I was standing in line at Citibank to deposit a check. It was lunch time in Central and the branch was bursting at the seams. The customer in front of me, a middle-aged gentleman in a tailored suit, asked to take out five thousand Euros in cash. Behind the counter was a teller who couldn’t have been more than six months out of university. Her name was proudly embossed on her lapel pin: Trainee.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cheung,” said Trainee to the gentleman, before explaining that she didn’t have enough Euros and that a day’s notice was normally required for withdrawals over a certain amount. Bank policy. She asked him to either collect the cash the next day or try the main branch.
|There is a green monster in all of us|
What followed, however, was an unstoppable tirade from the not-so-gentle-man over a situation he called an “outrage” and a “waste of everyone’s time,” all delivered with the usual hysterics: clenched jaw, flapping arms and a face as red as a ripe tomato. This Bruce Banner had...
Read the rest of this essay in No City for Slow Men, available at major bookstores in Hong Kong and at Blacksmith Books.
|No City for Slow Men|