The woman behind the bank counter looked me up and down, a slight sneer on her lips. I can't really blame her. I was going for homeless chic that morning. Black t-shirt, tattered gray sweatpants, and brown Uggs where men with bosses or wives would wear shoes. And I surely looked miserable.
![947740-p-DETAILED[1].jpg](http://checkraise.com/rants2/archive3/947740-p-DETAILED%5B1%5D.jpg)
"Can I help you, sir," she stated instead of asking.
"Yes, I said. "I'd like to deposit money into the account of one of your customers."
I directed her to the college fund that my co-worker's widow set up for their two kids. The teller softened.
"Oh dear. I'm so sorry."
"Thanks. Me too, but it's not my tragedy," I assured her. I hate when people co-opt others' drama.
The transaction took an inordinate amount of time, during which the teller segued into the hard sell: I really, really needed to move my personal and business accounts to her branch. Why? That part was fuzzy. But it was very urgent indeed. And oh, so tasteful.
"Now this...this is my tragedy," I said, trying to shake her off my leg so I could leave.
You're all class, Wells Fargo. And this is coming from the bum in Uggs.