The New York bank looked like a cheap television studio set, but the smiling young woman who rose from her particleboard desk was not an actor but a "Relationship Banker." I wasn't really looking for a relationship. I just wanted to close a certificate of deposit account for my 93-year-old mother who had moved to Florida. She read my Mom's notarized letter of instructions, punched up her account information and then told me what I already knew. The one week grace period to close this account without penalty had ended yesterday, and the account had been automatically renewed for an additional six months. She then flashed one of those luminous smiles I had just seen on "The Book of Mormon" stage.
"But yesterday was Sunday," I reminded her. The Relationship Banker then slowly defined the term "calendar days," in a condescending, far away voice that reminded me of that commercial that promises, "It's time to bank human again." This was not that bank.
I explained that this calendar week included Labor Day, the Rosh Hashanah holiday and a weekend. And as I had just returned from celebrating the Jewish New Year with my mother, I couldn't get here earlier. No response. "Six months for a 93-year-old can mean a lifetime." Nothing. And so I offered up my clincher. "Did I mention that my Mom is a Holocaust survivor?" She repeated her "calendar day" recitation and then offered to "gladly" close the account minus a penalty of almost $1,000.
When I asked to speak to her manager, I learned that this branch had no supervisor on the premises. After an uncomfortable silence, my Relationship Manager then offered to call the "Advocacy Team" to see if they could waive the penalty. She whispered into what looked like a real landline phone, nodded a few times, hung up the receiver, smiled and then shook her head. "Sorry. They said it's not possible."
"That's a corporate decision," I snapped. "It's not written in the freakin Constitution." Her smile faded. I almost felt sorry for her. I knew she was just a nice young woman who was happy to have a job. But as I stood, I warned her that she had not heard the last from me. "I'll write complaint letters to the... FCC and the... the... PGA," I shouted, shook my finger in the air and left in a huff.
As I walked home, I acknowledged that my complaint was a petty one. After all, banks routinely foreclose on homes, decimate retirement accounts and play fast and loose with the world economy. But as soon as, "It's like dealing with a psychopath" left my mouth and was overheard by startled pedestrians, I realized that I meant this literally. After all, we now know, thanks to a presidential candidate and the Supreme Court, that corporations are people. And banks neatly fit the psychopath profile; they lack empathy, feel no remorse and take pleasure in manipulating others. So who but a psychopath would treat a 93-year-old survivor of the Great Depression and the Holocaust like an insignificant, tardy child?
I should have just let the matter drop, but I couldn't. No! I would not surrender! I would seek justice!
I tried to level the playing field by imagining how my favorite psychopaths, Dexter and Tony Soprano, might deal with such an indignity. But, after ruling out sharp knives and car rides in the woods, I turned to Google for help.
Google led me to the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau or CFPB. That's the new agency that Elizabeth Warren created to protect the average Joe from corporate psychopaths. And as I pounded out my complaint narrative on their online site, I pictured Elizabeth Warren, full of anger and empathy, reading my rant even though I knew she was now busy dealing with her own psychopathic adversaries in the U.S. Senate.
I expected one of those, "We're sorry" replies from the CFPB. Instead, a mere four days after I had filed my complaint, I received a written apology from the bank, a waiver of all penalty fees and the promise to "escalate this matter for further policy review." I couldn't believe it. Elizabeth Warren's crew had come to my rescue.
The CFPB had not confronted the bank with a few well-placed shots to the knees. Instead, it acted more like Tony Soprano's psychiatrist, Dr. Melfi. It convinced a corporate psychopath to pretend to act like a human being.
The Relationship Banker anticipated my arrival and greeted me with a subdued smile. Before handing me my Mom's check, she asked me to sign their standard closing form. Below my signature was a line that read, "If penalty is waived, authorized signature is required." That space was left unsigned.
"But yesterday was Sunday," I reminded her. The Relationship Banker then slowly defined the term "calendar days," in a condescending, far away voice that reminded me of that commercial that promises, "It's time to bank human again." This was not that bank.
I explained that this calendar week included Labor Day, the Rosh Hashanah holiday and a weekend. And as I had just returned from celebrating the Jewish New Year with my mother, I couldn't get here earlier. No response. "Six months for a 93-year-old can mean a lifetime." Nothing. And so I offered up my clincher. "Did I mention that my Mom is a Holocaust survivor?" She repeated her "calendar day" recitation and then offered to "gladly" close the account minus a penalty of almost $1,000.
When I asked to speak to her manager, I learned that this branch had no supervisor on the premises. After an uncomfortable silence, my Relationship Manager then offered to call the "Advocacy Team" to see if they could waive the penalty. She whispered into what looked like a real landline phone, nodded a few times, hung up the receiver, smiled and then shook her head. "Sorry. They said it's not possible."
"That's a corporate decision," I snapped. "It's not written in the freakin Constitution." Her smile faded. I almost felt sorry for her. I knew she was just a nice young woman who was happy to have a job. But as I stood, I warned her that she had not heard the last from me. "I'll write complaint letters to the... FCC and the... the... PGA," I shouted, shook my finger in the air and left in a huff.
As I walked home, I acknowledged that my complaint was a petty one. After all, banks routinely foreclose on homes, decimate retirement accounts and play fast and loose with the world economy. But as soon as, "It's like dealing with a psychopath" left my mouth and was overheard by startled pedestrians, I realized that I meant this literally. After all, we now know, thanks to a presidential candidate and the Supreme Court, that corporations are people. And banks neatly fit the psychopath profile; they lack empathy, feel no remorse and take pleasure in manipulating others. So who but a psychopath would treat a 93-year-old survivor of the Great Depression and the Holocaust like an insignificant, tardy child?
I should have just let the matter drop, but I couldn't. No! I would not surrender! I would seek justice!
I tried to level the playing field by imagining how my favorite psychopaths, Dexter and Tony Soprano, might deal with such an indignity. But, after ruling out sharp knives and car rides in the woods, I turned to Google for help.
Google led me to the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau or CFPB. That's the new agency that Elizabeth Warren created to protect the average Joe from corporate psychopaths. And as I pounded out my complaint narrative on their online site, I pictured Elizabeth Warren, full of anger and empathy, reading my rant even though I knew she was now busy dealing with her own psychopathic adversaries in the U.S. Senate.
I expected one of those, "We're sorry" replies from the CFPB. Instead, a mere four days after I had filed my complaint, I received a written apology from the bank, a waiver of all penalty fees and the promise to "escalate this matter for further policy review." I couldn't believe it. Elizabeth Warren's crew had come to my rescue.
The CFPB had not confronted the bank with a few well-placed shots to the knees. Instead, it acted more like Tony Soprano's psychiatrist, Dr. Melfi. It convinced a corporate psychopath to pretend to act like a human being.
The Relationship Banker anticipated my arrival and greeted me with a subdued smile. Before handing me my Mom's check, she asked me to sign their standard closing form. Below my signature was a line that read, "If penalty is waived, authorized signature is required." That space was left unsigned.