A RELATIVELY NORMAL FELLOW

I have to go to the bank this afternoon.  Well, I could put it off until tomorrow, but then I'll be kicking myself for not doing it today, so I might as well cross this chore off my list. When I leave work, it's raw and rainy outside.  When I arrive at the bank, there are zero parking spaces to go inside, so I opt for the drive-up.  This way I stay warm and dry and still get my cash.

The drive-up is an odd place where the exchange between bank and customer is done through a plastic tube that carries checks and money via a space-age, air-jetted tunnel system.  It also has a television screen so that I can see the teller and the teller can see me.

Today's teller is a dead-ringer for Arthur Fielder, former (and currently dead) conductor of the Boston Pops.  I'm not certain that pseudo-Arthur-Fiedler understands how the teller-vision works, though, because he seems to have OCD ... NOT that it's a BAD thing.  He has this whole routine: shake shake shimmy touch the nose shimmy touch the nose shimmy touch the nose -- repeat, repeat, repeat.  I'm not so sure I like the fact that he is touching his nose and then will be touching the money he is about to hand over to me, but, when it's all said and done, I'm sure the money is filthy with other bacteria and crap, anyway.

This is when things turn weird (or, weirder): Pseudo-Arthur-Fiedler lifts up his leg, perches it on the table where the camera is, and leans forward.  I'm not initially sure if he is exercising or trying to show off his bumbum.  Suddenly, he lifts both of his arms in a giant arc as if he is prepping to start conducting Leroy Anderson's greatest hits.

Holy crap -- he really IS Arthur Fiedler!

But then, just as I'm thinking I'm about to hear the Boston Pops play, pseudo-Arthur-Fiedler starts tying his shoe.  On camera.  While I watch.  He puts his foot down, leans to his left, grabs my cash out of the dispenser, counts it out, and sticks it back into the plastic missile.  I cannot tell if he remembers he has just repeatedly tweaked his nostrils and tied his shoes while doing a semi-split,  all while in full view of me and anyone in the aisle to my right who may have privy to the monitor in my aisle.

"Anything else I can help you with today?" he asks cheerfully.

Hmmmmmm.  An eye wash might be pertinent suggestion, and possibly some hand sanitizer, or maybe some Lysol spray for the envelope filled with nose-touched money. 

Honestly, though, he is quite jolly and very affable.  Except for the ritualistic mannerisms in the teller booth, he seems like a relatively normal fellow.