Holt's Harangue

Author: Christian Holt

I think my bank loves me a little too much. I have a summer's work worth of savings at the local branch, and they treat me like I own a friggin' mint.
When I deposit money, the receptionist is nice, which I guess is typical. But she's smiling a whole lot more than she should, like this is actually exciting to her. She keeps on sweating and giggling nervously. I haven't felt that in control since I went car shopping - the salesmen were putty in my hands.
Well, I sit down with the bank representative, and I swear that while I'm in the meeting, the other bankers are staring over the side of the cubicle. When I turn my head, they duck and act like they aren't watching. And when I leave the place, deposit slip in hand, is it normal to hear Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" and party noisemakers?
They must really like my business, I think, as I receive the third letter of the week from the bank. It not only notifies me that my slender sum of money has grown by .003 percent, but it is also a personal letter of interest. They tell me they "really enjoy my business..." and "value me as a person." I don't know about you, but it seems odd for them to start every letter with "Dear Beloved One..."
Now that I think about it, I'm betting there is something fishy going down in that establishment. I'm talking, of course, about the National Bank of Middlebury. I never understood that. How could a bank be National and have only two locations, both located within ten miles of the town? Is Middlebury considered a nation? Is my money now the sole contribution to this nation's treasury? Wouldn't that be an odd thought: Middlebury as a nation, its only imports being cocky preppy kids and only exports being cockier preppy kids.
Does your bank remember your birthday? My best friends don't even remember my birthday. To them, they may think, "Hey, he hasn't had a birthday for more than a year." But nothing dawns on them. These bank folks send me a card, a cake and a bag of confetti. The only thing they don't send me is a savings bond. My grandmother does that, which I promptly deposit in the bank ... and they then send me a card thanking me for my deposit and further wish me a happy birthday.
But maybe I'm overreacting - maybe most banks do this. I mean Mastercard airs all those ads about "priceless" moments. Maybe they make some of those moments come true for their customers or something. I guess in this shabby economy, banks feel compelled to go the extra mile. "The bank that's more than a bank, we're also your friends... really. We're your friends, chums, amigos. Why have you stopped calling us?"
I don't want my bank to be my friend. My friends usually borrow money and then don't give it back. Then I'm forced to break their knees until they reimburse me. I don't want to have to do that to the nice folks at the bank. That, and I am afraid of the security guards. (They have clubs.)
Anyway, I think I'm going to withdraw my money, and do what my Scottish and Norwegian ancestors did: bury it. That's right, I come from a long line of marauding hooligans - we pillage and plunder and then bury our treasure. So if you see me on McCullough lawn with a shovel, pretend you saw nothing.