O O Ø O O O O
Bank Fuck Bastards
Another reason the banks should die.
I recently had to do something that I really hate doing: I had to go to the bank. Not the ATM—that I can handle—the honest-to-goodness bank, with tellers, security cameras, and all those people who stand in line because they are incapable of working a bank machine. The building that’s open exactly four-and-a-half hours a day, three days a week for your personal banking convenience.
Yes. That bank.
I had to go, because I had a cheque to deposit, and the cheque was in US funds. For no good reason, there’s no way to do this type of deposit through a bank machine, so I had to visit a person. Dealing with an actual bank teller never goes well with me—I don’t know why. Karma, perhaps. I must have slighted a banker in a previous life—so just to make sure, I decided to check with the person working the reception desk. That, of course, meant I had to find the person working the reception desk. Several minutes of waving at security cameras and people ensued. Eventually, I got the answer I expected:
“No. Go stand in line with the rest of the unwashed masses.”
So I did. Much to my relief, only one of the other patrons was actually unwashed. Still, it took a surprisingly long time to make it through the line. When I got to the front, I was surprised to see that only one of the four teller windows was unoccupied.
“Strange,” I muttered to myself, “I would have expected it to move faster with three people working.” Eventually, I realized the problem. Two of the three people occupying the Teller slots were performing tasks that clearly had nothing to do with serving the public. Apparently, they don’t have computers in other parts of the bank.
Eventually, it was my turn to speak with the one-and-only Teller. I handed her my cheques, and waited to see what Murphy was going to throw at me.
“What’s this” she asked, pointing at one of them.
“It’s a rebate cheque.” Apparently, the tightwads who mail out software rebate cheques nowadays have decided that an envelope is unnecessary, so they send out cheques as if they were postcards.
“Er, are you sure?”
Score one for the rebate industry. Apparently, bank employees can’t even distinguish the cheques from trash.
“I’m sure.”
The confused teller went in search of assistance. Eventually, she brought back somebody higher on the bank teller food chain, pointed at my rebate postcard and asked “Is that a cheque?”
There was a long pause. “Could be. It’s coded.”
“It’s a cheque,” I inserted helpfully. At least, I thought it was helpful. The pair of glares that I was met with indicated otherwise.
This went on for a while. Eventually, the other teller gave up, and wandered away. This apparently worked in my favour, as the Teller finally turned to me and asked, “to which account should I deposit them?” As a response, I handed her my bank card, and said “Chequing.”
Much to my surprise, this worked. She swiped my card, looked up the account number, and handed the card back to me.
“Please swipe and enter your PIN”
Why it was necessary to swipe it again, I have no idea, but having spent over 20 minutes in the bank already, I wasn’t about to put up a fight. I entered my PIN, and hit OK.
Blah. Incorrect.
The Teller, apparently used to this, didn’t even look up. “Type it more slowly.” I Enter my pin again, slowly, looking to make sure all the buttons were pressed. Satisfied, I hit OK.
Blah. Incorrect.
The Teller didn’t say a word. Puzzled, I entered my pin a third time, very slowly, listening for each keyclick, and watching the parade of # characters go across the screen as I did so. When I was done, I re-counted the #s to make sure they were all there. They were. I hit the OK button.
Blah. Your PIN has been obliterated. Get a new card, Loser.
Surprised, I looked to the Teller for assistance. She glares at me for being incapable of using a keypad, and wanders away. Eventually she comes back with the paperwork, and I fill it out. She asks for two pieces of ID, and I hand them over. Eventually, she slides the forms across the counter for my signature. I comply, and, 30 minutes into my banking experience, get the chance to enter my new PIN.
“You can use the same one as last time,” she says automatically. Apparently, this has happened before. I enter my new pin, taking great care to ensure all they keys are registering. When prompted, I enter it again, carefully, and gingerly press the OK button.
PIN Accepted.
Surprised, I watch her punch a few more buttons. Eventually she points to the evil machine and says “Please swipe and enter your PIN.”
So I do.
Blah. Wrong PIN, Dumbass.
At this point, I just stare at the Teller. She says “You have to enter it slowly.” Unable to hold back any longer, I say, very carefully, “I have entered it 6 times now. What are the chances that the only two times I got it right were when I was entering my new one?”
She shrugs.
I enter it again, using one finger, pausing for a full second between each keypress. When done, I count the number of #s on the screen, count them again, and whisper a prayer to Allah.
It takes.
I look at the Teller one more time and say “You know, I entered it the exact same way all 7 times. Muscle memory, and all that”
“I don’t know,” she says simply. Though it is clear she has been through this ordeal many, many times before, the vaguely oblivious look on her face tells me that she is neither curious, nor willing to figure out what is wrong with the machine. I thank her for my time, and leave. On the way out of the bank, I realize I have no actual cash, so I stop at the bank machine and stick in my bank card. On a lark, I enter my PIN at full speed, letting muscle memory do all the work.
PIN Accepted. Welcome to the Royal Bank.
Banks never cease to amaze me.
Kjell Wooding
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
PD DCXXV