Let’s face it. Banks want you to work for your money. We face the indignity of being herded into line by a cheap velvet rope. As if on a busy Friday afternoon, among other weary downtowners trying to cash their paychecks during their too-short lunch hour, we’ll suddenly enter the red velvet maze and feel a touch of Hollywood glamor in our lives.

“Yes!” You think to yourself as the man in front of you frantically tries to fill out his deposit card and the woman behind you ignores her screeching baby, “This is a Calgon-Take-Me-Away moment! I can close my eyes and envision myself on the red carpet. I’ll hobnob with the entertainment reporters about my recent charitable work–tossing a sandwich at an Olsen twin, adopting one of the Jolie-Pitt kids, making sunglasses for the poor African children with Bono.”

Of course, this moment will be all-too-brief. Your reverie will be broken by the pissed-off “Next!” you’ll hear coming from the over-worked tellers, who are tired of standing on their feet all day behind bullet-proof glass counting money over and over again.

This, however, is not the worst indignity a bank can throw at you. No, my friends, the worst is that they actually keep the velvet rope up at all times. So that one day–you know that day, the kind where you find a five-dollar-bill in your coat pocket, all the traffic lights are scheduled to turn green just as you pull ahead, and you’ve gone all day without hearing a single Rhianna song on the radio–it’s that kind of day, and you walk into the bank and find the room absolutely void of lines, and there are not one but several available tellers there, just waiting to cash your check.

You excitedly wave “hello” to one of the tellers, who greets you with the slightest of smirks on his or her face. You don’t care though, because it’s that day, and you don’t have to wait 20 minutes in line! It’s just then that you realize that in order to get to the teller area, you will still have to navigate through that roped-off maze.

I’m sure everyone feels slightly stupid, making that long walk to your left, turn, long walk to your right, turn, another walk to the left, another right turn, until you get to the front. The indignity of it all. I can see the tellers get a sick little pleasure out of it. I recognize it.  It’s the same pleasure I used to get when I’d serve unsavory customers decaf coffee when they requested caffeinated. “Here’s the caffeinated coffee you requested, Mr. Crotchety Old Bat,” I’d say sweetly, with a warm smile, “This is for spitting your gum into my hand when I tried to clear your empty plate.”

I feel for these tellers. I know they’re overworked, underpaid and on their feet far too long during the day. I understand this, working in the restaurant business for so long. I always have the urge at these moments, walking like a fool through the velvet-roped maze, to turn it into a mini-marathon. I’d break out into a slow-mo jog, my arms pumping in an exaggerated fashion at my sides. As I turned the corner, I would stop and bend down, my hands on my knees, gasping for air. I’d wait a moment and then raise one hand up in the air, to let them know I’ll be alirght. I’d then continue my slow-mo job until I reached the next turn, where I would then lean over and grab a plastic cup from the water cooler and dump water over myself, shaking my head for effect. I would then start my sprint down to the finish line, reaching the teller’s area with a victory leap, my arms in the air as the Rocky theme plays in the background. The tellers would applaud and throw money at me, begging me for one more race.

At this point in my daydream, I’m usually standing in front of the teller with a goofy, satisfied smile on my face. We both win, then. They still get to laugh at me and I know that I could’ve embarrassed myself in a far, far worse sort of way.