I moved to Los Angeles when I was twenty-two years old. I just wanted to perform comedy in some way. I thought acting was the natural path for me. I’d done improv and sketch when I was in high school, though only for one summer. I had a small part in a community play, also during my high school years, and I’d shot countless comedy videos with my friends. I knew I could do it. I was funny, I could access emotions, and I was also really good at memorizing. So here was my plan. I’d read that a number of Saturday Night Live stars had been trained at the Groundlings, an improv school in Los Angeles. In my mind all I needed to do was train there, get on SNL, and then after a few seasons I’d do movies.
Solid plan, Tom.
LA is a huge city full of people looking to find their way among the millions of others who seem to know what they’re doing. There, I felt like I had no one, because I didn’t. I needed a friend. At the Groundlings school I became friendly with some of the other students. Still, I wouldn’t become close with any of them. They already had their own crew.
I wasn’t a friendless loser forever, though. The Groundlings led me to stand-up, and it was stand-up that would lead me to some of the closest relationships I’ve ever had. The first great friend I made in Los Angeles was Ryan Sickler. Ryan hails from Baltimore, one of the country’s toughest cities, and he has that city in his DNA. He’ll talk shit as hard as anyone I’ve ever met, but at his core he is a sweet, caring guy. Ryan is a few years older than me and already had his bearings in LA when we met. He introduced me to comedy show bookers, took me to all his favorite food spots, and invited me to hang out at his place. I more than accepted the welcome. I practically moved in. I don’t think he was anticipating having me there, at his place, every day, but that’s just the kind of guy I am. If I like you, I will come around.
Ryan had a great setup: a nice apartment, but more importantly, he always had the latest PlayStation, and we would sometimes play until sunrise. We played like Sony was paying us to test their games. God, I miss having no responsibilities! Madden, Halo, and Splinter Cell were on regular rotation.
I started dating my wife, Christina, in 2005, but Ryan has had a series of girlfriends, some for one night, others for a few years. Whenever he was single I’d keep my eyes open for him. Over time I learned his type: pretty, curvy, funny, with a preference for Latinas and Black women.
So it came as no surprise when, a few years ago, I was standing in line at a Wells Fargo branch and thought of Ryan immediately when I saw that the woman behind the counter was a beautiful, olive-skinned woman.
Damn, Ryan would dig her.
When I approached the counter I became even more convinced. She had a big, beautiful smile, and best of all, she was fun.
“Just making a deposit.”
“You leaving any for me?”
“You know, if I had more I would.”
When I left I called him right away.
“Hey, man, I think I found your next girlfriend.”
“Who?”
“She’s a teller at Wells Fargo. Absolutely gorgeous. Olive-skinned, curvy, and a great attitude.”
“Shit, I like that.”
“Want me to try to set it up?”
“You got a picture?”
Of the bank teller? Yeah, right next to the pictures of my butcher and the mailman.
“No, but she’s smoking hot. Trust me.”
“Kinda need to see her first.”
“Seriously, you don’t trust me?”
“I don’t do blind dates.”
Can you believe this shit? Here I am thinking of my single friend, knowing that I’m looking at a woman he’d like, and he hits me with “I need to see a picture first.”
Fine.
I let it go. A few weeks later I was back at the same branch in the same line, looking at tweets on my phone, when I saw her again. She looked even better. Without thinking, I hit the camera app, raised my phone and snapped a few pictures of her.
Now he’ll see.
Once again, I was impressed with her conversational skills. I mean, she noticed my shoes.
“Are those Jordans?”
“You know it.”
“I’ve never seen those colors before.”
“That’s because a friend of mine made them.”
“I need a friend like that.”
When a lady compliments your J’s, she’s a keeper. This time I noticed her name tag, Natasha. I was absolutely certain that he would like her, but I didn’t say anything to her. I wanted Ryan’s blessing on her photo first.
I left the bank and realized that I was running late. The branch was located adjacent to downtown in the southeast pocket of Koreatown, and I had to get to the Icehouse, a comedy club in Pasadena, which with traffic, could end up taking me sixty to seventy minutes at this early evening hour. No more than five minutes passed when I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. I usually don’t answer those, but this day I did.
“Hello.”
“Tom Segura?”
“Yes.”
“This is Carlos with Wells Fargo.”
