Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Dear Citibank: Piss Off
Dear Citibank on 6th Avenue,
I fucking hate you. Click read more to find out why!
Fact: I work for a very generous company. When someone gets married or has a baby, we have a nice tradition of collecting donations and throwing a party for them.
Fact: I do not like dealing with money that does not belong to me.
Since I have been the person solely responsible for collecting said donations, I have been very careful to keep them safe, via hiding spots and a series of locks. As much as I would have liked to put the money in an envelope and hand it over to the recipient(s) at the party, I understood that this might come off as “tacky” or “lazy.”
It was decided that American Express gift cards would be the vessel by which the cash would get dispersed.
So, when I darted off to your branch near my office, it was with a mixture of relief and anxiety. Sure, I'd be getting rid of the cash concealed on my body, but wouldn't this be a fucked up time for a hold up? As much as I tried to control myself, I knew there would be surveillance footage of me speedwalking to the teller line. I stood on line and hoped that I'd get the same perky, friendly cashier I'd spoken to yesterday on my reconnaissance mission.
You see, banks tend to get territorial, so I wanted to avoid hearing, “Do you have an account with us? No? Then we can't help you. Go play in traffic.”
My turn was up. Instead of the perky, friendly girl from yesterday, I got the banking equivalent of Jabba the fucking Hutt. I faked a smile, hoping to get through the process with relative ease.
“I would like to buy some American Express gift cards, please,” was my opening line. I then clearly stated the number of cards and the dollar amounts.
Jabba got up from his chair, without a word. This afforded me a lovely view of his shirt untucking itself from the force of his gigantic belly. A bad sign. This told me he's lazy and would probably fuck up my transaction out of spite.
It was at this moment that I saw that the perky, neatly dressed teller was now free. Had I told the person behind me to go ahead of me, I'd be getting stellar service. Instead, I felt like a suspicious character, as Jabba spoke with one of the other tellers for a minute before waddling back to his seat with absolutely no sense of urgency whatsoever.
"Um..." he started, as my stomach churned, "The head teller is at lunch from 12 to 1, and she's the only person who has access to them."
It was at that moment that I realized what the bulletproof glass is for. Defeated, I feebly asked where the other locations where, rather than demand to speak with a manager.
As he scratched his head trying to remember, I imagined the head tellers at those branches all rushing out the door to lunch in tandem.
About two hours later, I returned to your branch, this time asking a Russian woman behind the window for assistance.
When she asked me for two forms of ID, I didn’t care. I just wanted to accomplish my mission. As she started to fill out an order form, she paused, something in her brain clicking on.
“Do jou have account vith us?”
Fuck, I thought. Where is this going to go?
“No,” I said. She asked the teller sitting nearby something undecipherable, then turned to me.
“Vee have limit on purchase if you not have account. Vone thousand tollars iz zee maximum.”
Fuck. Me. I looked at the floor, shaking my head. I chuckled to myself. The kind of chuckle right before you snap.This can’t be happening.
“Do you vant open account?”
“No.” And this was where a simple gift card purchase tried to mutate into a high-pressure sales pitch.
In searching for a new bank last year, I was sure that I looked at Citibank before ending up with Commerce.
I just knew there was something that turned me off of Citibank, like high fees or a $25,000 minimum checking account balance.
And as I stood there, I tried to remember what it was, but I drew a blank.
“You can deposit money into account today, then vee take out money and you can use to make purchase.”
How utterly fucking retarded, I thought to myself. This isn’t my money. This is from my office. It’s for a present. I need to do this today,” I insisted.
“Let me see if manager can make exception,” she said, walking away.
I crossed my fingers and prayed. A minute later, she returned. “No. I’m sorry. Vee have policy.” She said, repeating the fucking retarded policy. “But there is American Express office in Marriott hotel.” I carefully listened to make sure that I could understand exactly where this secret American Express office was because there was no way in hell I’d be coming back.
As I stormed out, I was foaming at the mouth.
I headed over to the Marriott hotel and took their fancy glass elevator to the 8th floor. Their circular elevator bank left me disoriented as I tried to figure out which way to go.
Finally, the American Express office appeared before me, like an oasis in the midtown Manhattan desert.
At the counter, I wasted no time in ratting out those bastards at Citibank.
“I just came from Citibank. They refused to help me.”
“Why didn’t you just come here?” said the kind angel behind the counter.
“I didn’t know you where here.”
Even though they did everything but take my fingerprints and request a urine sample, it didn’t matter. They didn’t treat me like I was homeless crackhead vagrant rummaging through their trash for soda cans. They treated me like I deserved to be treated.
Take that, Shitibank. Now, do me a favor and post this fucking retarded 1,000 dollar rule on your webpage.