The “Good, Safe” First Job at a Bank
I was 17 years old when I landed what my parents called “a good, safe job” — working at a bank. A respectable job where nothing unusual ever happens. Except, apparently, being locked in a bank vault like a low-budget magician’s assistant. This is not just a make-believe, funny bank job story — it really did happen.
This was back when banks still had real vaults. Not cupboards with a keypad, but a massive steel door with a second layer of bars at the front.
I was the junior — the pleb who got sent in first every morning to check the back rooms for crooks, robbers, and other lowlifes while the rest of the staff waited outside until I gave the ‘all clear’ sign. But that’s okay; I’m just a newbie in the world of work, and I do as I’m told. So, when the front doors close at the end of the business day and the manager tells me to put things back in the vault, I simply do it.
Locked In a Bank Vault
“Shane, please put these on the back shelf in the vault,” he said casually.
And like a trusting 17-year-old who believed adults were always well-intentioned, particularly when they’re your boss, I picked up the files and entered the vault without a care in the world. But as I placed the files neatly on the back shelf, I heard the ominous sound of the vault door closing behind me.
THUD. CLICK. DIAL.
When the Bank Alarms Go Mental
At that moment, I felt the blood drain from my face, and my knees go weak. This is how I die! I could envision the headlines in the newspaper the following day: Dead: Junior Employee Locked In a Bank Vault. I’m thinking, “I hope I don’t look too grotesque when they discover my body in the morning.”
Yeah, it felt like an eternity, but what 17-year-old has any concept of time? The alarms went off (probably instantly), and the 'wee oo, wee oo' inside the vault tortured my ears. It wasn't like the feeble half-time siren at a junior football match, but the kind that announces that the end of the world is upon us and the army choppers will soon be swooping in.
Front Counter Heroes: “Let Him Out!”
Inside the vault, everything echoes. Panic echoes beautifully, by the way. I started yelling out to my boss, "Mr Smith, help! Mr Smith!" (not his real name, by the way), but my words came back to me sounding more desperate and higher-pitched, distinct from that annoying 'wee oo, wee oo' that wouldn't shut up. 'Eeek! It was embarrassing. I hoped nobody heard. If I got out, I'd be so red-faced and awkward.
Outside, through the thick steel, I could hear the distant sound of laughter. Mr Smith sounded like he was absolutely losing it. The sort of laugh that says, “This is the most fun I've had all week.”
And then, as quickly as it started, the clowning around came to an abrupt halt. The vault door opened, and the alarms went deathly silent. Mr Smith stood there, mouth agape and paralysed with shock, the victim of a verbal onslaught from the two front counter girls, who were not much older than me. It was quite a smackdown — a slicing and dicing with Swiss Army Knife efficiency. I should have felt sorry for the guy. But, nah.
"Are you okay, Shane?" asks one of the girls.
"Umm, yeah. I'm okay."
And then she looks at Mr Smith with steely eyes, and the other girl joins in. It's a double staredown, and I'm not getting in the middle. The boss doesn't stand a chance. He's like a knob of butter too close to the stove. If he doesn't get out of there soon, there won't be much left of him.
***
Revenge Is Best Served With Eight Legs
I ruminated over my experience of being locked in a bank vault all night. My greatest fear in life is being buried alive, and getting locked in a bank vault is not all that much different, except you're standing up. I wasn't going to let this go without exacting some retribution. I figured it was time for my boss to face his nemesis — all eight legs of my little arachnid friend, albeit a rubber one. He's been living in my desk drawer for quite a while, patiently awaiting this golden opportunity.
The Day of Reckoning
So, it's the same old routine the following morning. Everybody gathers at the front door, and I go in and check for crooks and lowlifes who may have broken in the night before. But I didn't go in alone. When I finished checking the rooms at the back, I took Terry the Tarantula out of my pocket, reached through the bars to the vault dial, and carefully placed Terry in position, ready to be introduced to our boss, Mr Smith.
As we all stood by the vault awaiting the boss to open it, I nudged one of the girls and directed her gaze toward the dial. She put her hand over her mouth, and her eyes twinkled with excitement. Mr Smith reached his right arm through the bars, and as his hand was only inches from the dial, he noticed my friend Terry in the attack position. Now, I've gotta say that I was just about to witness one of the most joyful experiences of my life. Mr Smith squealed like a rat in a trap and jumped back like a girl playing hopscotch. He walked away, shaking his head, groaning in horror as his arms and legs trembled like jelly.
He then turned around with a rather coy smile on his face. "You got me."
Oh, flip! Now I feel bad.
