What Fresh Hell Is This?

Photo by Polina Zimmerman on Pexels.com


I sensed something was amidst when a 40-something blonde gent with a glint of crazy in his eyes meandered into the bank holding a large, extravagant chalice. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who sensed it, because the two other tellers working that day scattered like cockroaches when they saw the curiously sweaty man in a stained, white t-shirt walking towards the teller counters.

What fresh hell is this?

The customer plunked his chalice onto my counter. I was immediately fascinated by the intricate, flowery designs on his thick glass goblet.

“Can you count my coins?”

Fuck. We didn’t have a coin counter and part of my “job description” was apparently to accept (and count) all currency.

It was difficult for me to understand the customer’s broken English and I was just generally vexed by the whole situation. I paused for a second to consider a few things:

-His chalice was loaded with coins. Was a chalice the only container he could find to carry his coin in?

-He didn’t even try to separate his coins, let alone do a courteous count of what he had. Was he rude & lazy or just “special”?

-Did he walk here holding this goblet? Is that why he is so sweaty?

-His shirt was really stained. Were the coins in front of me the only money he had to his name? Because that disgusting stained shirt suggested that it just may be.

-There was a Bud Light bottle cap on top of the pile of coins, so I leaned in for a closer inspection. There appeared to be a surprising amount of trash mixed in with the coin: broken glass, candy and curly strands of black hair. Why was his coin so dirty? Did he dig this all out of his couch? And why on earth is there so much hair?

I told the customer that he could count the coin himself and handed him several coin roll wrappers. I was willing to risk being off on my teller drawer that day rather than count these dirty coins.

The customer bashfully shook his head ‘no’ and pushed the wrappers back towards me.

Could he count?

I felt bad. I saw a man in front of me who was struggling and down on his luck. I took a deep breath and poured the coins onto my counter.

So, I started counting the coins…

You People Are Nuts

“Ok. Can you help me count the coin?”

I asked, hoping that if we counted the coin together then perhaps I can get this over with sooner than later. The customer shook his head ‘yes’ and we began to count the coins together.

Thirty seconds into counting the filthy coins, the customer stopped counting and without saying a word, he pushed the coins back into the pile that I was counting.

Then the sweaty man just stared at me.

Did I find this odd? Of course I did.

But what could it mean?

Could he not count?

Did he just want to watch me count?

Is that even a thing?

Before I could complete my thought or contemplate what it meant, I noticed something disturbing. Something very, very disturbing.

Small, curly black hairs began crawling up my fingers.

I held my hand up in front of the customer so he could see the black hairs curled around my fingers. I deliberately flicked the hairs off in an exaggerated motion and watched the customer for any signs of emotion.

The man had no reaction.

Bewildered, I looked back down at the pile of coins and it became disturbingly clear just how much hair was mixed in. At this point, the broken glass and crumbs of some unknown substance didn’t even matter. It was the hair that I was focused on.

What was happening?

Was this…sexual? Usually I know when something is sexual. Creepy, this was definitely creepy. But sexual? I really had no idea.

pubic hair

Unsure what exactly was happening and clueless how to handle the situation, I just kept counting. I peeled off little hairs as they climbed up my fingers and pushed bits of glass and crumbs off to the side. I counted two wrappers worth of pennies. Exactly 100 of them.

“Excuse me.”

This guy is in the mob, so he can help me, right?

I ran into the break room and burst into tears. Sitting on the phone at a table in the breakroom was a customer service representative named Carl. I thought, perhaps, just for a second, that Carl, who was a balding 30 something-year-old man that constantly boasted about being in the mafia, might be able to help me.

Carl was a stereo-typically obnoxious Jersey guy. Whenever his phone rang at the bank, Carl would yell out:

“The Big Man is calling! It’s the Big Man! Hey, Big Man!”

Nothing is more annoying than a grown ass man who boasts about being in the mafia. Carl was a ridiculous human being for a couple of reasons:

  1. Isn’t the first rule of being in the mafia not to talk about being in the mafia?
  2. He’s working a minimum wage gig with me at the bank, so “The Big Man” isn’t really taking care of him, is he?

Carl’s sad existence didn’t matter at this moment. What I needed was somebody’s help, anybody’s help, or at least someone to validate my story.

“Carl, I’m counting coins for this guy…and…and… there’s pubic hairs in his pennies!”

I managed to blurt out through my tears.

Carl stopped his conversation on the phone and looked at me sideways. Then he busted out laughing.

“Hey, Big Man, this chick is counting money with pubic hair in it! Ya, it’s all over her, it’s disgusting. How on earth do you get your pubes into the coin?”

Then he just continued on with his conversation.

So, I wiped my tears and marched out to the customer and counted every damn coin, all 5 dollars and 43 cents worth. I violently threw hair and glass off to the side and made a spectacle of my counting.

He didn’t show an ounce of emotion on his face.

He didn’t say a word.

He just watched.

When I was done and the customer left without further incident, I took a piece of paper and made a pile of the hair, glass, and general trash that remained on my counter. I called my manager over and showed her the evidence.

She stood in disbelief, her mouth gaped open as she looked at the pile.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“I have no idea. But, I’m going home.”

Only two hours into my shift, I started counting my drawer to close it out. My manager didn’t say a word. She just left me alone to count my drawer. By the time I was done and about to head out the door to leave, the sweaty, fucking repugnant man came back in with another cup of coins. Without hesitation, my manager jumped up and pushed him out of the bank, telling him to never return. Perhaps that should’ve been my initial reaction to this guy, but nevertheless, at that moment, my manager was my hero.

The moral of the story


If your bank doesn’t have a coin machine, go to the Coinstar at your local grocery store and accept the 9% processing fee, you cheap bastards.

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