My trip to the bank

Eddy Elmer

Personal Article, 1996

I was arguing with myself whether or not I should write this, fearing I'd be spoiling my impeccable reputation as a kind, warm, caring humanitarian who's always willing to give people a second chance, regardless of the mistakes they may have unwittingly committed.

But then I thought to myself, Oh, what the hell?

It was the last straw on the camel's back, and someone had to be valiant enough to expose this treacherous institution for the sluggish piece of antiquated machinery that it really is.

It's ironic to think that banks, encased in all that shimmering glass, amidst the posh elegance of highrises, landscaped plazas, and gold-plated revolving doors actually house some of the stupidest people on earth.

You see, it all started when in the mail I received last month's bank statement. All seemed to be in order, until I got to the bottom and noticed an entry for a "Maintenance Fee." I thought to myself, "Wait a minute, now. I have $ 3.00 in my account. What's there to maintain?"

So I called the 1-800 number listed on the bottom of the bill, and after holding for fifteen minutes, listening to the irksome sounds of Phil Collins and Marvin Gae, and then being transferred to seventeen different departments, three voice mail systems, and a very rude "Executive Administrative Assistant" (secretary) in Corporate Accounts, I was finally told that I had to go down to my own branch to have my question answered.

So I bitched, and so I went. I asked the teller, "Excuse me, miss, but what is this maintenance fee on my statement?"

She glanced it over. "Oh of course, sir, it's just a monthly fee we collect to maintain your account." Well duh.

"What do you mean maintain my account?"

"Well, a fee you pay to have us run your account."

"Run my account?"

"A fee you pay to allow us to manage your assets."

I was losing what little patience I had left."If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to the manager."

"Oh well, he's away to lunch."

"O.K, then I'd like to speak to his assistant."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. She's with him."

I'll just bet, I murmured to myself. "Well, I'll wait, but can I at least pay my Visa bill?"

"Um, do you have an account with this branch, sir?"

"Actually no, I have an account with your Guadalajaran branch, but I thought for kicks I'd come down to this branch just to be told I'd have to go over to the other one to make the payment."

She didn't take too well to my sarcasm and took the bill.

"Oh my," she started, in what appeared to me an attempt to smooth over our relationship with petty smalltalk. "You've made quite the purchases this month."

Oh great, now she was thinking that I shopped there for myself, but really, it was just for a friend who wanted me to pick something up...

She began to key in the amount of the bill, and then stopped.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Computer's down."

"Oh, I see." So we waited. And waited. And waited.

"Well, what now?"

"Um, I don't know. This is quite distressing. Let me check."

Fifteen minutes elapsed, after which long wait I saw her leave through the front doors, together with her purse, the Globe & Mail, and a bagel.

In keeping with my branch's committment to customer service, another "Customer Service Officer" (lackey) came to service me. "I'm sorry, sir, have you been looked after?"

Oh yeah, I thought to myself, I've been looked after already but I thought I'd just stick around for a few more minutes to admire the fine craftsmanship of the pen chained to the wicket. "No," I said innocently, "I haven't been looked after yet."

"Oh OK, what can I do for you?"

"Well, I'd like to pay this bill. Actually, I'd like to cash this cheque first."

"Certainly, but I'll have to hold it for seven days, unless there's someone here who knows you."

Yeah right, I said to myself, I love the staff here so much that we all go out for a café au lait after work.

"Yes, Mary knows me." Mary's a good random name. There are always lots of Marys.

"Which Mary?"

"Mary in, um, Corporate Accounts!"

"Oh yes, yes, Mary."

Suddenly some woman came over to us, and as far as I was concerned, this was Mary. "Hello Mary, how are you doing today?" I asked.

She clearly had no idea who I was, yet looked at her watch, then at my cheque, and nodded to her colleague. Now there was a fine example of banking security. For all they knew, I could have been Jim and Tammy Baker's son cashing a cheque more rubber than this woman's head. But I digress.

"Miss, could I have my balance too?"

"No problem, Mr. Johnson."

I didn't even touch that one. Although I should have, for it would have delayed somewhat the nightmare that came true right there in the pavillion, with all of thirty people waiting in line behind me, as she announced loudly enough that everyone behind me could hear, "Your balance, sir, is $ 3.00."

Of course I had no choice but to temporarily relinquish my wholesome good-naturedness and flash her the evil eye. At the same time, I started racking my brain for the words of a curse I learned from Consuela, the old spinster seamstress who used to live on our street. I ripped the balance receipt from the teller's hand, turned around, and this time shot an evil eye at the customers who were snickering at me. The bastards.

But as I headed towards the door, I started feeling a little different. Both my embarrassment and my contempt for the voluntarily feeble-minded started giving way to pride as I realised something quite amazing.

Simply by my very presence, without really having had to do a darned thing, I, Eddy Elmer, with a balance of $ 3.00 in his savings account, single-handedly managed both to occupy and entertain several fellow strangers who would otherwise have had nothing better for which to utilise their God-given brains.

My trip to the bank unsuccessful and depressing in every other way, I'd say this accomplishment was mighty big for a single afternoon, wouldn't you? After all, most other people would just have remained bitter.