It was back in the late 80s for a bank that has since been taken over by B of A.  It was a big deal for a kid of 19 yet the truth was that as a teller I sucked.  My personable disposition could by no means balance out my ability to reconcile my cash at the end of my shift.  This was long before Windows which meant transactions were done by hand (which should have made me consider becoming a physician instead), there was no Plexiglas which meant people could touch me (sometimes their breath touched me before anything else since smoking was allowed in Calif. buildings).

I had about three or so bosses but the worst was the Operations Officer.  She looked like Linda Evangelista would look today had she not cut up her face and since she smoked like a train, was fairly trim.  While she was pretty open about her personal issues and at the time seemed to know how to have a good time for someone her age, which at that time was early 40s, her mood swings took me for a serious loop.  One minute she'd be laughing and joking and the next cursing any teller out like a county recipient who got their benefits cut and had no intention of looking for a job-ever.  Me being the somewhat defensive type, shot right back at her or anyone else who gave me a time about my last name (let's say it's 'Steele').  It wasn't the fact that I couldn't acknowledge I wasn't that great but the fact that she had to humiliate me in front of everyone.  After a while, it became a sick game.  I used her candid take on her love life (i.e. Well, maybe if you weren't a bitch you might keep a man or at least, your husband wouldn't have left you -
in a sing-songy tone that sounded like I was talking about the weather).  She took shots at my growing backside (which seemed to grow with every pay day since I was going through a depression stage then and this was 10 yrs before having a huge ass became trendy).  I think our hair don'ts made us call a truce (I had a Duran Duran's John Taylor bleached skunk mullet circa 1984 and she just looked like a Dayglo carrot - which coincidentally we both used a dark brown rinse by the next business day).

I quit after about nine months and after I found that I hated my next job even more that I could not return to the bank.  I always believed that hot flashes were the cause of her evil but older tellers said she had a coke problem. After I left, a former co-worker said it was inoperable cancer.  Much as I hate to say it, I still get a kick out of her wearing the tightest miniskirts with the highest stilleto heels in a place of business while puffing on a cigarette.