The other day, Wiley and the Missus had solar installed. Once Wiley got over the thrill of watching the PG&E meter running backwards, he realized he had to pay for it. So he went online, logged on to his bank’s website, and took a draw on his line of credit. He had the money in his checking account in about ten seconds.
Being a fiscal conservative, Wiley figured he should increase his automatic monthly payment on the credit line. So, he placed a quick call to his bank.
[Author’s note: So as not to sway public opinion, Wiley will not actually name his bank. However, if you need a hint, take the first two letters of the alphabet, reverse the order, and put the word “of” in between them.]
A very pleasant female voice answered Wiley’s call and asked him to provide his account number. Twelve digits later, she asked for the last four digits of his social security number. Four digits later, she said “Hello, Wiley, please wait while we transfer your call.”
This was going really well. I hadn’t even known this woman for two minutes, and we were on a first name basis. BFFs. I hoped that Mrs. Wiley would understand.
The next transferee greeted me pleasantly and immediately asked me for my account number and the last four digits of my SocSecNo. When I helpfully mentioned that I had already put in the information and had been identified by name, she said that sometimes they got the information on their screen, but most of the time they didn’t. Twelve digits plus four digits later, she was ready to help me.
When Wiley told her that he simply wanted to increase his automatic monthly payment, she told him that it was handled by another department, but that she would get them on the line. After being on hold for ten minutes, she came back and gave him the bad news. She told me it took TEN DAYS to make the change, and since Wiley’s next payment was due in only NINE DAYS, she couldn’t do it. She told him to call back in ten days so he could enter all of his account information multiple times and then be put on hold for another ten minutes. She did say that she could make the change right then, but that it would screw up the system, delete Wiley’s next payment, result in a late charge, and force him to call back in ten days anyway.
Wiley, for the first time in his life, was speechless for a good five seconds. He then pointed out that his checking account was with Big Bank, that his line of credit was with Big Bank, and that it had taken Wiley ten seconds to move the money from one to another. When Wiley asked why it took ten days for Big Bank to do the opposite, he got a long answer in Bankalese. Here is Wiley’s translation for you: “Our systems suck.”
Wiley then went through several levels of supervisors using Mrs. Wiley’s famous line “That is not acceptable service.” Each one repeated the party line, and each one declined to provide Wiley with a phone number for the person in charge of credit lines who should be hearing how suckworthy their systems were.
Wiley thought he could game the system, so he looked up the phone number of Big Bank’s headquarters in Charlotte, NC, a city once described by the Charlotte Observer as “Mayberry RFD with two large banks (another clue).” But when he dialed the number, his new BFF again answered and asked for his twelve digit account number. Wiley hung up and tried again, this time calling the Investor Relations Department. But when his BFF answered a third time and Wiley pressed “2” to say that he wasn’t an equity analyst, she went back to asking for his account number. Wiley was humbled.
Now, Wiley knows a fair amount about Big Banks. Mrs. Wiley, aka the L.W., spent five years working at Big Bank, including a stint as Admin Assistant to the Vice (good adjective) Chairman of the Bored. In those days, you could pick up a phonebook (here Wiley dates himself) and get the direct number to ANY department in Big Bank. Heck, and this is the Lord’s Honest Truth, there was even a phone number for the Italian Department, because the founder of Big Bank (guess what country he came from?) wanted Italian customers to be able to get help directly. But in today’s anonymous world, Big Bank wants to make it impossible for you to talk to anyone who might actually be able to make an intelligent decision.
Wiley was dumbfounded. At first, he gave some thought to Big Bad Bernie’s idea of breaking up the Big Banks. But then he realized that Big Banks are like social diseases. We already have more of them than we need, and the ones we have are mutating and becoming resistant to the cures we have developed. And what if we chop them up into little pieces, and then just like in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice (see, Wiley DOES know more about culture than just NASCAR), each little piece comes to life and starts behaving the same way? If y ou aren’t scared by that image, you should be.
So, here is my only suggestion for Appropriate Social Action. Cut out this column from the Piedmont Post, take a black Sharpie, write on it in big letters “YOU SUCK”, and leave it inside the local branch of your very own Big Bank. Better yet, tape it to their front door before they open. Then, write a letter to the editor of this esteemed newspaper that says “I told my Big Bank that it sucks.” To paraphrase Arlo Guthrie, if it happens once, it’s an oddity. Twice, it’s a coincidence. Three times, it’s a MOVEMENT. While it may not quite be on the same level as Mahatma Gandi or MLK, it will be a good first step.
And so, will this make the Big Banks any better or more socially responsible? Pardon Wiley while he guffaws (a wonderfully underused word of yesteryear). Of course not. However, it WILL make YOU feel better, as well as inflating Wiley’s ego as he reads the Post each week. And Wiley promises that, if we get more “my bank sucks” letters in the Post than we get golden retrievers in the July 4th parade, he will continue to share his Life Experiences with you in future editions of the Post.
Editor’s Note: Wiley Hoag is a longtime Piedmont Resident who was born a retired accountant and a NASCAR fan, but who has subsequently broadened his horizons to include consumer advocacy. His golden retriever loves him, but his wife thinks he is a crabby old man.
