My Bank Account by Stephen Leacock

When I go into a bank I get frightened.  The clerks frighten me; the desks frighten me;the sight of the money frightens me; everything frightens me.
            The moment I pass through the doors of a bank and attempt to do business there, I become an irresponsible fool.
            I knew this before, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it.
            So I walked unsteadily in and looked round at the clerks with fear.  I had an idea that a person who was about to open an account must necessarily consult the manager.
            I went up to a place marked “accountant”.  The accountant was a tall, cool devil.  The very sight of him frightened me.  My voice sounded as if it came from the grave.
            “Can I see the manager?” I said, and added solemnly, “alone.”  I don’t know why I said “alone”.
            “Certainly,” said the accountant, and brought him.
            The manager was a calm, serious man/ I held my fifty-six dollar, pressed together in a ball, in my pocket.
            “Are you the manager?” I said.  God knows I didn’t doubt it.
            “Yes,” he said.
            “Can I see you,” I asked, “alone?” I didn’t want to say
            A big iron door stood open at the side of the room.
            “Good morning,” I said, and walked into the safe.
            “Come out,” said the manager coldly, and showed me the other way.
            I went up to the accountant’s position and pushed the ball of money at him with a quick, sudden movement as if I were doing a sort of trick.
            My face was terribly pale.
            “Here,” I said, “put it in my account.”  The sound of my voice seems to mean, “Let us do this painful thing while we feel that we want to do it.”
            He took the money and gave it to another clerk.
            He made me write the sum on a bit of paper and sign my name in a book.  I no longer knew what I was doing. The bank seemed to swim before my eyes.
            “Is it in the account?” I asked in a hollow, shaking voice.
            “It is,” said the accountant.
            “Then I want to draw a cheque.”
            My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. Someone gave me a cheque-book and someone else began telling me how to write it out.  The people in the bank seemed to think that I was a man who owned millions of dollars, but was not feeling very well.  I wrote something on the cheque and pushed it towards the clerk.  He looked at it.
            “What are you drawing it all out again?” he asked in surprise.  Then I realized that I had written fifty-six dollars instead of six. I was too upset to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me.
            Bold and careless in my misery, I made a decision.
            “Yes, the whole thing.”
            “You wish to draw your money out of the bank?”
            “Every cent of it.”
            “Are you not going to put any more in the account?” said the clerk, astonished.
            “Never.”
            A foolish hope came to me that they might think something had insulted me while I was writing the cheque and that I had changed my mind. I made a miserable attempt to look like a man. With a fearfully quick temper.
            The clerk prepared to pay the money.
            “How will you have it?” he said.
            “What?”
            “How will you have it?”
            “Oh-” –I understood his meaning and answered without even trying to think— “in fifty-dollar notes.”
            He gave me a fifty dollar note.
“And the six?” he asked coldly.
“In six-dollar notes,” I said.
He gave me six dollars and I rushed out.
As the big door swung behind me I heard the sound of a roar of laughter that went up to the root of the bank.  Since then I use a bank no more. I keep my money in my pocket and my savings in silver dollars in a sock.

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