As we head into life’s final trimester, one of the keys to survival is keeping our blood pressure in check. Some of us take pills to keep it under control. Some folks diet and exercise. Feh! Me? I look to avoid interactions with customer service representatives.

But it’s hard to do. The simple acts of making a deposit at the bank, or checking to see if your car dealer as promised made the last payment on your expiring lease, or renewing a driver’s license — all of which I have tried to do in the last month — are enough to get your blood boiling.

You know, one of the best things about getting old — aside from the obvious “still alive” thing — is how much wisdom you gain simply by lasting this long. And, along with knowledge, you gain a common sense and a clarity of thought that allows you to cut right through the BS and get to the very heart of a matter. (Ironic, isn’t it, that you’re at your clearest right before the dementia kicks in. It’s a pity, really.)

Case in point: I went to the bank the other day to deposit some money, and I saw a couple of checks payable to my daughter that she wanted cashed, so I took those along. I get to the bank, which I really shouldn’t name (fucking Chase, East Meadow Avenue, teller No. 3), and hand in the slips. I’ve been banking at this branch for years. Everyone knows me… except, apparently, teller No. 3.

“Do you have your debit card? Please insert it into the reader so we can verify who you are.”

“Really?” I say, before grudgingly complying.

“Thanks, David. What can I help you with today?”

“Just depositing some money and cashing a couple checks.” I start to make smalltalk with the other tellers I know, when teller No. 3 says, “Who’s Hallie?”

“That’s my daughter.”

“Well, we can’t cash that because it’s not you.” They’re payroll checks, I explain, instructing her to put a hold on my account in that amount until the checks clear. I know they are good.

“Sorry, David, we can’t do that.” After a moment, I suggest depositing the money into my account. “Just deposit it, then,” I say. Common sense, right? I’m not taking cash, I’m giving them cash. As I’ve said, I’ve been banking there for years, they know me, they know my wife, who shares the account with my daughter… there should NOT be a problem here.

“Sorry, David, we can’t do that. We don’t know who Hallie is, so we can’t deposit it.”

They were on to me! And here I was, thinking I was such a clever criminal, putting money INTO an account and then leaving the bank with LESS MONEY!! What master detectives, masquerading as bank tellers to thwart diabolical depositors like myself!

“Just give me back my fucking checks, you a-hole,” I say… to myself. “Well, this has been a complete waste of time,” I say to the teller.

From there, on to motor vehicles to renew my license. That took THREE TRIPS to the DMV. Trip one: line wrapped around the block to get in. I bailed. Trip two: Didn’t have the requisite paperwork to upgrade from my current license to one that will identify me at airports.

Trip three, and after an hour-and-fifteen minute-wait, I’m at the window.
“How can I help you,” the nice lady says.
“Just renewing my license. Here are my current license, my passport, my social security card, utility bills … oh, and a picture of my first-born.” I was joking.

“We don’t need the picture,” she instructed. No shit.

“OK,” she says, “everything appears to be in order.” Great. I start making out the check. “Oh, wait.”

Uh-oh.. “Wait.. for what?”

“This isn’t your social security card,” the less nice lady says. It sure looked like it to me, still stapled to the card it came on that reads “This is your social security card.” Still signed in the handwriting of my 14-year-old self.

“This is the stub portion, not the actual card.” Wow. “Well, isn’t having the stub proof that I have a social security card? Also.. I have my passport, which is still valid, and which required me to produce my social security card. Isn’t that proof enough?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“So what do I do now?” I ask the not-nice lady. “You can come back with the card, or a W2 form, and get the enhanced license. Until then, you have to get the regular license.”

“Just give me back my fucking documentation, you a-hole,” I say… to myself. “This sucks,” I say to the horrible lady.

Last week, I got a letter from, yes, fucking Chase, telling me the last payment on my lease hasn’t been paid, despite the dealer telling me he’d take care of it. I call Chase customer service.

“Hi,” I say, most chipperly. “Just checking to make sure my dealer made the last payment on my lease.”

I go through the rigamarole of providing every bit of personally identifiable information that I have.

“Thanks, David. Please hold while I pull up your records.” No hold music. Just silence. After what felt like an hour but was more like three minutes, “Thanks for holding, David. Your account is closed, and you’ll be receiving a final invoice within 30 to 60 days, covering any mileage overages or unusual wear and tear on the vehicle.”

“Thanks. So, has my last payment been made, or will that be included in the invoice?”

“Please hold while I look further into your account.” Trying to hold it together.

“Thanks for holding, David. Upon further review, you won’t be receiving a final invoice, as your dealer has purchased the vehicle from us.”

“Okay, so I don’t owe the final payment, right?”

“Your account has been closed.” WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME IF THE PAYMENT WAS MADE?? I assume it has been, because the account has been closed, but why do I have to infer that from her remarks? JUST FUCKING TELL ME IF I OWE ANY MORE MONEY!!!

So, the pressure’s rising, and then, as I’m just about at the bursting point, each of these people pour gasoline on the fire with the line that sends the mercury, like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, exploding out of the top of my head.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Anything ELSE?? YOU COULDN’T HELP ME WITH THIS!! I HATE when people say that after they’ve been completely useless and sucked a half-hour or more of life from you. They should say, “Is there anything at all that I’ll be able to help you with?” But I already know, the answer is no. These people are robots, not free thinkers, instructed to follow a process over using common sense. Just wait until they’re older. Then they’ll see.

Meantime, my accounts are no longer at Chase. Common sense. Clarity of thought.