BMO

About this location

A few stories people tell about this place

1. At BMO Bank, after hours of routine transactions, an elderly gentleman approached the counter with an unusual request. ‘Could you please hold my check for exactly seven minutes and twenty-three seconds?’ he asked, smiling mysteriously. The teller looked puzzled but agreed. Seven minutes later, the old man returned, took his check, and left without a word. The next day, a delivery driver mentioned casually that he’d seen the same gentleman in line at the coffee shop across the street, sipping tea and reading a book. Stranger still, every time someone mentions waiting exactly seven minutes and twenty-three seconds at BMO, their transaction goes through faster than usual.

2. At BMO Bank, one morning before opening hours, a delivery driver noticed something odd. The air was filled with a strange scent—like freshly baked cookies mixed with old books. He peered inside and saw a shadowy figure in the lobby, busily stacking boxes on the counter. Curious, he approached closer and saw that the boxes were filled with old calendars from the 80s. The shadowy figure turned out to be an elderly neighbor who worked part-time there, organizing archival materials for fun. With a smile, she offered him a cookie, explaining it was her secret recipe passed down through generations. The delivery driver left that day thinking BMO might be the only bank where you could get both your deposit and a nostalgic treat.

3. At BMO Bank, during a quiet weekday afternoon, a delivery driver parked his truck and walked past the loading dock. To his surprise, he spotted a small, dusty violin propped against the wall. Curious, he picked it up—it felt old but not heavy. Later that evening, while everyone else was gone, he played a few notes. Turned out, the violin belonged to an elderly neighbor who’d forgotten it there years ago. The next day, when asked why he was practicing in the empty office, he simply smiled and said, ‘Why not? It’s good for the soul.’

4. At BMO Bank, on a chilly autumn night, a delivery driver adjusted his jacket and peered through the glass door. Inside, the lights were off, but he swore he heard whispers coming from the empty lobby. Curious, he cracked open the door just enough for a whisper back: ‘What are you doing here?’ A voice replied softly, ‘Just counting our money.’ The driver laughed nervously and walked away, never mentioning it again—except maybe once or twice when telling tall tales around town.