy sits motionless, almost like a statue. Too quiet, I notice..Gently, he dabs his eyes. Uh-oh. Please, no emotional outbreaks. It's too early in the morning.

Being a banker, I see too many heartbreaking stories. Now, at a time of financial crisis, grown people break down and cry in front of me regularly. The other day a hardworking family lost their beautiful house because they couldn't pay their mortgage; a teenager's dream shattered in front of me as he realised he couldn't be approved for a student loan due to unpaid bank fees; a husband found out his pretty wife and her lover had drained his bank account paying for hundreds of motel bills.

I try to distance myself emotionally, but I can't help but feel a twinge of grief for some my customers. Especially for the nice ones, like Mr. Frederic.

I try my best to sway Mr. Ernest Frederic from his inevitable wave of emotion. Quietly, I hand him a box of tissues from my inside drawer, and try to create some small talk. "So, um, where are you employed currently?" My cheerful voice sounds fake. And I smile a fake smile. The situation turns awkward fast. And my fake question ironically turns into a genuine disaster.

His eyes pierce mine. His smile is gone. My Polite-Mr.-Nice-Guy somehow disintegrates, replaced by a strange angry alien.

"Seventeen years." His voice seems to be coming from someplace dark. "Seventeen years I worked at the milk factory. And yesterday they round up 100 of us workers and tell us we're sacked! Retrenched! No more paychecks for me, huh!"

Unfortunately, I have seen this happen a lot, desensitizing me a bit. The economy was failing, people had no buying power, companies were losing money, and downsizing was inevitable. Blue-collar workers were being laid off left and right. For banks, this can come as good news, as banks assist by taking over whatever retirement program they have with their company.

"That's terrible." I manage to respond sympathetically. "Did you have a retirement program set up?" I ask shamelessly, speaking as a banker, looking for a banking opportunity.

It was as if I spoke to thin air, he didn't seem to hear me, or care.

"How can they do this to me? I never had a late day. I always came to work. I did my work. Every single day for seventeen damn years!"

He spits his words out angrily, shaking, fierce. "There was talk, but nobody knew for sure. I thought I was safe. That's what I thought..I didn't know they could do this.No ma'am I.I didn't.."

He is at a loss for words, and I realize I am staring at him. In a flash, I could see Mr. Frederic wake up in the morning, brush his teeth, leave for work, laboring joyfully at the milk factory, conversing with co-workers, friends. Fast forwarding I repeat this scene again and again a million times, seventeen years, until he has grown old working.

I sense anger and betrayal vibrating through his body. Mr. Frederic wasn't just losing a paycheck. He was losing a way of life, losing a sense of safety, losing pride. I have turned from banker to human again.

Worried, I wonder if a man his age could mentally handle such a blow without losing himself. I wonder if he has a family to support him. Cautiously I assess his state of mind. He sits still as if he is meditating, eyes closed and all. After a long pause, he finally moves to dab more tears from his eyes. A deep sadness creeps into his face, turning his weary eyes even more weary. A wave of defeat, and then, surprisingly, the anger of his unemployment ordeal melts away. I let out a sigh of relief.

I decide to give him a good final impression of the bank and escort him to the teller to collect the remaining $78.46 of his account. It isn't mandatory bank policy for me to do this, but I feel like I need to provide him with whatever professional service that might make his sad life happier.

The walk to the teller is long, all the way on the other side of the twenty story building. He seems to have gained control himself. He turns back into my Polite-Mr.-Nice-Guy. He smiles wearily and appreciates the fact that I am actually walking him to the teller.

"Where's a good breakfast place around here? I'm in the mood for a good meal." His pleasant, hearty voice is back. I provide him some options, consulting with the teller on which ones were open early which ones were open for brunch.

After he collects his money, I hold out my hand and he grabs it firmly. "Thank you Miss. You have a wonderful day. And God Bless!" He walks toward the door, hesitates, swerves, and calls out again in a louder voice, "You have a wonderful day, all of ya, and God Bless!" He then walks out into the cool autumn-morning air.

And that was the last I saw of him. Well, kind of.

When I turn on the TV that evening, I see him, on the news. My Polite-Mr.-Nice-Guy is in handcuffs. Mr. Ernest Frederic is being arrested for killing a woman, his partner, slashing her throat so brutally that she is nearly decapitated, and dumping her abused corpse into the dumpster just outside his apartment building.

The murder took place earlier this morning at around 5 a.m., three hours before walking to my office. Police caught the suspect, Ernest Frederic, entering a popular breakfast hub that brisk autumn morning in downtown Columbus, Ohio.

***

That night I briefly ponder my Polite-Mr-Nice-Guy. Did I misjudge him? Was he dangerous? Did his loss of employment release demons from within him? Perhaps it was a combination of unfortunate events?

I didn't sleep too soundly that night. But the next morning I get up, braving the cool autumn air, ready to open more checking accounts.