I Woke Up Early the Day My Bank Account Died (1125 words)

It's not even 10 AM as I write this, and I'm already bathed in sweat. I showered at 7 this morning. Let me explain.

Proving that I can't be trusted with even the slightest modicum of responsibility, I failed to pay my credit card for the month of November. Just slipped my mind, I suppose. Not surprising, considering how little I use it.

But November/December is a gigantic gift-buying season for me, and I do all my online purchases through it for that whole Congressional Credit Card Act of 1970 user protection dealie.

So I put a few hundred dollars on the ol' magnetic stripe and it slipped my mind. Until yesterday. So I check my balance online, cringe at the $29 late fee, and authorize my credit card company to take the funds out of my bank account.

Wait a second. I haven't checked my bank account in a long time. Better hop over and get its vitals, too. There's enough to cover my credit card! Hooray! But wait. I also cut my leasing office a check to pay for rent, and my leasing office is the one that sends you an eviction notice as a reminder. As it turns out:

bank account < (credit card + rent)

Whoopsie. I talk to Erica and let her know. She writes checks made out to me for rent and I write checks made out to the leasing office. These are two actions that don't always synchronize. And there is now the matter of two months' back rent I need just to make sure shit doesn't start bouncing like Fred MacMurray. So I cut out of work to deposit the check. I stressed to the teller that I accidentally paid my credit card bill without checking and I wanted to avoid that "whole overdraft...thing". She handed me my transaction receipt and I left feeling better. The day was saved.

Or so I thought. About an hour after I get back from the bank, Erica checked her account online, and saw a credit in the amount of her check. A credit in the amount of the check she'd written. Banks don't work that way. The teller fucked up. Not surprising considering that our accounts share all but the last two digits. It was now well after the bank's business hour, so I called the national contact number and explained the situation. A pleasant, informative, English-speaking rep named Michael told me that a banking error such as this one would be caught and corrected during overnight processing. Namely, that a computer somewhere would say "wait, these accounts don't agree with what this check says. Better fix it and send the check to be reprocessed correctly." He told me not to quote him on the time frame to get that money into my account, but I will anyway: "24 to 48 hours".

Which would be great, 'cept in the fast-paced world of "I pay my bills through online transfer and my leasing office was closed on the 1st and 2nd", I don't have that kind of time. He suggests I have Erica call, because they obviously can't get into her account on my request and poke around. We go home and Erica calls. The rep she speaks to doesn't understand the situation. "You wrote a check? And the money went into your account? I don't understand. You wrote a check. And the money went into your account? Say that again?" Eventually, Erica gets her inquiry handled. She's in no position to worry, as I trust the overnight processing will revert the credit and she'll be fine by morning. I, on the other hand, not so much. Instead of getting that money into my account overnight, I have an additional 24 to 48 hours of time that I can't afford to wait before the error gets resolved on my end.

Dinner that night was somber and depressing. It was like the Steelers had beaten us 41 to 0. I had a lager from Scotland called Tennent's, and a remarkably shitty American attempt at a Hefeweizen called Harpoon UFO. Stay away from the Harpoon UFO at all costs. I'm not sure I'll be able to drink beer for a while after having that abortion in a glass.

When we get home, a plan is hatched. We are going to go back to the same bank's branch as soon as they open and, on the recommendation of Erica's phone rep, in person do a fund transfer. A fund transfer should basically go as follows:

Me: "Hi. I have an account with this bank."

Her: "Me too. I'd like to put some money from my account into his."

Me: "I'm OK with this."

Teller: "OK. Sign here."

Everyone: "Yay!"

The truth was that I woke up at 7 AM after passing out on the couch sometime during the Futurama episode where Fry finds out he has 4 billion dollars in his bank account. Before that, Family Guy had Peter Griffin singing "Lois makes me take the wrap / Because our checkbook looks like crap". I think God is sending me a signal. I wake up, shower, and get dressed. I plan to be at the bank with Erica at 8:30 when they open.

Turns out they open at 9:30. I misremembered the hours I saw when I was there yesterday. Fuck. Now I'm really mad — entirely at myself — and Erica and I walk home. She goes back to bed for another 45 minutes and I read feeds and drink a glass of water. At 9:15, it's back to the bank. I'm wearing thermal underwear and two layers of coats. It's chilly and windy, but I'm just not in shape for a series of early January morning round-trip marches to a bank three blocks away. Hence the profuse sweating I mentioned at the beginning of the article. As I write this, I've dried out a bit and I think I might have to shower again tonight after I get home.

Fortunately, I speak to Dolores, the exact same teller I had before, and she denies all wrongdoing. I don't believe her, but I'm not about to make this a blame game. My words to her were something akin to "Whatever happened, doesn't matter. We need to get that money in my account, like, yesterday." Dutifully, Dolores processes our transaction and assures that the money is in my account and ready to be absorbed by my credit card company.

On a completely unrelated note, I immediately pocket the transaction receipt and hand her another deposit slip with $120 in cash on top of it to cover my bases.

I'm not sure what will happen, but I'm pretty sure I won't be broke by tomorrow.