OVERDRAFT Copyright 1999, Tad Ramspott ========================================================================== "Hello, and welcome to Fedco Savings' Account Assistance Line," says a cheerful, prerecorded voice. "For faster service, please enter your nine-digit account number now." Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep. "Please enter the last four digits of your Social Security number." Beep-beep-beep-beep. "Thank you. Our next available service representative will be with you shortly." Hold music. Saxophone-and-synthesizer remix of Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Click. "Thank you for calling Fedco, this is Matt, how may I help you?" "Yes? Hello," I say. "I'm calling about a $330 deposit I made a week ago. It's not showing up in my account." "Okay," the rep says helpfully. Silence. "Sir, when you went through our options menu at the beginning of the call, did you press '3' for ATM difficulties?" "Well, yes, I made the deposit at an ATM." "That option is for trouble with ATM withdrawals -- getting cash from the machine," he explains gently. "I haven't been trained on helping customers with deposits. But if you'll let me put you on hold, I can escalate the call, and one of our senior reps will take care of your problem." "Sure. Thank you." "No problem, sir." Hold music. Four violins attack "Spring" from Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons" and beat it into submission. Click. "Fedco customer service, this is Alice, thank you for holding. How may I help you?" "Well, I made a $330 deposit through one of your ATMs last week. The money isn't in my account." A flurry of typing. "Hmm. Yes, I see. Your deposit does actually show up in your records, sir. But it was reversed two days later." More typing. "It seems to be our error, sir. I'll go ahead and credit your account." "Thank you." One last typing spree. "Alright, I've restored the original credit for three hundred and thirty dollars on November 22. That brings your account balance to four hundred and two dollars and nineteen cents. Is there anything else I can do for you?" "Well, yes," I say. "Because of the bank error on the deposit, I incurred two dollars in overdraft fees. I don't suppose you could reverse those?" "I'm sorry, sir," she says sympathetically. "We aren't allowed to handle overdraft reversals without a written claim. You'll have to go into a branch office to dispute the fees." "Oh, come on. If you were able to credit me for a $330 deposit, surely you can give me a lousy two bucks." "It's against customer service rules, sir. I'd like to help you, but I could get fired." I sigh. "How about I talk to your supervisor? I'm sure if I explain the situation they'll understand and give me the money. That puts you off the hook." "If you'd like, sir. Hold on, I'll escalate you again." "Thank you." Hold music. The 1812 Overture -- perhaps to commemorate those who have been on the phone since then. Ring. Ring. Ring. Back to hold music. Alice picks up. "I'm sorry, sir, I think he's out to lunch." "There must be somebody I can talk to." "I can try our division manager. She's his immediate supervisor. I think I've got her number." The sound of flipping pages. "Ah, here. Hold on." Hold music. "Mood Indigo" played just off-key enough to sound purple. "Eileen Ferris, customer service division." "Hello. Yes. I was talking to one of your phone reps, and she told me she couldn't reverse a two-dollar overdraft fee for an obvious bank error. I'd really like to get this taken care of." "Certainly, Mr. ..." "Smaughan." "Mr. Smaughan. I'll take a look at the problem. Could you please explain the situation?" "Well, I made this deposit just down the street ..." "At one of our branches?" "Yes, here in North Seattle." Some typing. "Shoreline?" "Actually, yes. And the deposit got entered, but reversed ..." "I see that. Is Shoreline your home branch?" "Yes, it's just down the block from me." "To be honest, Mr. Smaughan, individual branches are supposed to correct overdraft charges for their customers; that's why we tell our phone reps not to reverse them. I could correct the fee, but it would generate a mound of interoffice paperwork as we tried to reconcile everything. May I transfer you to the Shoreline branch manager? He should be able to take care of the fee reversal for you