The horses were gone. That’s the first thing I noticed the other day as I walked into the lobby of my local branch of one of the nation’s biggest banks. After 15 years of banking there, they were gone. Each teller station used to have an arch above it – all joined like a starting gate at the races – every one crowned with a lovely dark sculpture of a horse head.
When my children were small, we loved to look up at them, especially during the holidays when each horse wore a Santa cap. The horse is something of a local mascot in the area, long known for its equestrian farms.
But the horses weren’t all that was missing. What had been a lovely and welcoming lobby was now completely institutionalized. The deep wood and jewel tones were gone. The architectural detail in the windows, gone. Gone was the chandelier.
The floor is now covered with concrete-looking industrial carpet. A vast emptiness lies beneath the ceiling, giving the place a motor-vehicle-department feel. It is so thoroughly stripped of character that I would feel the sterility even if I had never before set foot in the place.
All corners seemed to scream out: “We are your government bank now!”
At least twice as many employees filled the lobby since my visit many weeks ago. Most sat in a little sea of desks like somber civil servants, causing me to flash back to a scene from a classic silent film “The Crowd,” about modernity, directed by King Vidor.
All of those workers were available, and one even signaled me over. As I sat at his desk, I asked “Where are the horses?” He just shrugged. I proceeded with my business question about my account.
He couldn’t answer my question. I repeated it three times, three different ways. Each time he gave it his same best guess. I persisted a bit more.
“I think so,” he said with finality.
I then spotted one trusted old employee who was always pleasant and efficient. But he walked past, busy and wordless, with no eye contact. Something strange was in the air. I asked the new guy if he’d mind if we ask my question to the old employee – whom I twice mentioned by name.
He said okay, but took me to someone else instead. The manager. But even the manager could not answer my question, because he was “only a couple weeks” on the job.
He quickly assured me that if I ended up with a problem, I was welcome to come back and see him then.
Could I get a card? “Sorry, don’t have them yet.” But he escorted me to the teller, regaling me with unsolicited information about the bank’s vision for the future.
As I gaped in silence at the sad new barrenness, he cheerfully assured me how wonderful this “streamlined” look was (No!) . . . that there’d be a new “pilot” program for more new employees (Will they answer questions?) . . . that every service would be under one roof, no need to go anywhere else for anything (No need? Or no choice?) . . . that someone would soon be stationed at the door with a notepad to greet me. . . (For my sake or theirs?)
Where are the horses?” I implored. He couldn’t really say.
Wild horses couldn’t drag me to stay at that bank.
Stella Morabito is a Maryland freelance writer who focuses on issues of society, culture and education.
