Snappy’s Ascent
In my year between high school and college, I worked at a bank in Midtown Manhattan, a world apart from my California home. In an immediate sense, the need to wear a suit everyday was a total affront to my West-coast sense of leisure. When I first entered the pristine lobby, I was rushed by the receptionist to the office of my boss’ boss. His walls were bedecked with all of the traditional trappings of American working life: custom golf tees and pictures of him shaking hands with people I didn’t know. His administrative assistant Carla then proceeded to give me a tour of the office in which I shook many hands and remember few names. What I did remember is giving everyone a static shock on account of the green shag carpeting.
The office itself was beautiful. On the main floor there were breathtaking water features, an open floor plan that would put the Property Brothers to shame, and large glass windows overlooking Rock Center. After taking it all in, I was promptly escorted to where I would be working: a windowless eighth-floor annex. Carla swiped her card to enter the door and I followed. Before she could stop me I let the door slam behind me with a disruptive smack, and all of the eyes in the room turned to me. I sheepishly introduced myself and was soon ushered to my desk, where I was instantly thrust into the job of loan processing. The work consisted of evaluating the finances of people applying for mortgages on their homes: not the most life-affirming of tasks. Everyday I would sift through hundreds of income statements and tax returns and file the results into PowerLender™: the decades-old software that didn’t even have “Mouse” capabilities, only the arrow keys. After constantly pestering my coworker Stephanie for the answers on how to enter loans, I began to get the hang of it.
As the days went on I settled into my routine as a Loan Processing intern. I enjoyed the office banter and the quirks of my coworkers. Unspeakably average Mark was always harping on the wacky antics of Michelle, who was likely watching a giraffe birthing video. Cindy, missing the front knuckle of four of her fingers, christened me with the nickname “Snappy,” which took hold fast despite my protests. I started looking forward to Sushi Mondays and Donut Thursdays. I learned some good office tips and tricks, like sneaking the phrases “You’re right” or “Great idea” into conversation as much as you can to appease your older white male coworkers.
There were setbacks as well. For the loans the bank made for renovations, they called references for the contractors to make sure they were trustworthy. I called hundreds of homeowners to ask about their renovation process, though nobody would answer my calls. The act of sending hundreds of voicemails to out into the ether, few to be returned, I’m certain took some long lasting existential toll on my psyche. In addition, my little cubicle was positioned directly in front of the break room, where Diana would spend many hours having the saddest possible conversations. Not a day would go by where I wouldn’t hear her thick Bronx accent saying “Dad’s been drinking on weekdays again” or “It’s so hard being around the dog when we know we have to put him down.” As I was working the IT department installed a large, flat-screen TV two feet behind me, which only played CNN ‘round the clock. Trapped in cable news hell with no escape, I started trying to leave my desk more. I took on what others might consider menial tasks of delivering mail up and down the floors with glee. At least it got me moving.
Time marched onwards through a brutal winter into the first blossoms of “Winter 2”, my clever little nickname for Spring. Entering loans became meditative for me, hours would pass by and I wouldn’t notice. However, this equilibrium was soon interrupted. In the final weeks I was there, the bank underwent a complete change of software. Needless to say, my immediate vicinity was thrown into chaos. A company rep for the new, shiny, loan processing software came to proselytize about the bright future of financial data entry. Everyone was panicked about the change. Many of my coworkers were older and less enthusiastic about learning a new system, many of the younger employees on the lower rungs felt as though they might be replaced. I, for one, felt like John Henry, my skill set outmoded by some ambitious innovator. The ruthless and machismo side of the world of finance is frequently discussed; The sadness, less so. In a late-capitalist society where everything is judged by use-value and “disruption,” there is no worse emotion than feeling expendable and obsolescent. I got to choose my exit point, but innovation has many casualties. After a hug from Stephanie, fist bump from Mark, and Amazon Gift Card from Cindy, I was off to college, eager to not see the working world for quite a while.
