O O Ø O O O O
Standoff
The other day, I came home to a blinky light. It was a short message:
“Hello Mr. Uh. (stumble) (mumble). Uh, this is Your Bank calling. Can you please return call us at 1-800-random. Goodbye.”
“How odd,” I mused. “The last time my back called me, they had run a cheque through twice, and all my transactions were bouncing like superballs on a vibrating bed.” And even then, I think they were calling to try and sell me an overdraft. In other words, if it really was my bank, it wasn’t good news. On the other hand, in this wonderful age of Identity Theft and computer crime units who tell us “no-one ever goes to jail for fraud,” it could just as easily be some kind of phishing scheme. So I did what came naturally: I ignored it.
Three days later, I got another message:
“Hello, this is Your Bank calling. This is in regards to a personal banking matter. Please call us at 1-800-random.”
So, either a determined phisher, or my “ignore-it-until-they-call-back” approach to prioritizing was actually working. Furthermore, the new message offered at least a glimmer of what to expect: My bank was calling in regards to a personal banking matter. As luck would have it, this actually happened to be my personal bank. So, I decided to roll the dice and give their decidedly impersonal voice response system a call.
“Thank you for calling Your Bank. Merci pour appeler Votre Banque. Please note that calls may be monitored for quality assurrance. S’il vous plaît, noter que votre appelle peut-être surveillé pour l’assurance de qualité. We are currently experience higher than average call volume. Collez votre tête dans le sable vous porc-chien anglais. For service in English, please press ‘1′. Pour service en anglais, appuyez sur le un.”
At this point, I was starting to get a sneaking suspicion that this really was a bank. After all, even a phisher wouldn’t be dumb enough to ask me if I want “service in English” in French.
‘1.’
“Please wait. Your call is being transferred.”
The elevator music kicked in for a bit, and then the phone went dead. “Wow,” I thought incredulously, staring at the now dead receiver, “this actually might be a bank.” Curiosity aroused, I called back, while something about “killing cats” played itself around my subconscious.
“Thank you for calling Your Bank.”
I stabbed at the ‘1′ button.
“Merci pour appeler Votre Banque. Please note that…”
‘1.’ ‘1.’ ‘1.’
“… calls may be monitored for quality assurrance. “
‘111111111.’ ‘0.’ ‘9.’ ‘*.’ ‘#.’
“S’il vous plaît, noter que votre appelle peut-être surveillé pour l’assurance de qualité.”
‘111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111.’
“For service in English, please press ‘1′. “
‘1.’
“Pour service en anglais, appuyez sur le un.”
‘111111111111111111.’
“Thank-you. Your call is being transferred.”
Another bout of the elevator music, and then, to my surprise, I found myself talking to a human.”
“Hi. You’ve reached Chad at Your Bank’s Collections Department. How can I help you?”
“Collections?” I asked, starting to get an inkling of where this was going.
“Yes sir. How can I help you?” he asked, with an unexpected level of politeness.
“I have no idea, Chad. You called me,” I pointed out, “and you left no details.”
“That’s for security reasons,” he explained, obviously used to this part of the conversation, “can I get your phone number?”
“You mean the one that I’m calling from, and is probably displayed on your phone right now?” I asked dryly.
“Uh, yes, that one,” he admitted.
“Sure. censored“
“And your name, sir?”
“No,” I said, firmly.
“No?”
“No Chad. That would be a security violation,” I deadpanned.
“I just need it to verify who you are, for security reasons,” he explained.
“And how do I know who you are?” I asked carefully.
“Uh…” there was a short pause as he digested this information, “It said so when you called,” he finished, sheepishly.
“And no-one could ever fake a recorded message?” I said back.
“Well, I need your name in order to proceed,” he finished.
“We’re at a bit of a standoff here, Chad. My name is sitting on your screen, and it starts with the letter ‘K’. You can’t pronounce the first name,” I nudged.
“Sorry. I need your name to proceed.”
I sat thinking about this for a while. On one hand, my name had been left on the original message, so I wasn’t giving out anything new. On the other, this was starting to get fun.
“Ok Chad, I’ll play,” and I give him my name.
“Now I need to verify your address and postal code…” he continued.
“Chad,” I interrupted, “you know I’m going to say no.”
“Well, I need it in order to proceed”, he explained, almost apologetically.
I realized the conversation was going nowhere. For security reasons, the “bank” couldn’t leave any details of why the heck they were calling on my voice mail, and for security reasons (and the pure comedy value), I couldn’t give them any details about myself. It was a good old-fashioned we’re-so-secure-we-can’t-do-our-jobs kind of standoff. I let the silence weigh in for a moment, letting it make my point for me. Then, not particularly ready to let him off the line, I took a guess to us out of our little dilemma.
“Chad, is this actually about a personal banking matter, or is it about a credit card.”
“Er, credit card,” he admitted.
“And are you calling to tell me something along the lines that, on my censored-dollar credit-limit card that isn’t even remotely maxed out that I’m less than two weeks late making the $100 minimum payment?”
“Er.”
“How many days since the last payment, Chad?”
“43.” he admitted.
“And the payment?” I pressed further.
“$104″
“Chad, ” I explained patiently, “if I was going to rip off the bank, don’t you think I’d start by maxing out the card?”
“Er. Maybe,” he stumbled.
“And don’t you think perhaps I’d also dip into the line of credit which is also held at Your Bank?”
“Well, I…”
I didn’t feel like letting him recover. “And since I currently hold a line of credit with Your Bank, does it even make sense to hunt me down unless that is maxed out? You know I can just take the funds from there.”
“Sir, are you going to make a payment?” Chad was obviously frustrated now.
“Will you go away if I do?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. I’ll make a payment.”
“How much?” Chad sounded a little relieved.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” he explained. I could almost see his teeth clenching, “I have to write it down.”
“Not to be particularly blunt, Chad, but what answer will make you go away?”
“$104″
“Then for God’s sake Chad, write down $104. Does it even make sense for me to say anything higher?”
“Well…” he started.
“Never mind Chad,” I cut him off before he started to think about the question, “and thanks for your patience. You’ve renewed my faith in the banks.”
“Really?” he asked, incredulously.
“Not one bit,” I finished, and hung up the phone.
I love my bank. You just don’t get this kind of personalized service everywhere.
Kjell Wooding
October 3, 2006
OOØOOOODCCLXXXIV
October 4th, 2006 at 10:53 pm
I love my credit card company. Their “fraud detection” department loves to cut off our cards when we are half way through a vacation, then leave a message on our home machine asking us to call.
October 4th, 2006 at 11:45 pm
Yes, hyper-efficiency is the name of the game. I was once phoned (on my cellphone, to their credit) as I was walking out the door of the liquor store, having just purchased $2,000 worth of booze for my wedding, asking me if I had just purchased $2,000 worth of booze.
And yet they still make you wait on hold when you call.