I Want To Fire My Bank

For some time now, we have been neither been able to access our primary bank account online nor use our debit card. This past Saturday morning, Jennie and I went to the branch of the bank, the one where we had opened the account five years ago. We went to a teller and told her what the situation was:

After some initial research, she got her supervisor. Her supervisor told us that our account had been blocked from access because of the repeated history of overdrafts to our account.

I responded, loud enough for other patrons to hear: "So, we're bad people and we'll no longer be able to access our account?"

"Well, no, Mr. Johnson. You just need to call our 1-800 number or come into the branch where you opened the account."

"Excuse me, but that's where I am," I replied.

"Well, we can clear that up for you, Mr. Johnson. We just want to warn you that, if your account gets into an overdraft condition again, then your account will get the block on it."

"Okay then," I answered, "so after this, we'll be able to access our account online and use our debit card?"

"Yes."

Then we deposited my paycheck and left, believing that things would be okay.

Page forward to Sunday - yesterday. On our way home from church, we stopped to fill up our gas tank, using our debit card, which doubles as a 'fake' credit card; i.e., so that we can use it to buy gasoline. The gas station offered 'pay at the pump', so I kept the car running while I emerged from our car to check if our card would go through. No such luck.

So we went to the nearest bank branch that we knew would be open on a Sunday, which was inside a local supermarket. As we walked to the tellers station, we noticed that they had some Super Bowl cookies for customers to enjoy. We explained our situation to the teller, who then proceeded to get some help from her colleague.

"Hmm. It seems that your home branch has placed a block on the account on any debits."

"We were just there yesterday!" I exclaimed in unbelief. "Does this mean we can't even write a check to get money out of our account?" again, loud enough for other patrons to hear.

"I'm afraid it does, sir. Your home branch placed the block, and they have to be the one to unblock the account."

"I thought we took care of that yesterday! This is bull!!" I yelled, and proceeded to storm out of the store. Fortunately, I remembered to wait for my wife and daughter.

After we had gotten into the car, Keisha proceeded to ask, "Do we not have any money, Daddy?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now, Keisha," I replied. So then she asked Jennie. "Keisha, I said not to talk about it, okay?" After some gentle nudging from Jennie, Keisha got the hint.

To add insult to injury, we arrived back home to discover that our car could not make it up our driveway. Frustrated and angrier, I drove to the end of the cul de sac, turned around and tried again. Alas, to no avail. Now, more frustrated and angry, I turned the car around and began to drive in the other direction.

"Why don't we get out and shovel the driveway?" Jennie asked.

"FINE!" I said, as I deserted the car, leaving it in neutral with the door open. Jennie would take over the car, and I would shovel.

I got our shovel, and managed to shovel half the driveway before I ran out of steam. Frustrated, angry, and tired, I threw the shovel across the yard in a fit of rage. Then I sulked momentarily. I decided to try again, and got more frustrated that the snow wasn't coming up as easily as I wanted it to. I began to beat the snow on our driveway, yelling at it, and again threw it across the yard in another fit of rage.

Fortunately, I had cleared enough snow so that Jennie could drive the car up the driveway. After she had pulled the car into the garage, I picked up the shovel, and put it back in the garage. Then I went around to the backyard and wept. I was so frustrated, angry, depressed, and altogether upset. I sat down against our back wall for a little bit.

Then I noticed that our puppy had emerged from the garage and was on his chain. He came over and licked me, which helped me feel a bit better. Then, in a playful mood, I began to throw snow on him, which he appeared to enjoy. So I piled as much snow on him as I could. Then I got up, strolled over to the virgin snow in an untouched part of our backyard, and laid myself down. It was rather peaceful and quiet. I didn't feel quite so cold yet. I thought about how I was feeling, prayed to God, and asked for his forgiveness for my fits of rage.

I'm learning that I don't know how to express my anger constructively. I told Jennie in the car on the way back home that I felt like writing a scathing letter to the president of our bank, using the F-word, the S-word, and the D-word a lot in my letter. I don't usually curse, but those words seemed appropriate at the time. As did the thought of tearing the bank manager a new bodily orifice, if you know what I mean.

Jennie remarked that we should have just walked out of the bank office with all of their Super Bowl cookies.