One of my many jobs at the bank branch was to solve problems. This one problem arrived on my desk as the following:
A customer had given his girlfriend his ATM card. She went to our machine. She withdrew $40 from the checking account.
However, then she asked the machine how much was available for withdrawal? It said, $260. ($300 minus the $40 already taken out.) So she took the money out of his account.
Problem. The entire system was down so the ATM was using a back up system, and didn’t have access to the fact that his account was only flush with $120. So we were short $140. In the forward thinking bank policy, the branch that handed out the cash needed to collect it from the deadbeat. “But the ATM did this not us??????” was met with a lack of understanding by the accounting department.
We had to call the customer in and discuss the matter with him. He came in a sat at my desk. I explained to him the problem. I needed $140 to make up for the money that was withdrawn from his account.
How did I know that his girlfriend took the money? I showed him the tape from the back of the ATM---right after she withdrew $40, her next request was how much money could she withdraw?
Maybe someone else came along and took the money after she left? No, the machine still had your card and didn’t spit it back out until after it dispensed the ‘extra’ money.
Finally, he agreed he owed the money, well sort of. His next request was to ask me “How I wanted to be paid?” “What do you mean?”, I asked. “Well, I don’t believe in the paper money we use in America. It’s unconstitutional, can I pay you back in gold? I don’t pay any income taxes because the Federal Government can’t collect money from the citizens---it says so in the Constitution.”
What did I do to get face to face with Mr. I-Don’t-Believe-In-Paper-Money? So I thought as quickly as I could, then I said, “I just want paid back in the same manner your girlfriend used. Good old paper money.”
After a brief banter back and forth, he agreed to pay the money back with dollars, rather than gold nuggets.
Then he said something that I pounced on. He mentioned that he was driving into Anchorage. My branch was in Eagle River, about 12 miles north of Anchorage but only accessible by the Glenn Highway. It cut right through the Air Force base and the Army fort, but eventually connected the two towns.
So I asked him, “How are you getting into Anchorage?”
“I’m taking the Highway into downtown.”
“Why?”
“That’s how you get to Anchorage from here?” he countered.
“Yes, but you are using the road I paid taxes to build. I didn’t get a warm fuzzy paying the money to help build the road, so why do you think it’s your right to use it? You didn’t pay any taxes, remember?”
“But that’s the only road”
“Now, that’s not MY problem is it? You can walk along side the road, but if you are driving on the road, you are driving on MY road?”
He got up and left the branch shortly thereafter. I don’t think we were paid back the money his girlfriend ‘borrowed’ but I don’t think I was going to get it anyway.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Tripping over birthdays
I was approaching a birthday a couple of years ago, and I was driving around with my nephews.
They asked me, “How old are you?” Simple question, I thought.
I blurted out my first response and then realized it was wrong. I pondered another number but then realized that wasn’t correct either.
“You don’t know how old you are?” Lots of chuckles and laughter from the cheap seats.
Embarrassed but proud, I finally figured out which number was my real age, and passed it along.
”Wow! You didn’t know your age?”
So then I had to explain that birthdays become less of a milestone the older you become. I still like to reach them (as the alternative is worse), but no one asks me how old I am anymore to get on the ride at the fair or admit me into the movie or bar. I still remember when my birthday is, but I’m getting a little fuzzy on the number.
I don’t get asked for my driver’s license to order a drink.
I can vote whenever there is an election.
I don’t have to have an adult in the passenger seat when I drive.
I can walk into any movie without a parental figure in tow.
In short, I have arrived.
They asked me, “How old are you?” Simple question, I thought.
I blurted out my first response and then realized it was wrong. I pondered another number but then realized that wasn’t correct either.
“You don’t know how old you are?” Lots of chuckles and laughter from the cheap seats.
Embarrassed but proud, I finally figured out which number was my real age, and passed it along.
”Wow! You didn’t know your age?”
