So I want to order MTP's new video. Little surprise there, as Narin's starring in it. However, I have no credit card. 'Little trouble,' I say to myself. 'I'll just stroll over to my bank of trust and ask them how I can get the money there safely, quickly and without much of a hassle.'
You see, I live in Germany. There's always been a lot of trouble with paying for things. If you don't have a credit card, that is. I knew that, but I thought the bank could help me out. After all, I've been a customer of this particular credit institute for about twenty years now. Yes, I opened my first account there when I was six years old - well, my parents did that for me, but anyway, I never strayed from them. My credit record is clean, I never gave them trouble, there was always money on my accounts, and I never requested any sort of financial support from them. All I wanted was a way to get my money from my account to Jeff, so he can send me the Video. An easy transaction. Or so I thought. Boy, was I naive.
Upon entering the hallowed halls, I immediately realized once again why I hated having to deal with bankers. I was dressed immaculately, the way I always dress these days. Unfortunately, my style seemed to come across as unfit for this modern-day temple of commerce. With raised eyebrows, the tellers followed my thump-thump-thump-a-jingling process through the main hall, combat boots a-stomping, chains a-jingling, metal studs brightly reflecting the lovingly arranged flourescant lighting. Arranging my incredibly exploded hair, and tugging on my torn black T-Shirt ('Kill Your Television', it boldly states) so that it would fit over the fishnet I wear beneath it, I sat down in front of my banker of trust, the woman who would surely be thrilled to help me in this small matter.
Our conversation quickly showed me two things: First, I was unwanted here, no matter if I was a customer or not. Second, she wasn't going to help me do anything. Well, she did show me what it would cost to transfer funds to an U.S. account. A mere $25 for a transfer of $40, what a discount! And it would only take about two weeks to show up on the recepients account, too! Alternately, I could, of course, fill out a cheque and send it by mail. Same time, less cost. No, actually it would take longer! Those great news had me beaming in delight. I meekly asked if there was any way I could get a credit card, since I intended to have the money with the recipient sooner than next month. I shouldn't have been so bold as to actually request a credit card, I know. After all, I look like a trenchcoat-mafia guy, right? No matter what the computer on her desk tells her about my account, and how regular my credit behavior is - I am not trustworthy.
She told me in not many words at all that she feared there was nothing to be done for me. My questions about the reasons for this were left unanswered... or rather, they were answered with a condescending smile and an apology that sounded far less than sincere. I left the building feeling more humiliated than I have felt in a long time. I couldn't believe that a professional business, like a major bank, would behave like this to a long-time customer. 'Well,' I think, 'I'll be a customer no more, then! There are more bank houses out there, after all. Surely, one of them will be inclined to take up a new customer in a jiffy!' Wrong again.
The stay in the first two bank houses were fast and furious. I was basically told by (once again) condescendingly smiling tellers that I was not trustworthy enough to give me a simple credit card. No matter that I have a job and regular payments on my accounts. No matter that I was never in my life indebted. No, they wouldn't be inclined to help me out. Because, couldn't I understand this, giving me a credit card implied *gasp* giving me CREDIT! They treated me like a little boy who never even saw the inside of a bank before, who didn'T know squat about money and transactions. So I left. 'One more,' I thought, a tad miffed by now. 'One more, and all shall be well.'
Well, I was intercepted at the door of the third bank I visited. A nicely dressed gentleman caught me BY THE ARM AND HELD TIGHT! I was about to do something really nasty and stupid at this time, but I refrained from it. I had gone to this bank because it was the most prestigious bankhouse in all of Germany. I had assumed that they would know how to transfer funds without all those problems. Well - the nice gentleman explained to me quietly and with a (what else?) condescending smile that they were, in fact, the most prestigious bankhouse in all of Germany, and they had certain standards. Applying to the sort of customers they wanted to be associated with. He encouraged me to find another bank for me needs. I left before I could come to terms with being treated like some kind of sub-human. I didn't want to be tempted to react.
This behavior is fairly untypical. Maybe they were having a bad day. I've never encountered so much hostility in the past. Then again, I dressed more moderately back then. Still, this is absolutely intolerable. And it leaves me without a way to pay Jeff, aside from sending cash. Or traveller cheques. Which I'll only get, of course, at the bank. So I guess I'll have to go back there and deal with this sort of disrespect again.
Am I not human? If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you tickle me, do I not laugh? I feel disappointed in the world of banking. But I won't dress up conformingly just to please their fragile little autumn-world minds. Oh no, not me. And I will get the Video. Come hell or high water.
