THE SONIC BOOMER
Instead of my usual lighthearted column filled with joy (and if you believe that, you haven’t been reading it), this column will be filled with vitriol and hate. It’s that, or I explode. I hate my bank. In fact, is there a word stronger than hate?
I chose this bank because it is everywhere I am and, occasionally, I have to do banking. I thought its many locations would make it convenient. But it is not convenient. In fact, it has done everything in its power to make itself as inconvenient as possible. First, it changed its name several times. I believe its current name to be Bank of South America, although I’m sure it doesn’t call itself that here in the U.S.
Then, it did away with drive-through lanes. To hell with customers who are handicapped or have sleeping babies in the car or just spilled a cherry soda into their lap. Who needs ’em?
Finally, it now insists on ID if you want to make a deposit. A deposit! “Listen,” I told the teller through gritted teeth (which is the only way they have ever heard me talk), “Anybody who comes in here wanting to put money into my account, you let them, do you hear me?!”
Although they are claiming this ID business is for my own safety (which I doubt), I cannot fathom how they are getting away with abolishing drive-through lanes. Shouldn’t the ADA be all over this?
I am sure that BOSA (which I ought to call BSA, but don’t want to accidentally implicate the Boy Scouts of America, the Birmingham Small Arms company or, ironically, the Bank Secrecy Act), is trying to force us to use their ATMs. However, on numerous occasions, after I’ve run back home to change my slacks, I have entered the lobby only to hear extremely patient people trying to explain (in a calm manner they certainly did not feel) to various disinterested bank personnel how they put their checks into the ATM but didn’t get credit for them.
So, I don’t want to do that. Even though it’s a pain in the patoot for bankers to have to look at me, much less interact in any capacity, I like to be right there to correct the many, many errors they make, which include (but are not limited to) miscounting my money, putting my money into the wrong account or forgetting to give me a receipt for my money (my only recourse).
But beyond all those things that rankle me, the thing that really pops my cork is the pair of bankers who stand at the front door to “welcome” me and ask how they can help. Not feeling welcome at all, I always point to the long line of furious depositors awaiting the attention of their one slack-jawed teller and suggest they a) personally open another window and b) bring back the drive-through. They laugh, amused at my ignorance, until they see the look in my eye. Then they back off.
As for me, there is no need to get so riled up. A mere 45 minutes later, I am at the front of the line, where I am allowed the supreme pleasure of giving them my money to use as they wish, and practically interest-free. Trying to get it back is a column for another day.