over the phone." "Uhm, sure." "Thank you. Have a good day." Hold music. A soothing, swing rendition of "Stayin' Alive." Click. "Shoreline Fedco, Dennis Finch speaking." "Hi, Dennis. I was transferred here from Customer Service. I'm calling to get a $2 overdraft fee due to bank error reversed." "Certainly, sir. May I get your account number?" I tell him. "What transaction was it that caused this fee?" "A mistakenly rejected deposit." "And the date of that deposit?" "November 22." Plenty of typing. "Hmm. I don't see that in our local transaction records. Did you come inside to make the deposit?" "No, I used the ATM outside the front door." "I don't know why you got transferred here, then. All of Fedco's ATM transactions are handled through the central office." "I don't know either. All I want is my two bucks back." "May I transfer you to corporate HQ? They have access to all the records." I sigh. "Sure." "Thank you, sir. I hope you get this resolved." Hold music. I don't recognize the piece. It sounds vaguely like Metallica gone orchestral. Click. "FedcoSavings, howmayIdirectyourcall?" says a secretary in a vocal blur. "Uh," I stall. "Someone who handles accounts." "Yessir, onemomentplease." Hold music. Pink Floyd's "Money." Click. "Redgrave," a voice says languidly. "Uhm, hello, Mr. Redgrave, I'm calling about a $2 overdraft fee. It was caused by a bank error. I'd like it reversed." "We'll take a look," he drawls. "I'll need the account number." I tell him. "And your name?" "Smaughan." I spell it. "Business name?" "Uhhh. The one I work for?" "The one you're managing this account for." "I'm not. This is my personal account." There are a few seconds of silence. "How'd you end up talking to me? I'm a corporate reconciliation agent. Hold on and I'll transfer you to the Account Assistance Line." "No!" I say, maybe a little too quickly. "They're the ones I originally called. I've now been bounced to something like three separate departments." Redgrave sighs. "Look, I don't know anything about personal accounts. They're handled with a different tracking system than corporate. I wish I could take care of this for you but I'm sort of stuck." "Do you know anyone who might be able to help, then?" He thinks. "Laticia. She's a Customer Liaison." "Great. Could you transfer me?" "Sure. Good luck." Ring. Ring. Click. "You have reached voice mail for Laticia Washington. I am currently away from my desk. To leave a message, wait for the tone. If you have an urgent matter and wish to speak with someone who can immediately assist you, please press 0." Beep. I'm not leaving voice mail after waiting this long. There's a series of oddly spaced clicks, and I'm put on hold again for a while. I shuffle again through the account statements on my desk. After two minutes, the hold music finally percolates through my head -- then my blood runs cold. It's a languid Muzak version of "The Macarena." Click. My heart swells with relief. "Uh, hello?" "Uhm, good afternoon." After a brief pause, we speak simultaneously -- me, "Is this Fedco Savings?" and him, "Can I help you with something?" It takes another two tries to get that sorted out. "Look," I finally say, "to whom am I speaking?" "My name is Todd," the man replies, sounding a little guilty. "I probably shouldn't have picked up the phone, but it was ringing for like two minutes." "Ah. Do you know whose office this is supposed to be?" "Hold on, there's a name on the door." He puts the phone down. Footsteps. Pause. Footsteps. "Jeff Jacobs, national customer liaison director." "Is he in the office somewhere?" "Not anymore. I'm one of the temps they contracted to move everything out. Apparently Mr. Jacobs retired when the customer liaison department got dissolved last week." "Lovely. Can I talk to the fellow who's in charge of you?" "Uhm, sure. I'll go get him. Should I put you on hold?" "NO! ... I mean, no thanks. I'll just listen to the silence." He puts the phone down. Footsteps. Long pause. Footsteps. "Hello, this is Adam Farber." "Hello, Mr. Farber. You are with Fedco?" "Yes, I am." "Great. I was trying to reach, apparently, a Mr. Jeff Jacobs, except he's now gone. Do you know anyone else in the office who does his job, or a similar job?" "Jacobs was with Customer Liaisons, right?" "That's what I hear." "Okay. I know just who to transfer you to. Hold