Overdraft Sack

Turn on the TV these days and it’s likely you’ll hear a story about a poor soul who was forced out of their house by their bank. At first blush, I think “wow – those people really screwed-up!”

But after what Bank of America did to me, I find it totally believable how a bank can turn rogue and actually inflict pain and suffering on the very customers they are there to safeguard. In fact, it’s a ScrewFest™ amounting to 38+ billion dollars, according to a recent CNN Money article.

Flashback 1997

Like most first-time homeowners, I was house poor. While my loan was slam-dunk approved for my 1950s charmer, I found it really easy to hand over my paycheck to my local home improvement center for all the odds and ends needed to spruce-up my home. Bushes. Tools. Paint. You name it, the house ate it up.

One thing I was – and still am – protective of is my credit rating. I don’t know why, but in this rat race world, I want to optimize my loan rates since winning the LOTTO® is unlikely at this point in life. So I set-up overdraft protection at my local Bank of America in the event something ever went wrong.

Any boy, did it!

Christmastime Crunch

Sleigh bells rang. I scurried out the door to head to my birthing grounds for the holidays with the nuclear fam. It would be a week-long trip and I had just scored a $750 expense check reimbursement that I needed to deposit. I was running behind schedule, so I decided I would deposit the check at my destination down south since Bank of America had locations pretty much everywhere.

I landed on Christmas Eve and needed to do some last minute frustration shopping.

Pushy people abound.

Mall zombies. A sea of bouncing bobbleheads. Why, the "holiday spirit" was so thick, Emily Post was undoubtedly rolling in her grave. I made my way through it all and got home in time to place my wrapped treasures under the artificial tree.

Two days later and after visions of sugarplums had vaporized, I realized during the holiday hustle I hadn’t deposited my expense check, so I two-wheeled it to the bank drive-thru.

Five days later I returned home to Dallas. As I pulled into my driveway, I was blanketed with a really errie feeling I’ll never forget… sticking out the top of my mailbox like a middle finger were little white envelopes. I could see they were all alike. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7 of them, in total. And what were the letters saying to me? "Yoo-Hoo!... Hey, loser! Get ready to be screwed!"

As fast as I dropped my suitcase on the floor, I was tearing open the envelopes. The letters were overdraft notices from Bank of America. Too much holiday gift-giving, apparently. My eyes scanned the letters and there played out for me were recognizable dollar amounts from my holiday shopping hustle. Some as small as $3 for a cup of coffee from "Fourbucks" (yeah, coffee was about 3 bucks back then.) And each and every transaction had an additional $30 charge conveniently and instantly applied.

“This must be a mistake,” I said out loud, as I shook my head back and forth in disbelief. I had a headache brewing. And the pain was just beginning.

Earth, Wind & Fire

The next day, I bolted to the bank and asked for the banking center manager. I presented the facts and said that while I understood I had accidentally dipped past my account balance, it was only by a bit – roughly $200 – but the bank had charged my account real-time, so the fire had spread to over $1,100! I said I would totally pay for my overdraft charges, but was there anything they could do to work with me? Payment plan? One free NSF rebate with the purchase of a loan? Anything?

And what did I hear? “This happens to all of us.”

"Really?," I said? $1,100?

A grown man can indeed be broken and I tried to hold back the tears of fright as I wondered how I would make my next mortgage payment. $1,100 to me was (and still is) a lot of money and not only was my paycheck swiped up by BoA to promptly pay themselves [ evil laugh ], my savings – and my overdraft protection – evaporated, too.

I told the manager I couldn’t understand why BoA was “putting fire out with gas.” I couldn't understand how my account wasn’t flagged or turned off if I was out of money, but therein lies the nasty nugget – Bank of America wasn’t stupid... or helpful. Most predators aren’t.

Bank of America took me for every hard-earned penny I had. And then some. And they weren’t even remorseful about it. No phone call to see how I was – or even if the charges were legit. No “Hey, dumb ass – did you learn something at your expense?” So that very day I swore “Skank of America” was dead to me. I would never bank with the evil doers ever again.

And I haven’t.

Even though this experience was one of the scariest life events I encountered, some good came out of it. My dear cousin swooped in on angel wings and saved the show – she mailed me a check without hesitation to get me back on my feet.

And I did.

Thank God I still owned my feet! I used them to run from Skank of America faster than Julia did in Sleeping with the Enemy.

That Was Then. This Is Now.

13 years later, and I’m never going back.

"F" you, Bank of America. Pa Ingalls would be ashamed of how your employees so soundly sleep at night based on what you do during the day (screwing well-intending worker bees).

And "F" you, heartless Hillside branch banking center manager. Your mom should stuff your mouth with the bags of pennies you yearn for then beat you with a 5 gauge wire hanger for being a cold, soul-less zombie.

“It happens to all of us.”

Flash Forward 2010:

In a recent New York Times article, Skank of America is finally caving in on their ludicrous NSF shenanigans. The change will go into effect for new customers in June and later in August for existing customers... serving as a great example of another dumb company who values new customer relationships more than existing ones.

It’s all in how they roll their dough, folks!

Rolled Like Dough Twice?

Absolutely! I am the World's *Genuine* Consumer Victim, after all. Read about my former Credit Union who promptly tried to ruin my twice-in-a-lifetime trip to glorious Italy!

