Wells Fargo has become more generous with the free waters of late, but with it has come a rush to meet and greet at the door. Raw customer service at its worst, calling me by name as if this falsehood, this faux familiarity, is apt to put more money in their nasty little hands. Multiple deposits in a single day aren’t my style, water or no water. Got it, banker: multiplication don’t mean shit to me, Chuck D. Save the Poland Springs for your personal doggie bag at the end of the day or I’ll make a direct deposit at the ATM, which I don’t trust for a second any more than you. Anyway, I actually left my key chain on the table closest to the door last time in while trying to have my water and avoid the personal attention too. This one nerd, forget his name, but he’s got a funny accent, it’s like he sees me coming from the parking lot. Nerd’s got X-ray vision and not an ounce of indecision when it comes to making sure I’m spoken to by name. Take today, for example, I came in right at nine, slow moving, still half-corpse like from a tough night and feeling a little stage fright over the prospect of having to speak with anyone yet, especially the nerd who knows my name by heart. And sure as the cheek smudges of makeup on her unfamiliar face, it’s not the nerd at all, but someone bright and shiny and new. “Good morning, and welcome to Wells Fargo,” she says. “Early words for early birds,” I say, filled with lust over the anonymity of it all, no longer even thinking about the free water, yet forgetting my keys again on the table all the same.