By Anonymous
When I imagined my postcollege move to SF and my first day at my big-girl job, my fantasy looked something like a 15-year-old girl’s dream. I’d have a fabulous outfit and work in an office full of only attractive men who were obsessed with me, and my glitter nail polish would be oh so appropriate. What I didn’t imagine was being held up and crying myself to sleep.
Before moving to San Francisco, I had been a bank teller for about three years in a cozy college town where robbery wasn’t exactly an immediate threat. In fact, I had pretty much written off the idea that I would ever be robbed or that banking was “exciting.” Sure, my bosses had warned me about the threat of getting held up, and I had taken numerous robbery trainings, but even when my parents reminded me that I’d be working in a big city and that the chances of getting robbed here were higher, I still discounted them all. When I did think about bank heists, I imagined a Hollywood thriller, with me playing a critical role and the robber looking like Ben Affleck. But nothing about a bank robbery is glamorous, and the robber never looks like Ben Affleck. Having never been robbed before, my mind had gone a little crazy with potential scenarios.
I learned this harsh reality on my first day of work after I strolled into my new branch like I owned the place. All the associates were very friendly, and I was immediately set up to observe a teller, which, in banking, means, “We all have things to do today, and we haven’t sized you up yet, so sit tight.” So I sat. And observed. Observed about 20–25 elderly women withdraw cash. By lunchtime I was totally bored and completely underwhelmed by how mundane the day had been.
Then, around 2 p.m., it happened. I was almost dozing off on my stool while the teller was helping a rather rude woman make her mortgage payment. The next thing I knew, there was a huge man in an even bigger hoodie right behind her. He was so close that anyone besides the teller and myself would have thought they were together, maybe even married. I knew immediately what was happening. We were being robbed! I would finally have a story to tell everyone, and it would be fabulous. I know. I’m terrible.
The man didn’t have a huge gun or come in screaming, “EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR.” Instead he pretended he had a gun under his shirt and whispered to me, the teller, and the poor customer, “Don’t move; be quiet,” which was 100 times scarier. I slowly rose to my feet as if I could do something to help. He shot me a quick glare and whispered, “I said DON’T MOVE.” And so, like the good girl I am, I froze and started to examine the man in front of me.
Let’s talk about his appearance, which was my biggest disappointment in the whole experience. He was older and ungroomed (and not in a sexy way like Shia LaBeouf), reeked of booze, and dressed like he was homeless. He looked scared and sad, not invincible and heroic. He most certainly did not look a thing like the Hollywood versions of bank robbers, who are often sporting disguises or suits. Nor was he interested in having me spin the combo on the vault to reach endless piles of cash. The most I could do was turn to my right and shoot a fearful glance at one of my coworkers.
At that point I blacked out. I couldn’t even tell you if he got away with one dollar or a million dollars. I do know that he was fast. He was in and out of the bank before most of the customers, and most of my coworkers, knew what was happening. The personal banker by the door even shot him a smile and said, “Have a nice day!” My boss knew what was going on, though. Her adrenaline peaked, and she attempted to run after the guy as he escaped down the block. But unfortunately, he was gone. And we were left with our mouths hanging wide open in shock.
After going through every detail of the robbery with the FBI and the police, the experience of that first robbery lost most of its excitement. I was asked to describe the thief’s nose alone about 10 times — so often that I began to doubt my own memory. By the time I called my mom and dad, their shock and concern seemed over the top and annoying at best. My dad offered to buy me a handgun and made me promise to carry it, and my mom reminded me that I could always come home.
I’ve been asked what the worst part of the whole bank-robbery experience was, and that part came that night as I lay in bed. My mind went wild. What if the thief had followed me home? What if he was outside my window at that moment? Then came the tears. I cried all night. When I called in sick the next day, no one asked any questions. They all knew I was upset by the robbery.
I hate to say it, but in the end I was disappointed by the heist I witnessed. Bank robberies, or at least the one I experienced, are not glamorous, dramatic ordeals with gunshots, bags and bags of money, and police chases. My robbery was not like I’d imagined, and I was not the center of attention when it happened. It was quick. It was dirty. And for the thief, it was a desperate act. I heard from a friend that he’d been caught, and I assume he is waiting to serve time.
The robbery hasn’t changed much about my job, and in the six months since it happened, I have become just as desensitized to the threat of being robbed as I was beforehand. Banking is fairly mundane, but occasionally I will give a customer a more critical look, only to be reassured by their large balances.
This story is part of our week-long anonymous package. To learn about all the juicy secrets being revealed this week, go here.