My First Let-Down

Well, based on a un-normally distributed vote, (where "n" is less-than 30), I've decided to start at the very beginning. When I was screwed as a ten-year old. (a.k.a. My First Let-Down). Let's Go!

"THE MIRACLE OF NATURE", read the ad's headline I stumbled upon in Sports Illustrated.

I salivated.
Little did I know this miracle would lead to my first life-long non-dream of being "TWOCV" (The World's Original Consumer Victim).

For $5.98 - or $7.98 "post-paid," I would receive a miracle incubator from GQF - that's the Georgia Quail Farm - in Savannah, Georgia.

Pictured at right, the incubator was pretty simple: a plastic device that kinda looked like a spaceship. Inside, there was a small heat-producing light bulb and some foil that could be positioned to deflect direct light from the eggs.

This thing would ensure me a miracle?

The instructions seemed to say so. You see, should I choose to follow the directions to a "T", in about 21-24 days, I'd have five baby quail hatch before my eyes: thus, the true "Miracle of Nature!"

My eyes couldn't have been bigger. Nor my heart beating any faster.

I happily drummed-up the $7.98 for the miracle to-be and stuffed the money in a #10 envelope. Including change. Yes, change. Surprisingly, in a little over a week my to-be miracle showed-up via United States Mail at my very own front door.

I read the incubator's instructions. I folded the wire just so. I tested the light and ensured the humidity level was ever so perfect. I was scared into perfection because (per the instructions) too much humidity during incubation would "drown" the baby chicks when they tried to release themselves from their egg; too little humidity and the baby chicks would be stuck to the egg and unable to get out of the shell-like prison.

A few days later, I bolted home from middle school and lo and behold, there was a baby chick in the incubator!

What was I doing at school when there was a miracle similar to the Baby Jesus
going down in my house? The baby Coturnix quail was so cute. (miracle sample picture at right, multiplied by many). About the size of a marshmallow, it was my newest best friend.

I was one proud pappa.

I must have seemed like "Godzilla" to the baby chick. But I was all it had. I'm sure it was bored sitting in it's bright yellow plastic space dome-home. "Let's get outta this dump and do something!", s/he must have thought.

A few hours later, I was graced with the presence of yet another miracle - #2! Yep, another baby chick hatched and I was just as eager to welcome this little baby into the world as if it were my first.

The next day after school, I tore straight for home to welcome #3, #4 and #5 into the world. But to my dismay, when I rounded the corner in the upstairs "playroom turned holyland", there were still just the two miracles.

Just the two of five "miracles."

Hmmmpf.

Another day and another day after that passed and no more miracles.

I was jipped.

After all hope was lost, my disappointment turned to rage. My rage incubated like my un-hatched miracles. Rage then turned to the typewriter. An IBM Selectric, to be precise. I did the only thing I knew: I wrote the Georgia Quail Farm one nasty letter (keep in mind I was ten years old).

I told the GQF a thing or two. I told them how I supervised my eggs. How I carefully hand-turned the eggs multiple times daily. Ensured the heat was just so. And the humidity was "on the dot." Despite all that, three of my eggs were un-miracles! How could this be?

My parents applauded my nasty letter. It was the first sign that I would not be bullied around in the big, bad world.

I was ten. And I felt ten feet tall.

I mailed the letter off in my pre-teen rage, not expecting a response (Yes, I was jaded even before puberty).

A few days later my mom said something came in the mail for me.

A catalog, I thought? No, it was a special box. And in it contained a miniature egg crate complete with two dozen quail eggs.

24 quail eggs!
My joy was soon replaced with sheer fear. What was I going to do with all these eggs of joy to be? The miracle incubator only held 5 eggs... 7 eggs at the most!

So I did what any normal American kid would do... I tugged on my dad's sleeve and presented my case: I needed a bigger incubator. And his wallet was my only hope.

We took a quick trip to a downtown San Antonio "feed and seed" store to look for better incubator. Screw the bright lightbulb and the limited square footage. My eyes and hopes rested upon the Mother Load: the Mercedes of incubators. This uber-techno incubator held more than 24 eggs, was ergonomically-designed, had an electronically-controlled thermostat and if I so chose, an automatic egg turner!

All this for just $40 United States Dollars.

Schwing!!!

Days later I had so many "Miracles of Nature," I didn't know what to do!

Raising quail had became my special hobby. I was ten and I had ten times ten-fold the miracle-babies in my backyard turned farmyard. Each Easter, me and my family colored the miniature brown-spotted eggs and I reveled in the fact that I had made these miracles materialize. And they were just steps away in the yard.

My yard.

Although the Georgia Quail Farm was my first "nemesis," I look back now with fond appreciation. Whomever sent me those 24 eggs probably didn't think s/he'd foster and propel a love for animals in a little kid. During this special time of my life, I learned my heart could grow and love as many animals as I could acquire.


But let's be clear: those 24 eggs were the proverbial "middle finger" of customer service.

Someone who probably thought "Here's your eggs, Mini-Mo-Fo!"

But oh, how customer service has deteriorated ever since.

It's not a surprise the Georgia Quail Farm is still in business. Tonight I visited The Farm for the first time. Online. You see, back when I was a tiny tot, the Internet was non-existent. Visit the GQF online and pay them some respect for they give our wee-ones hope in an time filled with violence, bad news, and unthinkable acts, like 9/11.

Hats off to The Georgia Quail Farm!