I’ve been banking with Bank of America for about three months. I can say, at this point, that they are the worst bank I’ve ever dealt with. Being subjected to a kangaroo court in the Peruvian highlands would seem reasonable, logical, and a paragon of transparency compared to dealing with this bureaucratic nonsense.
Each month I’ve deposited my paycheck (a UC Regents paycheck, at a bank that’s less than a mile from UCSD’s campus). Each month, some issue has prevented said check from arriving in my account without three phone calls and several hours of my life wasted on what, in the 21st century, should be about the least complicated transaction in the world.
Today’s new fuck-up? Their teller, when depositing my check on Friday, wrote down the wrong number on the deposit slip. My money went straight into a black hole that took the bank manager 30 minutes to navigate this afternoon. Once navigated, the check still wasn’t deposited into my account. He told me to call back tomorrow. And, he told me to anticipate having to call again to have overdraft charges reversed.
I don’t make a lot of money. When the end of the month comes, I need my paycheck to cover modern conveniences like food and gas. It’s bad enough that their clerical error has me broke for a day, but it’s even worse that said error requires THREE PHONE CALLS AND A TRIP TO THE BRANCH for me to sort out. Weren’t they the ones that fucked this up? Aren’t they the ones that should be making some extra effort to retain me as a customer and rectify their mistake? This shit has robbed me of precious hours I could dedicate to talking shit on poseur metal bands (see below).
Even if the answer is yes, it doesn’t matter. As nice as the customer service people can be in person, they don’t have any real pride in their jobs. They don’t want to be there any more than I do. And that means that no matter how reasonable my anger or how apparent it is that the blame is theirs, they won’t do anything about it. There’s no sense of personal accountability. No pride. Just paychecking it. That’s the modern corporation: a collection of people who hate their jobs, structured so as to diffuse blame over as many people as possible until reasonable people (to the extent you think I’m reasonable) feel bad for telling a teller they are upset that they don’t have money to buy groceries.
I need to find a credit union.
Oh, and I need to start blogging the names and addresses of the people I meet at my local branch: that way, you can all remember to piss on their pant leg in the john if you ever cross paths with them: they’ll be at the bar in PB, secretly wishing they were dead.