Maryan

I don't use checks anymore. I don't think we need them too much in 2011. However, once a month, I have a bill that I can't pay with the bill-pay function in my account through my bank's website. The bill is rent. Rent must be payed with a check or money order - no cash, no cards. So once a month, I walk it on down to Wells Fargo, get a money order printed, and pay my rent.

The day before I went to Wells Fargo, I went fishing with my brother, John, and my friend, Styles. We fished for about three or four hours, and we caught three fish. We said we were doing it like Earnest Hemingway, which we kind of were, because we were drinking wine and fishing and then going into the city to hit the bars for some food and nightlife, and now I'm writing this, so the Hemingway continues.

We walked home that night, crashed out, and woke up the next day feeling like we'd been fishing and drinking all night. Hoping to prove true the old adage that sunshine is the best disinfectant, John and I went and played some tennis.

Following the tennis sets - John won both of them 6-1 and 6-2, and he was barefoot for goodness sake - we swooped past the Wells Fargo on Portland Ave. John took a seat on the bench outside, and I popped in after transferring some funds to my checking account on my phone.

Inside were the usual suspects. There were some Black folks, some White folks, some East African folks. Whenever I go into this Wells Fargo, everyone is always overly nice. It's never to the point that the niceness is awkward or anything, but there is certainly an emphasis at this Wells Fargo on neighborly care and casual conversation. I always think that there's no possible way they actually want to know what it is I'm doing today, or if I'm taking the time to enjoy the weather - but they always ask. I suppose the interaction could be worse: It could go in the other direction and we could just have a bunch of discourteous tellers snarling as they count out your twenties to you. So they're nice at this Wells Fargo.

I walk in and there's an open teller window. To the left of it an East African fellow with his wife and two kids are making a family affair out of the conversation with the teller. I don't mean to say that in any snide way at all. I just mean that everyone was kinda participating in the conversation with the teller and it was working out all right. To the left is a big slender redwood of a woman, with very fashionable tight jeans and a yellow tank top over a sleeveless black shirt. Every stitch of her clothing is hugging her very svelte body. And the caramel colored skin she shows on her arms and face is very healthy. She's just a really well-put-together-looking lady.

In the middle of these two windows is my teller-to-be, and as I get closer and closer, her and I both sense that we're going to be sharing some words in a moment, so we both pleasantize our demeanor and relax our faces in one of those lazily-drawn "I-don't-mean-any-harm" grins. She, the teller, is a also a very well-put-together lady. She's East African, either Somali or Ethiopian, and she's got very pretty eyes. She's wearing an outfit that covers all of her body, and her hijab is covering her head, but all of the colors are so springy. Her dress shirt is a vibrant violet, and her skirt is long and loose and springy white with little flowers. Her hijab matches her skirt, maybe even the same material.

As I walk up, I see she's got a name plate in front of her window that says, "Maryan."

Also, on her pretty purplish shirt, is a Wells Fargo name tag that says, "Maryan."

I'm having the time of my life walking up to the window. My life is good. I got that dough for rent, I got groceries, I just spent a day fishing and eating and drinking and then playing tennis. And I'm going to walk up to this window and get me a money order for the rent.

Bless her heart. Maryan isn't looking at her shirt or the name plate. She’s sitting behind the glass.

But I am on the other side of the glass. I walk to the glass and before I even speak a word, before I even say hello, I read the name plate and the name tag ... "Maryan."

After I read them both and say, "hello," she responds by saying, "Hello. my name's Maryan”

I think this is hilarious. What with two name plates staring me in the face, and my dear, neighborly teller still feels a need to let me know just who it is that she happens to be. Unfortunately for me, I know that I'm the only person in the entire bank who gets the joke. God bless everyone else in there, but they didn't just see what I saw. A name plate that tells me the teller's name is Maryan. A name tag that tells me the teller's name is Maryan. And augmenting those two, is a very gracious teller who is also audibly letting me know that her name happens to be Maryan.

So I play along. “Well, all right. My name’s Joe.”

... Let the transaction begin.