So much for my story. Maybe something good will come from it. Some of those bank-tellers looked kinda pretty. They'd make a neat cast for a long, dark torture story. Oh well, when time allows...
You see, I live in Germany. There's always been a lot of trouble with paying for things. If you don't have a credit card, that is. I knew that, but I thought the bank could help me out. After all, I've been a customer of this particular credit institute for about twenty years now. Yes, I opened my first account there when I was six years old - well, my parents did that for me, but anyway, I never strayed from them. My credit record is clean, I never gave them trouble, there was always money on my accounts, and I never requested any sort of financial support from them. All I wanted was a way to get my money from my account to Jeff, so he can send me the Video. An easy transaction. Or so I thought. Boy, was I naive.
Upon entering the hallowed halls, I immediately realized once again why I hated having to deal with bankers. I was dressed immaculately, the way I always dress these days. Unfortunately, my style seemed to come across as unfit for this modern-day temple of commerce. With raised eyebrows, the tellers followed my thump-thump-thump-a-jingling process through the main hall, combat boots a-stomping, chains a-jingling, metal studs brightly reflecting the lovingly arranged flourescant lighting. Arranging my incredibly exploded hair, and tugging on my torn black T-Shirt ('Kill Your Television', it boldly states) so that it would fit over the fishnet I wear beneath it, I sat down in front of my banker of trust, the woman who would surely be thrilled to help me in this small matter.
Our conversation quickly showed me two things: First, I was unwanted here, no matter if I was a customer or not. Second, she wasn't going to help me do anything. Well, she did show me what it would cost to transfer funds to an U.S. account. A mere $25 for a transfer of $40, what a discount! And it would only take about two weeks to show up on the recepients account, too! Alternately, I could, of course, fill out a cheque and send it by mail. Same time, less cost. No, actually it would take longer! Those great news had me beaming in delight. I meekly asked if there was any way I could get a credit card, since I intended to have the money with the recipient sooner than next month. I shouldn't have been so bold as to actually request a credit card, I know. After all, I look like a trenchcoat-mafia guy, right? No matter what the computer on her desk tells her about my account, and how regular my credit behavior is - I am not trustworthy.
She told me in not many words at all that she feared there was nothing to be done for me. My questions about the reasons for this were left unanswered... or rather, they were answered with a condescending smile and an apology that sounded far less than sincere. I left the building feeling more humiliated than I have felt in a long time. I couldn't believe that a professional business, like a major bank, would behave like this to a long-time customer. 'Well,' I think, 'I'll be a customer no more, then! There are more bank houses out there, after all. Surely, one of them will be inclined to take up a new customer in a jiffy!' Wrong again.
The stay in the first two bank houses were fast and furious. I was basically told by (once again) condescendingly smiling tellers that I was not trustworthy enough to give me a simple credit card. No matter that I have a job and regular payments on my accounts. No matter that I was never in my life indebted. No, they wouldn't be inclined to help me out. Because, couldn't I understand this, giving me a credit card implied *gasp* giving me CREDIT! They treated me like a little boy who never even saw the inside of a bank before, who didn'T know squat about money and transactions. So I left. 'One more,' I thought, a tad miffed by now. 'One more, and all shall be well.'
Well, I was intercepted at the door of the third bank I visited. A nicely dressed gentleman caught me BY THE ARM AND HELD TIGHT! I was about to do something really nasty and stupid at this time, but I refrained from it. I had gone to this bank because it was the most prestigious bankhouse in all of Germany. I had assumed that they would know how to transfer funds without all those problems. Well - the nice gentleman explained to me quietly and with a (what else?) condescending smile that they were, in fact, the most prestigious bankhouse in all of Germany, and they had certain standards. Applying to the sort of customers they wanted to be associated with. He encouraged me to find another bank for me needs. I left before I could come to terms with being treated like some kind of sub-human. I didn't want to be tempted to react.
This behavior is fairly untypical. Maybe they were having a bad day. I've never encountered so much hostility in the past. Then again, I dressed more moderately back then. Still, this is absolutely intolerable. And it leaves me without a way to pay Jeff, aside from sending cash. Or traveller cheques. Which I'll only get, of course, at the bank. So I guess I'll have to go back there and deal with this sort of disrespect again.
Am I not human? If you prick me, do I not bleed? If you tickle me, do I not laugh? I feel disappointed in the world of banking. But I won't dress up conformingly just to please their fragile little autumn-world minds. Oh no, not me. And I will get the Video. Come hell or high water.
So much for my story. Maybe something good will come from it. Some of those bank-tellers looked kinda pretty. They'd make a neat cast for a long, dark torture story. Oh well, when time allows...