So then I had to explain that birthdays become less of a milestone the older you become. I still like to reach them (as the alternative is worse), but no one asks me how old I am anymore to get on the ride at the fair or admit me into the movie or bar. I still remember when my birthday is, but I’m getting a little fuzzy on the number.
I don’t get asked for my driver’s license to order a drink.
I can vote whenever there is an election.
I don’t have to have an adult in the passenger seat when I drive.
I can walk into any movie without a parental figure in tow.
In short, I have arrived.
Monday, January 15, 2007
A Ringing Phone Saves the Day (or Insert foot, almost)
In the early 90’s, I was working downtown, trying to make a career change into the insurance field. I had a nice office, a great view of downtown but barely eeked out a living.
I was headed out the door with a friend of mine to have lunch. At the receptionist desk, sat Joan who was covering for the regular receptionist’s lunch hour. She asked us where we were headed, and as I am prone to do, I said, “We are going to discuss that Lebanon thing”. (At the time, Lebanon was the subject of daily bombings, kidnappings and chaos.) Of course, we were headed for lunch but why give someone a straight answer when a fake one will do? Joan answered, “My Dad’s over there in Lebanon.”
I spun on my heels. Here was someone with a family member in harm’s way. Why on Earth would you step foot in a country that has people pulled off the street and held for ransom? There must be eight or ten people being held by terrorists willing to use them to get air time. I was going to ask her why her father would stay in such a dangerous place.
Then a remarkable thing happened.
The phone rang. She picked up the phone and was trying to help the person on the other end. Time was running, so we headed back out the door and found a place to eat while taking in the sights and sounds of downtown.
We made it back from lunch and went about the business of the day.
Then a couple of hours later, Sharon knocked on my door. Could she talk to me? Sure.
She said she heard about us going to lunch today. Then she dropped a bombshell. Did I know Joan’s father was one of the hostages being held in Beirut! (I could feel the blood leaving my face.)
One of the hazards of being a smart aleck is edging THIS close to inserting your foot in your mouth. I quickly tried to recall exactly what I had said. I told Sharon I had no idea her father was in Beirut, of course I wouldn’t have said a thing if I knew this. (Why did I have to reply to everything?) She assured me that Joan wasn’t upset or anything, but she figured she needed to tell more people about her family than just a select few.
Happily, I can say her father made it home several years later. I met him at a reception they held for him at Joan’s house. He was a nice man with a very caring daughter.
I saw Joan a couple of months ago at my nephew’s open house, I was so thankful that one day in 1990, the phone rang and saved me from looking for a dentist to perform emergency ‘foot extraction”. I’d like to say I learned a lesson, and stopped being a smart aleck----I’d like to say that, but I can’t.
In the early 90’s, I was working downtown, trying to make a career change into the insurance field. I had a nice office, a great view of downtown but barely eeked out a living.
I was headed out the door with a friend of mine to have lunch. At the receptionist desk, sat Joan who was covering for the regular receptionist’s lunch hour. She asked us where we were headed, and as I am prone to do, I said, “We are going to discuss that Lebanon thing”. (At the time, Lebanon was the subject of daily bombings, kidnappings and chaos.) Of course, we were headed for lunch but why give someone a straight answer when a fake one will do? Joan answered, “My Dad’s over there in Lebanon.”
I spun on my heels. Here was someone with a family member in harm’s way. Why on Earth would you step foot in a country that has people pulled off the street and held for ransom? There must be eight or ten people being held by terrorists willing to use them to get air time. I was going to ask her why her father would stay in such a dangerous place.
Then a remarkable thing happened.
The phone rang. She picked up the phone and was trying to help the person on the other end. Time was running, so we headed back out the door and found a place to eat while taking in the sights and sounds of downtown.
We made it back from lunch and went about the business of the day.
Then a couple of hours later, Sharon knocked on my door. Could she talk to me? Sure.
She said she heard about us going to lunch today. Then she dropped a bombshell. Did I know Joan’s father was one of the hostages being held in Beirut! (I could feel the blood leaving my face.)
