my hometown bank
I got a bank in Stanwoodopolis, what they advertise as a ‘hometown’ bank. If you like the whole home town knowing your bizness, this bank’s for you. Me, I pretty much don’t care who knows my bizness, but after burning a lot of bank bridges over the years in quixotic battles over surprise fees, surcharges, lack of services, I’m pretty much down to few options left. The missus is worried we’ll be burying cash and coins out in the woods from now on, but I tell her, don’t worry, the one thing that’s recession proof is the folks who brought us the recession. Banks. There will always be another one waiting open armed and open jawed.
I don’t know what it is exactly that makes me dislike a good small town fiduciary firm. But since I’ve never borrowed money from one, maybe I resent all the little fees they tack on for holding my loot and lending it to my neighbors at a tidy profit — apparently not enough profit for these folks. They want the debit fees, the exorbitant overcharge fees, all the rest that gouges the poor folks most, all that very tiny print in the terms of the contract nobody can read.
So maybe I carry a bit of a chip up there on my epaulets. And okay, fairly often I’ve had the security guard summoned to stand over my shoulder. You know … just in case I go postal. That’s usually when the account closes, the cashier’s check is issued and I mosey down to the next legal usurer.
My current bank, the ‘hometown’ bank, recently cashed one of my rare paychecks. My checks are from government agencies for payment on my so-called artworks, mostly from 1% for Art projects. I don’t come in often but when I do, the checks are larger than a usual payday check. Pay year, really. Pay month, at least. The teller noticed this after a few years. Profile this: Suspicious character, goodwill clothes, seedy hat, a bit too friendly, big fat check. For Deposit Only. She finally asks what it is I do for a living. Art, I say, and when pressed, although not under oath, I add Public Art. Hmm, she says. Takes a little longer than depositing a rebate check, but we finally get it done.
But this last one, sizeable, issued by the State of Washington, her state, the one she pays taxes to, I guess it was too much for my teller. “You don’t mind me saying this,” she says, plenty volume enough for all of our hometown bank customers to hear, “I don’t really like that us taxpayers have to pay for art. No offense…..”
“None taken,” I say. But don’t say, “I don’t much care for filthy parasitic bankers either or undertrained underpaid minions who do their bidding in the name of unbridled capitalism. No offense, hope you don’t mind.”
But it is, after all, a hometown Andy of Mayberry bank, my hometown bank, at least temporarily. Good neighbors, see? Course, it’s harder all the time to argue with the missus who only uses out of town banks for her bizness. She cashes her librarian check through direct electronic deposit where nobody says,” Hey, I don’t read and I really don’t much care for free libraries. My taxes, my dime, my opinion, ignorant or not. Hope you don’t mind my saying so….”
Trouble is, I do.
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