JEFF PEARLMAN

JEFF PEARLMAN

The chase

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Am in the city today, doing some research/writing. Stopped off at the Chase on 100 East 42nd Street to deposit two checks. Started filling out the forms, was greeted by a young woman with blonde hair and an overt perkiness. “Would you like me to help you take care of that?”

Uh … OK.

“Just follow me when you fill everything out.”

I filled everything out and followed her. Not to a bank machine or a teller, but to a desk. Greg’s desk. He’s a bank officer. “While we’re taking care of that, do you mind if we look at your account?” he said.

I was immediately irked.

Well …

“Right now your money is in this and this. But you can gain 5% growth annually by doing this …”

My irk grew.

I gotta get to work, I said.

“I understand,” he said. “But if you consider …”

I have been a Chase customer forever. But this isn’t like drinking Coke over Pepsi, or wearing Adidas over Reebok. I hate Chase. And Citi. And every bank out there. They have raped this country’s infrastructure, and now that they’re struggling, they’re out for blood. Always lusting. Always craving. Trying to con customers into this. And this. And this.

Back when I was a teenager in Mahopac, N.Y., I had a job at the Jefferson Valley Mall. I worked for the Consumer Opinion Company, walking around with a clipboard, trying to con people into filling out a 20-minute survey on crackers or dog food. Nobody wanted to step near me, and I understood. I was a vulture. A paid vulture.

Banks are the same way, only they prey on their own. You already have my business, for God’s sake. Now leave me alone and let me go about my day.

I wish I could just tuck my dough under a mattress.

F***ing Chase …