Banks For Nothing

This past Sunday, as I was enjoying the extended weekend, I swung by a Bank of America ATM with some friends to get some more booze money. After reluctantly accepting the inexplicable three dollar surcharge, the machine failed to fully eject my card; leaving it visible but unobtainable. A friend of mine, who works in the banking industry, carelessly said, “No problem. I can get it out with my keys.” Immediately after jamming his keys into the machine it swallowed my card and informed me it was keeping it. I can't believe that didn't work. It also failed to give me any money.

Two days without a debit card is a long time, especially when there's beer to be had. Cut to Tuesday -- when the real fun begins. I arrive at the Bank of America and inform the teller of the bank’s ravenous ATM. He sifts through a large stack of cards the machine has gobbled up only to tell me that mine is not there. I describe the card to him. “It’s a dark blue Wachovia card and the machine took it Sunday,” I slowly and loudly explain to him. “Oh,” he gasps. “Since it happened two days ago and it’s not a Bank of America card, it was destroyed.”

Super. So now I have to order a new card. I hop across Dupont Circle and head to the Wachovia on Connecticut Ave. After being directed to costumer service I tell the employee my card was destroyed and I need a new one. She immediately cancels my account and starts to create a new one when I tell her I just want a new card. “Oh,” she says, “You need costumer service for that.” “But you are costumer service,” I remind her. “No, you need national costumer service.” Jesus. She takes me to a corner desk with a phone, dials the number and takes a step back. At this point I’m glad I didn’t shower before I started my journey. A few minutes later my account has been restored and my new card ordered, which will be swiftly delivered to me in seven to 10 business days. I should have it by Christmas.

Sadly, my bank excursion did not end then. Inside my backpack I was carrying a box of change. I should have known to not even ask the tellers at Wachovia. Such a task as dumping a box of change into an automatic coin counter is far too strenuous for them. So I headed to Commerce bank, where I proudly converted my nickels and dimes into quarters so I can finally do laundry.

And by noon I had visited three banks in one hour, two of which I don’t even have accounts at.