Collections

Getting medieval on my ass.
  December 26, 2004

A collections officer from Citibank called me yesterday at eight in the morning.  “Hello,” he said.  “May I speak to A. Baylin?”

“Uuuuuughhhh,” I replied and tried to curl into a fetal ball.

“Sir, you are more than a thosand dollars over the limit on your credit card and late with your payments.”

“Umm.  Hmm.  What?”

“May I remind you that it is very important to keep your account in good standing?”

“Please don't,” I mumbled, surrendering to the inevitable.

“Sir,” the voice said disapprovingly, “when do you intend to make the necessary payments?”

“Uh…  Um…  When's my next payment due?”

“You are currently in default, sir.  You should pay immediately.”

“I can't,” I said with feigned horror.  “Are you joking?  It's physically impossible.”

The voice became stern.  “Need I remind you, sir, that you have an obligation to make all your payments in a timely manner?”

“But you don't understand!  I need at least a half an hour to write you a check and walk to the mailbox, and then it's gonna take a couple of days before it reaches you.  Immediacy is not an option.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Perhaps you think this is a joke,” he said finally, “but I assure you that we are treating this matter very seriously.”

“So am I.  I'll pay you as soon as I can but let's be reasonable about it, okay?”

“You must do it ASAP,” he insisted.

“Absolutely.”

“And how do you intend to make this payment, sir?”

“Well,” I said, “there's this great stuff called 'money'.  I've been hearing good things about it.  Do you take 'money'?”

“Yes,” he said with sarcasm.  “We take money.”

“Excellent!  Would Swiss francs do?  You see, I'm on the payroll in Switzerland so all my cash is tied up there, and they charge me an arm and a leg when I exchange it…”

“I don't understand what kind of a game you think you're playing here,” he said, “but be warned that we are prepared to take any steps up to and including litiga—”

“Hey, hey, hey!” I protested and made placating motions with my hands in the air.  “No reason to get so worked up about it!  Jeez!  If you don't take it, you don't take it—I understand.  It's just that barter's hard for me, you know?  I gave away all my sheep for my niece's wedding feast—we've got four thousand relatives coming.  And I can't do manual labor right now because my rock band is going on tour.”

In the ensuing silence I heard a choking sound.

“Hello?” I said.

“You will pay for this, punk!” he screamed in a breaking voice and, to my utter bewilderment, hung up the phone.

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