One of the hazards of being a smart aleck is edging THIS close to inserting your foot in your mouth. I quickly tried to recall exactly what I had said. I told Sharon I had no idea her father was in Beirut, of course I wouldn’t have said a thing if I knew this. (Why did I have to reply to everything?) She assured me that Joan wasn’t upset or anything, but she figured she needed to tell more people about her family than just a select few.
Happily, I can say her father made it home several years later. I met him at a reception they held for him at Joan’s house. He was a nice man with a very caring daughter.
I saw Joan a couple of months ago at my nephew’s open house, I was so thankful that one day in 1990, the phone rang and saved me from looking for a dentist to perform emergency ‘foot extraction”. I’d like to say I learned a lesson, and stopped being a smart aleck----I’d like to say that, but I can’t.
Mr. Busy
He’s pretty busy
I have been trying to communicate with a gentleman across the United States in Charlotte NC. He emails me, I respond with a question-----I never hear from him again. This has happened more than once.
I’ve announced this failed link in several meetings and I usually get the same excuse, it’s because “he’s really busy”.
Nothing infuriates me more than a cover up by enabling. We all operate with the same 24 hour time constraint.
I usually counter I TOO AM BUSY, BUT I’D BE LESS BUSY IF PEOPLE RESPONDED TO MY EMAILS. I don’t say it in capital letters, but I don’t accept the ‘really busy’ excuse.
One day, someone volunteered this same gentleman has an administrative assistant who is not the most organized.
I heard two words in this statement that made my hair stand on end----adminstrative assistant! Mr.Busy has more help than I do, yet still hides behind the ‘really busy’ excuse.
Today, I heard that he’s really busy and gets “lots of emails”. Stop! Communication is not a one-way street. Maybe I’ll hear he’s really busy, gets tons of emails, works full-time in a soup kitchen, volunteers for work at the UN, is a stay-at-home dad with eleven foster kids AND president of the local PTA. I doubt it.
Pretty soon, I’m going to add him to my junk email filter.
The next time you claim you are really busy---try to remember your audience all have jobs, lives, careers, commitments, meetings, correspondence and emails too. Yet somehow we manage to drift through the same 24-hours as the ‘Mr. Busy’ of the world—some of us without an Administrative Assistant! So Mr. Busy in Charlotte NC, when you read this I hope my message gets through---I’d send you another email reminder, but you are ‘really busy’.
I have been trying to communicate with a gentleman across the United States in Charlotte NC. He emails me, I respond with a question-----I never hear from him again. This has happened more than once.
I’ve announced this failed link in several meetings and I usually get the same excuse, it’s because “he’s really busy”.
Nothing infuriates me more than a cover up by enabling. We all operate with the same 24 hour time constraint.
I usually counter I TOO AM BUSY, BUT I’D BE LESS BUSY IF PEOPLE RESPONDED TO MY EMAILS. I don’t say it in capital letters, but I don’t accept the ‘really busy’ excuse.
One day, someone volunteered this same gentleman has an administrative assistant who is not the most organized.
I heard two words in this statement that made my hair stand on end----adminstrative assistant! Mr.Busy has more help than I do, yet still hides behind the ‘really busy’ excuse.
Today, I heard that he’s really busy and gets “lots of emails”. Stop! Communication is not a one-way street. Maybe I’ll hear he’s really busy, gets tons of emails, works full-time in a soup kitchen, volunteers for work at the UN, is a stay-at-home dad with eleven foster kids AND president of the local PTA. I doubt it.
Pretty soon, I’m going to add him to my junk email filter.
The next time you claim you are really busy---try to remember your audience all have jobs, lives, careers, commitments, meetings, correspondence and emails too. Yet somehow we manage to drift through the same 24-hours as the ‘Mr. Busy’ of the world—some of us without an Administrative Assistant! So Mr. Busy in Charlotte NC, when you read this I hope my message gets through---I’d send you another email reminder, but you are ‘really busy’.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
