Fuck me in the right nostril, I DID buy myself a kindle yesterday.
I thought it was only pretend- buying, because my old card details were saved and they were for a prepaid card that generates a virtual code, but actually, I must have put in the card’s real physical number and stuff, so the sale went through.
To discover this, I had to spend an hour of futile argument with the wench at the bank. I sauntered in after a long extended breakfast and shower period, around 3pm, and there was a congregation of queue zombies shifty-eyeing me as I walked past them. They fumed as I navigated past their feeble attempts to block me with wasted bodies… the elderly save up the wrath of all the injustices in their lives to spew out vengeance on the young queue jumpers… I toyed with them, pretending I was going to skip to the head; but at the last minute I made a sharp right turn and BAM! Haha, I was going to customer service all along. Peripheral vision registered the de-puffing of old tired chests, the release of held breath anticipating the need for them to form a vigilante horde of decreptitude against the shameless queue skipper.
Ah yes. Justice and order… That’s right. I’m a little smug after messing with them. So easy.
The woman at the desk ignored me for a while. Eventually she allowed me some eye contact, and I requested a new password for my prepaid card. Ok, she says. It will arrive by post in a week or so. What? I need it now. I have proof of ID. My name is on the card. I know the pin to take all the money out, I just don’t remember the password to use it online.
No, I’m sorry, she says. That’s not possible.
I repeat myself. I could take all the money out right now, out of a bank machine. There isn’t that much money in there, but I can prove who I am and I have all the rest of the information.
She leans in confidentially.
“You see, it’s for security reasons. You could… I mean no offense but someone could come in with a false passport and… if I just gave out a password… then they could commit fraud with your card.”
“Yes” I say. “But I have the pin. I have two forms of photo ID that are quite DIFFICULT to falsify, and I have the pin that would allow me right now to withdraw ALL THE MONEY in my account.”
“Ah” she says. “That’s just how it is. It’s just in case someone comes in pretending to be you.”
“Right, but with this supposedly falsifiable passport and national Id card I have here, as well as my social security number and knowledge of all my personal info you have on file, I could go up to that counter and withdraw in cash everything on my card and in my current account which is a lot more. There’s no talk of someone using fake passports in that case, is there?”
“Yes but this is different.”
“Ok, so what if I ask you to make me another card, right now, and you give me the password for that card right now,and I clear out my other account, and put the money on the new card.”
“Oh yes,” she says brightly. “that’s no problem.”
“Right then. Let’s do that.”
“The cost for the new card will be €10.”
I rant and rave and refuse to pay for a card I already have.
The woman squints at me. “You’re not Italian, are you?”
I hate this. Why does that matter? Bank people always ask me this shit. I’m here arguing about my money, a matter more sacred than life or death, and all that is standing in the way of my online shopping is this woman, the guardian of my own money. I tell her I am Italian. I actually am technically. I’m a halfie. Obviously it’s the half I’m least proud of, so I don’t go around saying it in public. But on these occasions, because Italians in general seem to become hopelessly perplexed with any piece of information that doesn’t seem entirely normal to them, I like to fuck with them a bit. They can’t comprehend that someone might BE Italian, but not have grown up in the country, or that someone might be black or look asian but also be Italian and have a perfect Italian accent, or whatever. Their minds boggle. I can’t be Italian, because I would need to look and sound Italian, wouldn’t I?
She nods and says, “I see, yes and no.”
I say, “No, I am Italian. So just yes.”
She says… “Because you talk…”
I’m getting a little pissed now, we’re talking my money here and she’s quizzing me about my nationality. Racist cunt.
“Yeah, I know my Italian isn’t perfect. I didn’t grow up here.”
She still looks a bit doubtful.
“Are you American?”
I look extremely pissed off so she drops it and gets back to actual bank work.
“Why don’t you try just putting in the physical card details online? What is it that’s urgent, are you booking a flight?”
For some reason, I deny this. “No! Not a flight…” shit, a flight is urgent. Should have said yes. Instead: “No I have to buy something on Amazon.” Stupid. Not getting any sympathy here. Then I should have said it was a present for my sister which had to arrive before her birthday, but it didn’t occur to me, so I just blathered about how I really really needed my stuff to arrive before… before… before I left the country. She asked me when I was leaving the country. I say Monday. Then realise of course nothing would arrive in the post that soon. “I mean, not Monday. thursday. No I don’t know yet.” Right. Woman realises I am just some immigrant with a strong desire to go online shopping today, and she disregards anything I say after. I go home and decide to try the physical card numbers.
Check my balance with the ATM outside. What? 17,45? There should be like 150 euro left. what? Why? I know I used my card on holidays… I definitely spent a bit of money… but shit, I thought there’d be more left. The ATM won’t let me see any movements for this month other than a deposit of 200 euro. Why no other movements? I spend half an hour on the phone navigating the stupid circular menu of the automatic robot voice customer service number. Eventually get through to someone who gives me another number to call. Spend another 20 minutes on hold. Finally talking to a person. I lay into him angrily. “This is ridiculous, I can’t see any of my withdrawals with this card, and it says there is only 17,45 left on the card!” He tells me the last use of the card was yesterday when I bought something on Amazon. OH now I get it. I actually did buy the kindle. It all makes sense now, I used the real card details and I had more money on it than I thought. He asks if I did or didn’t make that purchase… I tell him “Yeah that was me…I… eh, forgot I bought that,” and not to report my card stolen. He bid me good day, frostily.
YAY I’M GETTING A KINDLE! I know, I bought it myself. Stupid girl, shouldn’t be spending money. Feels like Christmas though, even though I spent the money. YAYYYYYY! Happy days.