Vancity and I speak only when necessary and without eye contact. I hold and have held many a proverbial straw to its merciless jaws and have literally just let the last one slip through my grasp of lethargy, along with my four precious quarters of Thursday. (No, you’re right. My bank took four quarters from me. And I could pass for a child.)
But all is not in peril, I assure you. I’ve lost much change in vending machines and jacket linings so this loss hurts only inside because I bottle up my emotions and my attention span doesn’t extend terribly far about matters concerning me and my happiness. Fortunately, my intellect and resourcefulness overcome those of a bank drone and most acute spells of depression and I have found a neat and cunning alternative to teller hell. In fact, if I am fine with waiting a couple days processing time for deposits, I need never speak to a Vancity human again! Of course this all comes at the price of failure which comes out to be an even dollar.
This Plan Elk does not yet call for a Plan Laugh. I need something to complain about once Richmond is out of the photo of a thousand whines, and the grand exit comes one sunrise from now. But, I discovered that by clever use of the automated Vancity Voice over the phone, I could transfer funds and pay bills instantly and generally quell most of my Vancity Vendettae, even on Sundays and after 5pm. I actually did this while standing in line, and after entering my PIN and hitting OK at the register, I could almost feel my money fly away through bittersweet tears.
The last straw was on Thursday, and the surge was over sixty-eight cents. Three months ago, I innocently moved money from one account to the other in the interest of interest and to overcome the red tape of a locked term deposit. At any other institution (aside from UBC) this sort of thing would cause the employees to chat about my stupidity once I was cast out of earshot. Unfortunately, I am naïve. I enlisted a polo-shirted teller who went by some vowelless gallic name to do The Switch. Either he couldn’t do his job, or I was lulled into a name-pitying stupor upon hearing his rounded R’s and wooden vowels. The task was simple, but not simple enough for me to go on living a life free of service charges, and clearly way over the head of the Tellerman and now I feel the only recompense would be for me to remove his head with a spoon thereby curbing his crimes of apathy.
I got a letter in the mail a week ago informing me that my account was overdrawn. First, I don’t understand how this happens in general. I understand credit card debt because you spend money you don’t have. But, overdrawing your account? An ATM doesn’t give you money you don’t have. If it did, that would be the only problem the world would have to worry about. A point of sale transaction doesn’t approve if you don’t have sufficient funds and if it did, again, that would solve all problems except one. Chequing? An NSF cheque bounces and compounds interest until you pay it off, like a credit card. Machines aren’t capable of giving you a dime in change instead of fumbling with pennies for eight cents. Machines will not decide to let you have money that isn’t yours. And, in my case, a Teller would never withdraw an amount superior to the one I had originally and gift me the remainder. In no way can I conceive of this alleged overdrawing business occurring and furthermore, I have no part in it because this specific account is not tied to any cards I may or may not use and realizing this, my mind instantly returned to my gallic friend. I (unwisely) strode into my branch and let known my woes to some scummy piece of donkey shit whose head was quickly threatening to become victim of my spoon violence thereby sparing the Tellerman of Yore his slavic jawline.
I stayed standing while Donkey Shit sat and kept his focus below my acidic glower and he explained that any transaction in the branch is charged a $0.70 fee, and why didn’t I do it online, like someone of dim wattage would? Well, I explained, using words with syllables he could understand, this concerned an account I did not have online access to and there was no need to insult me over service charges that add to his paycheck. Why also, was this simply not deducted from the original sum I had? I wouldn’t have noticed, bloody hell! He fiddled with a cube of post-its. “What can you do for me?” I pushed, showing how polite I could be by omission while he retreated with an offer to unlock the term deposit via future appointment and several signatures and transfer one dollar from there to the overdraft causing it to disappear like I wanted him to. I are you kiddinged him with a powerglare-eyeroll roundoff. “I have a dollar right here,” I said, before politely inserting a 9mm in his temple in a way that projected a raw hatred while maintaining an open-casket worthy complexion.
Unfortunately that last bit was suppressed in an impressive display of control on my part and I left less a bit of change, a lotta soul, and what I’m sure will be the guarantee of a kindly future letter informing me of the service charge overdraft for this very transaction. I just need to remember, in my Independence, to save toonies for laundry, loonies for shopping carts, and quarters for Threatening Vancity. It’s the least I can do for them.
