The management training system in banking in the 1970s and 1980s could best be compared to a short stint in accelerated boot camp followed by being thrown into the trenches of war. No one wanted a non-productive worker, so having a trainee sitting around in a branch banking office was not tolerated for long. “Learn and do. Repeat. Correct and improve. Repeat.” The hiring interview promise of a 6-week training program followed by “shadowing” a seasoned employee for another 4-6 weeks was like an insider shell game. It reminds me of the joke my cousin tells so well about a son wanting to borrow $60 from his stingy father: “What? $60? What do you mean, $40? What are you going to do with $20?!”
The truth is, though, that the ones who made it - the management candidates who overcame the disappearing promise of training and shadowing time, became able enough to get themselves in front of customers, and actually became productive – were like a corps of survivors. They got their assignments and banded together; they sought each other after work to lick wounds and share stories, and they engaged the “phone-a-friend” plan to get quick help from each other in handling difficult clients without risking embarrassment by involving upper management.
I was one of those young managers. At 24, I left the family Easter dinner table because my beeper went off to alert me that my branch’s night vault was not operating. I spent several hours, with a local policeman at my side, collecting locked night bags filled with retailers’ cash deposits and securing them in the locked building. At 26, during New England’s infamous Blizzard of ’78, I was among that elite cadre known as “necessary personnel” who had to leave my apartment building, find my car (totally buried in snow), unearth it, and wait to follow a series of snow plows out of the complex, onto secondary roads, and finally onto the highway to navigate to my branch so that I could reset the automatic alarms for 24 hours. And oh, yes, please see paragraph 1 “Learn and do. Repeat.” Back I came through an only slightly-less treacherous route the next day, and a bit less hazardous the next day. Banks were closed for 4 days and then a weekend. But I was there daily, and so were my peers. We were survivors, remember?
Clusters of us would be generated every year, and about half survived in the business. As we became managers ourselves and could finally pass on many of the ministerial duties to our own set of “newbies,” we still had our mentors to whom we owed everlasting respect. They continued to oversee us based on their own seniority, and if they were decent, they actually helped us grow. So Rob, who had launched our pack of assistant managers, would always be our mentor. His invitation was extra-special to each of us, and I knew that funny costumes and fun conversations would make the night memorable.
After we had gathered for hugs, introductions of our dates, and a round of drinks, Rob grabbed his agenda to get the evening underway and realized that he had forgotten something. “I have listed Susan B. Anthony dollar coins as a raffle prize, and I forgot to get them out of my vault before I closed up tonight!” he groaned. “I don’t have any accessible rolls of them that I can run over and grab!” Hearing this, we gathered to solve the problem. My branch was closest, and I knew I had at least 20 rolls in a vault I could access by key, so I quickly ran off leaving my date with friends to continue enjoying the party. I called the police before I left so they could meet me (as was the policy), and drove the 5 miles or so to my branch.
On March 15th of that year, my branch had been robbed, and I had watched one of the robbers pass by me as I was mid-lobby, jump the counter, and land perfectly in a teller stall to begin his looting. Thankfully, no one was hurt, little was taken, and the armed robber interrupted at the pre-designated 3-minute mark so that they could be off before police arrived. However, the robbery itself had always stuck in my mind. I had rolled the tape over and over, amazed at its precision.
When I arrived at my branch the police were not yet there, but I went inside and waited. After a few minutes, that tape started to roll in my head, and I began to wonder how hard it would be to jump that counter like the robber had. I was probably about his age and in good shape. I had made many a jump over the horse in gymnastics class. I knew the area by heart and should be able to make a perfect landing with my eyes closed. “Learn and do.”
In the next minute, I was running parallel to the teller counter. I turned, planted my hands, and pulled my knees up under me to vault the counter. BANG. My costume’s fur spared me the bruises I probably would have otherwise had as I whacked both shoulders on the counter. I stood back stubbornly and recalculated. The lower counter where I needed to plant my hands was probably 36” high, and the upper counter I needed to clear was probably 48” high. “Correct and Improve.” I could definitely do this.
I retraced my steps, took a deep breath, and started a more circuitous route to zigzag into the landing area with more speed. Plant. CRASH. Although I had gotten more elevation, my knees had smashed into the back of the lower counter and I teetered like a furry, beached whale. Afraid to move until I had done a quick self-diagnostic to ensure I had not broken any bones, I went still. Knock knock, I heard. My two policeman friends Dan and Dave were bent over at the glass entry door laughing until they cried.
Do you think I have ever lived that story down? Twenty-five years have passed, and those two cops are senior ranking officers. But when I go back and visit my hometown, invariably I bump into them and they laugh. In fact, the story went so viral that for a while I would be approached by near-strangers asking for the “bear truth” – the real story “from the bear’s mouth.”
“Correct and improve.” No more Halloween costumes. No more counter-vaulting. Just great memories.
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