I remember going to the bank as a kid. It was an austere place – because money was serious. Banks designed themselves a bit like confessionals. The teller was your private priest of poverty or prosperity. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, so when you withdrew $2.50 from your passbook your fiscal sins were private. I liked having my bank balance written in pen, dated and stamped. It felt like money. I found banks intimidating. If bank employees were chickens, this was a battery farm. All the tellers locked up in their little cages pecking at the glass. I never thought I’d miss it, but I do.
Recently I visited one of those ‘redesigned’ banks. I couldn’t be sure I was even at a bank. I thought I’d wandered into a branch cafe. For a start, the chickens weren’t locked up. They were wandering around. They have legs. I wasn’t comfortable seeing them moving around the bank, giving the impression people had come here for a social chat. This is commerce. We need you locked up so we can do our serious money business. I do not want to sit on your fancy ottoman.
As I scan the room I notice there are fancy ottomans everywhere. Not queuing in straight lines as you would expect in a bank – but laid out as if people came here for community. Some sort of bank-based encounter group. We don’t. We come to launder our cash. Or ask an actual human, with a face, questions we can’t get answered on the app. We just want to line up, see a teller behind glass, do our business and leave. Like a money toilet.
When I arrive at the bank of the future one thing is clear to me. They don’t have any money. But they do have funky furniture. And a concierge. When I arrive, she greets me with a broad smile and welcomes me like I’m checking into a hotel. She asks why I’ve come here today. I’m at the bloody bank. Why do you think I’ve come here? To do my business and leave. I want to say ‘to line up and then see someone at a counter’. But there are no counters. Because there is nothing to count. This is the digital age. And her job I realise is to make me leave, or if I don’t, make me sit on an ottoman. They need photos of confused customers sitting on branch ottomans to show their shareholders. Start investing in ottomans now.
I want customer service so I sit on aforementioned backless furniture. Someone offers me a coffee. No. That’s not hygienic. This is a bank. Not Starbucks. I don’t go to a coffee shop to pay my mortgage. I notice the concierge’s main job is to tackle old people before they get inside. As soon as they enter they’re headed off and redirected outside to a machine. I get the feeling they came here to avoid machines, but that’s not how it works now. I watch the concierge run an impromptu training session on the ATM. So now the bank is running tech support, or a kind of University for the third age? Just let the old lady in the bank. It’s taken her three hours to get out of the house, stop running interference!
I never thought I’d feel nostalgic about lining up. But I liked it when the chickens were in their cages. When the bank was serious, and the money was locked up with the tellers. Now the tellers are up and walking, it makes you think the grand plan, one day, is that branches close and they just walk away. If all you are doing is serving free coffee to confused old people on ottomans, it’s hardly worth the expense of keeping the doors open.
I realise as banks transition to this friendly format, that bank robbery may become too difficult. A crime rendered obsolete by the digital age. How could you even rob a place like this? There isn’t any money dude. If you want money you have to ask Debbie and come back on Wednesday. Or use the ATM. You might need to take your balaclava off. Put your gun down. Sit on an ottoman. Have a coffee. Money is just numbers on a screen now. If you want to hold up the bank you’ll have to become an executive.
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