I was impressed. You usually don’t get customer service follow-ups this quickly, but I was happy to tell them how well they were doing.
“Hi, Carlos. I’m very happy with my accounts and with the service I’ve received.”
“I’m from the security division of Wells Fargo. Is there a reason you were taking photos inside the branch today? We have you on video.”
Everything slowed down. I felt my voice drop, and my vision blurred.
Am I having an aneurysm?
My first instinct was to try to defuse the situation with a light-hearted question.
“Oh, I mean, did you think I took them to rob the bank?”
“I don’t know, did you?”
What kind of fucking idiot am I, volunteering that? Do you think I’m going to rob you?
“No. No, I wasn’t and I’m not planning on… ever robbing your or any other bank.”
“So why were you taking pictures?”
“I was taking a photo of the teller so I could show her to my friend… for a potential date.”
Fuck. That can’t sound good.
“So you were taking photos of the teller?”
“Yeah, I think her name is Natasha. Sorry.”
“Sir, we don’t appreciate our employees’ privacy being violated.”
“Yup. I totally understand. I apologize.”
I felt like he got it. He got it that I got it. We’re probably good now.
“I need you to delete those photos.”
“Yup. Right away.”
I couldn’t believe it, but Carlos had a power over me that I’d never experienced. He was ordering me over the phone to delete pictures from my phone and I was 100 percent complying. I wasn’t just saying it. I slowed down, opened my photos, and deleted the couple I had taken, just as I was told to.
“Done. Just deleted them. Really sorry about that.”
“Please don’t do that again, sir.”
“Absolutely not. That was a very stupid mistake on my part.”
“Just be aware that you are now on a list.”
You have to be shitting me.
“List?”
“It’s a potential threat list that all bank security divisions share.”
“All Wells Fargos?”
“No. All banks in the United States. You were immediately added when you were seen taking photos today.”
“Jesus. How long am I on the list?”
“Indefinitely.”
My first thought was regretting that I deleted those photos. I mean, if I’m on a list indefinitely I should at least have the evidence on me. But now I had bigger problems. Did the list mean I couldn’t have a bank account? I needed to know.
“Can I still bank at that branch?”
“That will be up to them.”
The line went dead. Carlos had hung up on me. I was practically shitting myself. I felt like the FBI was going to be waiting for me at the Icehouse. I arrived there about thirty minutes later and, thankfully, they weren’t, but Ryan Sickler was.
I told him the whole ordeal: that I’d seen her again, snapped a few photos, and been called by bank security, ordered to delete them, and now I was on a national watch list of potential threats to all banks. Ryan’s response:
“You didn’t delete the photos of her, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Why?
“Because Carlos told me to!”
“How’s he gonna know what’s on your phone?”
“Carlos knows, man! Carlos just knows.”
Now I was in a world of shit because Ryan didn’t take my word that this woman was hot. I don’t remember how I got through my show that night, but the next day I went back to the bank just after they opened.
I asked to speak to the manager. She was a woman in her thirties and, surprisingly, she was very understanding. I told her about the incident before security did.
“They’ll probably brief me after lunch.”
I asked if I was still allowed to bank there and she said, “Of course.” I was so relieved. I felt like I had gone to confession. But there was one thing left to do. I needed to apologize to Natasha.
The manager had her come to the office, and she left me, a potential threat, in there with her all alone. I came clean and told Natasha the whole story. I was so embarrassed by all of it, but you know what she did? She laughed. She thought it was sweet.
“You know, I am single.”
“Do you want to go out with my friend? This would make such a great story.”
“You got a picture?” She laughed.
“Actually, I do.” I had tons of photos of Ryan. We’d been friends for fifteen years at that point. I took my time. Told her I had to find a good one. I scrolled until I saw one of him smiling. It was taken at a party, and if I were building a dating profile for him, I would have made it his main picture.
She looked for a long beat, considering what to do. Her eyes danced around, her head moved a little, a sway. And then:
“Not my type.”
I had to laugh. We parted as friends, and since they both now knew the story, they eventually found each other on Facebook. Ryan called me.
“I shoulda trusted you, man.”
“Why’s that?”
“Natasha. God damn, she looks good.”
“I fuckin’ told you, man! I’m on a federal watch list because you don’t trust your friend.”