I’m a teller at a bank whose name you know, and our branch gets heavy foot traffic. A couple came in one time, fighting full on about their bills. And I mean fighting; they got so loud and hateful at one another that our security guy had to go ask them to keep it under fifty decibels. They came up to me, withdrew a large chunk of money—a dollar shy of emptying their account— and then left. There were people behind them, and I didn’t notice until that line thinned out that they’d left their baby carrier, complete with a sleeping child, on the counter where we served coffee.
I, the security guy, and the manager all concluded that the baby belonged to the couple that had been fighting, but we were at a complete loss about what to do. The security guy wanted to call social services, but the manager didn’t want to lose the parents’ business. When the number on their account turned out to be dead, she said we should give the parents time to realize they’d made a mistake.
I was all for that, and genuinely impressed that my usually harsh-around-the-edges manager had something resembling a soft spot. Until I mentioned that the couple had taken out most of their money, leaving a token dollar in it so that they didn’t have to deal with closing it.
The police and social services showed up about ten minutes later. I never saw the parents again.
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