Kosher Eucharist / יוקאריסט כשר

I have a bank account. I’m not entirely sure why - I’m lucky if I have enough spare cash for a daily meal, which renders the concept of a decentralized system for the storing of money somewhat irrelevant - but I do. Not only do I have a bank account, I have a bank account at the absolute worst bank in Israel (a distinction roughly analogous to being the most enthusiastically human flesh-consuming dictator in sub-Saharan Africa), a bank whose conception of customer service and fiscal responsibility is summed up by its name alone: Discount Bank.

I actually have my own name for it. I’ll give you a hint: the word “Discount” has three vowels, and I take one out.

I have an account at Discount Bank because when I first arrived in Israel, I didn’t have any friends who knew well enough to inform me that opening an account there is the same as setting fire to your money, except of course when set fire to your money the lighter doesn’t demand you sign in triplicate and provide ID each time you strike the flint. So I blithely opened an account, and the money began to trickle out before the sullen clerk was even done demanding to know why I have a Russian middle name.

The banking system in Israel bears some explaining for my foreign audience. In most of the civilized world, according to my admittedly limited understanding of all things even vaguely related to money, the bank/customer relationship goes roughly like so:

Customer: Hi, I’d like to keep my money here.
Bank: Alright. We’ll hold onto your money and make it easily accessible, reserving the right to use it as capital for our company’s investments. In case we make a bad investment, the federal government will ensure that you, personally, suffer no financial loss. In return for your patronage, we’ll pay you a small monthly allowance based on the amount of money present in your account. What color cooler do you want?
Customer: Blue.

In Israel, of course, things are different.

Customer: Shalom, I’d like to withdraw some money from my account.
Bank: We’re sorry, the money in your account is not available at the moment.
Customer: Why the fuck not?!
Bank: It’s currently tied up in some investments. If you’ll look over the forms, which you signed in triplicate, you’ll see you’ve authorized the bank to do this.
Customer: What fucking investments?
Bank: Your capital was requisitioned because Mr. Nzeogwu in Lagos just sent us an e-mail saying he only needs another $2500 before his bank will release the $500 million fortune of a Texan oil baron who was tragically killed by Masai warriors while on safari. Once Mr. Nzeogwu’s money is released, your money will be returned to your account. Minus the standard 300 shekel investment fee, of course.
Customer: I’m going to kill someone.
Bank: Sorry, that service is not available at this branch. You’ll have to go to the branch at which you opened your account.

You see, the rent is due tomorrow, and thus I found myself at the downtown Discount Bank today with a comfortingly thick wad of shekels in hand, struggling to resist the powerful urge to run away with it to Laos where I could use it to rule as a god. Naturally, because it’s Discount Bank, there were only two open service windows and a line of fat old women, fat old religious women, and freichot (Discount’s target demographic) snaking back to the door. Naturally, because it’s Israel, I only use the word “line” because there’s no simple, elegant, monosyllabic English word for “disorganized mob of people pushing, complaining, talking on cell phones and playing Israel’s national sport, known simply as ‘I’m-behind-you-so-guard-my-place-in-line-while-I-go-grab-a-hafukh-and-a-Panai-Plus’.” (I have my own corollary game I start playing when Israelis pull this shit, which I call ‘When-you-come-back-and-demand-to-cut-in-front-of-the-person-now-behind-me, I’ll-pretend-I’ve-never-seen-you-before-in-my-life.” It’s fun to play!)

The only thing worse than waiting in a 45-minute line for a simple cash deposit, watching the bank’s tellers lard up on rugelach and gossip as the peasants grow restive in front of the glass windows, is when somebody in the line, always a woman of a certain age, decides that the most effective way to get everything moving smoothly is shouting complaints about the poor service and loudly lamenting how much of a hurry she’s in: “MAH KOREH PO?! ZEH LO BESEDER! ANI MEMAHERET!! SHERUT AL HA-PANIM BA-BANK HA-ZEH! EIZEH BALAGAN!” This makes the clerks even less inclined to get to work, and it makes me fucking furious. I become overcome by a powerful urge to wheel around and hiss, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, lady, I will memaher all over YOUR panim. Not because I want to, but because I have to. And what the fuck are you in such a hurry for? Are the fucking bourekasim getting cold, you withered bitch?”

Of course, I don’t actually hiss that. Because I’m a gentleman.

But I finally arrived to the teller, a religious woman wearing one of those ridiculous hats religious women have somehow convinced themselves don’t make them look like Jackie O. immediately after eating Aristotle, who, in a dazzling display of confidence in the customer, slowly and deliberately counted my money three times after I told her how much there was - and then made a show of how much of a favor she was doing me by allowing me to deposit a large amount of money at a branch of Discount that was not the one at which I opened my account.

I think the entire Discount experience can be most effectively encapsulated by mentioning what’s been playing on the TV monitors for people waiting in line every single time I’ve been at the bank for the past six months: extreme sports blooper reels. Normally watching a stunt biker toppling off his Kawasaki and shattering his tailbone would make you wince, but after 45 minutes in Discount world, the only thing you’ll be feeling is jealousy.