on." Before I can tell him not to put me on hold, please, the line cuts off. I brace for more musical torture. Ring. Click. Whew. A harried-sounding man says, "Burnett." "Hello, Mr. Burnett. Please excuse my confusion, but you're something like the tenth person I've talked to on this call. What is it you do for Fedco exactly?" "Corporate public relations officer. May I ask what you're calling about?" "Well, there's been an overdraft fee assessed to my account ..." "Sir? Excuse me, sir," he breaks in, "all of us at Fedco appreciate your feedback, and as a customer you are very important to us. However, I'm in the middle of a conference call on my other line. May I take your name and number and call you back at 3:30?" "Look," I say, indignant. "I realize you're busy, but I've been on the phone for an hour. And I've got half a mind to close my account if someone won't give me a straight answer around here." "Oh," he says. "Oh my." Apparently the phrase "close my account" is the magic password. "I'll tell you what, Mr. ...?" "Smaughan." "Mr. Smaughan. Unfortunately I really must get back to my conference call -- I've got some investors in Tokyo listening to Muzak at international rates. But may I forward your call to our company president? I'm certain he'll be happy to reassure you of our commitment to our customers." "Okay. Whatever. Please. Thank you." "Thank you very much. He will be with you shortly." Hold music. Scott Joplin's "Solace." Click. "Hello, Mr. Smaughan. I'm David Benchley, Fedco president. First let me apologize for the poor treatment you've received thus far." "Thank you, Mr. Benchley." "Please let me know why your experiences with us have been less than satisfactory. My job is ultimately to make Fedco a better place to bank." "I'm generally happy with Fedco, to be honest, but there's the small matter of a $2 overdraft fee charged to my account due to a bank error. I really would like to get that reversed." Benchley is silent for a few moments. There's a flipping of pages. "Have you been given the number of our Account Assistance line yet? It seems to me they'd be more than willing to help." "They were the first people I talked to when I called an hour ago. Since then I've been bounced around all the way up to your office. Look," I plead desperately, "all I want is a reversal of that two-dollar overdraft charge. Account Assistance isn't authorized to give it to me, and nobody else is willing to. All you have to do is credit me two bucks, and I'll hang up and tell my friends and family how great Fedco is." "Certainly, sir," Benchley says. "I'm sorry it's taken this long to get your problem addressed. Let me just boot up the ol' computer and I'll give you the credit myself." A quiet click. Pause. A dissonant electronic chord. Pause. An odd shuffling noise that sounds like Benchley covering up the phone receiver with his hand. A muffled voice. "Barbara, is it bad when the little computer face goes frowny at me?" Another ten seconds, a shuffling noise, and Benchley's voice fills my ear again. "I'm *incredibly* sorry, Mr. Smaughan, but it looks like my computer is temporarily down. Let me transfer you one last time to someone that I guarantee both can and will solve your problem." I sigh. "If you're sure." "Yes, Mr. Smaughan. And thank you for choosing to bank with us." Hold music. Instrumental "Stairway to Heaven." Click. "Good afternoon." A deep, powerful voice. "Hello. My name is Tom Smaughan --" "We know." "Uhm. Good. Have you also been informed why I'm calling?" "We know." "Great. Then there won't be a problem crediting the two dollars to my account?" "Usually we do not take financial requests. But this is a special case. Yes, Thomas Smaughan, we have the power to grant thee such a trifling thing." "That's a relief." "We merely need a few pieces of information for statistical purposes. Thy age?" "Uhm. Uh, thirty-six." "Political party?" "Democrat." "Smoker or non?" "Non." "Denomination?" "What?" I ask. "Thou knows. Thy religious affiliation." "Oh, that? I'm Wiccan." The phone is silent. "Just mark down 'Other,'" I supply helpfully. Long pause. "Sir? Excuse me, sir, is there a problem?" I ask. "We are not authorized to complete thy request," the voice says, a little bit ashamedly. "We will transfer thee to our superior." I hang up. I'd rather not know.