Angry American

It's happened at last. I've become that which I swore I would never be, an angry, perhaps even bigoted American. While on my last vacation in Mexico, I had my credit card number stolen by a local merchant. Needless to say, my holidays were filled with credit card nightmares from this incident. National City Bank did their best to cancel the card quickly and replace it with another VISA, but since then things just haven't been right with my account. At one sitting, I spent one and a half hours on the phone with credit card "specialists" trying to get things straightened out. During this phone-a-thon I spoke to nine, yes, nine such specialists, none of whom could give me a solution to my problem. I was however, promised that things would be taken care of if, I waited patiently for an additional two weeks.


The two weeks passed and there were no changes in my account. Yesterday I called back and spoke to someone I guess was just a regular credit card person because she couldn't explain why my card was still messed up. She transferred me to another specialist. However, no one picked up the phone. I simply sat in automation land until I punched the number 0, the universal number for Operator? Who should come on the line but a young man whose Spanish accent was so thick I could not understand a word he said. The irony in this was simply more than I could stand. I hung up the phone!

Early this morning I went to the National City ATM (which had been out of service the night before)and tried to retrieve $60 fast cash from my account. With the temps at 4 degrees my car window was frozen, and I had to pull awkwardly forward and slightly away from the ATM in order to open my door to access the screen and the terminal buttons. I was freezing, I was running late for work, and I was becoming seriously frustrated. As I began to furiously punch in passwords and access codes, I reached to hit the Fast cash button and the screen flashed yet another question at me. English or Spanish? The English option was nearly out of my reach, and as I struggled to enter it, I heard myself screaming, "English you F---head!" Perhaps the guy who stole my credit card number needs that option, but he probably doesn't have an account at National City Bank in Parma, Ohio. I do and I speak English! I looked around to see if anyone had heard me, quickly grabbed my cash and my card, and exited the parking lot.

I don't know if my bank account will ever return to normal. I don't know if they will every punish the man who stole my card number. All I know is that I just don't care anymore and I'm mad as hell.