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Flash Fiction: Tellers & Trainer

By Murali Kamma Email By Murali Kamma
March 2021
Flash Fiction: Tellers & Trainer

Working as a bank teller may seem like a good job option for recent immigrants. But first comes the training—and that can take a surprising turn.

Surveying the room, I was struck by how different these trainees appeared from my previous group. That session, for which I drove almost three hours, had caused anxiety—at least initially—because it happened to be my first stint as a teller trainer in a struggling, deeply conservative rural county, where I knew a bank merger could cause disruption. A beloved local institution, trusted for generations, had been gobbled up by a mega bank that was based, along with its impersonal corporate bosses, in a distant city. It was bound to create resentment.

But those middle-aged trainees had been friendly and respectful, while the coaching I did on the new system had gone smoothly. Perhaps because they were relieved about keeping their jobs as tellers, and appreciated the small bump in pay, they’d been eager learners. Small-town values played a role as well, I guess, and they gave me a lovely thank-you card on the last day.

The current group—urbanites of various ethnicities, ages, and backgrounds—was more typical for me. Although not unfriendly, they were more casual, less chatty, and a few even looked bored.

While the native-born attendees were at ease, a couple of immigrants appeared diffident, as if they were still trying to find their way in a bewildering city. Usually, one or two trainees in my class needed extra help, especially if their English was weak.

“Excuse me,” a young man said after we were done with the introductions. He was half-sprawled in the chair, his feet reaching up to the woman in front of him.

“Yes?”

“Can I open the window? There’s an odor.”

There was tittering, followed by an uneasy silence as everybody seemed to be looking at me.

“Sure, if everybody is fine with it,” I said. “But I don’t smell anything.”

“You will if you come here.” Rising, he went to open the window.

There was more snickering when he mumbled, but it was scattered. A tingling sensation on my face felt like the onset of an ugly rash. Maybe he had a legitimate concern, but his attitude was disconcerting. I was a trainer, not a teacher—and I wasn’t interested in policing them.

ONE HOUR LATER

“Let’s take a short break,” I said, relieved to hear the food truck’s throb as it parked outside.

Everybody left the room quickly. Walking up to the young man’s seat, I got a whiff. Spices? It was hard to tell, and now that the window was open, I wondered if the odor would return when the trainees returned. Looking out, I could see the trainees in the parking lot, where they stood in little clusters around the food truck as they talked, ate, laughed, drank, and smoked.  But my heart gave a lurch when I saw one person standing alone, silently scrolling through her phone.

Noor—that was her name. Traditionally dressed, with her greying hair tied in a bun, and looking older than the others, she’d been quietly sitting in front of the young man.

The phone in the adjacent office rang, pulling me away. I shut the door.

“How’s it going?” my boss said, sounding uncharacteristically subdued.

“Going well. We just started, of course.”

“Good to know. I called because we got a couple of complaints about . . . about an odor.”

“What kind of odor?” My stomach felt like the small ball I was squeezing in my hand.

“Well . . . curry, I think.” I sensed her discomfort. “It’s probably nothing. But let me know if you have
any issues.”

“Thanks, but things are fine,” I said, a little stiffly. Guiltily, I sniffed the sleeve of my shirt—which I’d washed and ironed for the session—before heading back to the training room.

They were all in now, silently waiting for me, and I noticed that the young man and another trainee had moved to other seats. For the remaining day, I talked about our accounts and services, fees and penalties, rules and regulations, customer interactions, and fraud prevention, besides showing them a video on safety protocols. Before dismissing them, I said that computer training and the practice of transactions would come next.

ONE DAY LATER

I was in the computer room, drinking my second cup of coffee before the trainees arrived, when the boss called.

“Noor dropped out,” she boomed in her raspy voice. “Did she say anything yesterday?”

“No,” I said, sitting down. Feeling nauseous, I stopped drinking my coffee. Why had I been so cowardly? I should have spoken to Noor, instead of pretending everything was fine. Obviously, although she didn’t say anything, she’d felt uncomfortable.

“I’m glad she wasn’t upset,” my boss said.

I remained silent.

She mentioned that Noor cooked for her home-based catering business. The previous morning, in fact, she’d taken care of an order before coming to my class. Because her business, which relied on word of mouth, wasn’t steady, a friend had told her to apply for a teller position at the bank to supplement her income. However, after getting a taste of the bank job on the first day of training, she realized it wasn’t for her. Cooking was her strength.

Hanging up the phone, I poured out the rest of my coffee and popped an antacid to calm my stomach. The second day of training was about to begin.

ONE YEAR LATER

After my walk one evening, I see this email from my former boss:

“I’m sure you remember Noor. She opened a small restaurant not far from where I live. Haven’t checked it out, but I heard good things.”

Looking up the restaurant’s address on my phone, I jump into my car—it’s time for dinner anyway. Noor’s Kitchen is wedged between a dry cleaning shop and an ethnic grocery store. Good location, I think, opening the door. A pungent aroma greets me—and when I see a smiling Noor walking towards me with a menu, I’m not sure if she has recognized me yet.


 

Murali Kamma’s Not Native: Short Stories of Immigrant Life in an In-Between World (Wising Up Press) won a 2020 Independent Publisher Book Award (IPPY) for multicultural fiction. www.MuraliKamma.com

Readers are welcome to submit original, unpublished flash fiction (800-1000 words) for our consideration.
Email: editor@khabar.com



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