I Anti-Heart Banks

So, when we refinanced our mortgage for greater fiscal lube value the bank that holds our mortgage made a big song and dance about how they'd really like to have our other business. The fact that I receive a regular paycheque now made their little banking mouths water and their little banking genitals hard and wet. They made us an offer of an attractive package, and we were convinced: we agreed to move our other accounts to the new bank, and let them handle our credit concerns.

Living as we do in an automated world we expressed some chagrin about the mess of switching all of our money connections from the old source to the new source. The bank was prepared for that contingency -- they have a service called Easy Switch in which they take care of the whole kit-kaboodle on our behalf.

So, how well did the Easy Switch service from Scotiabank function?

Piss poorly.

Know what happened? None of our old accounts were closed after the balances were paid out, so they all continued to accrue service fees. And since the balances had been paid that meant they all instantly went into arrears.

Approximately half of our automated withdrawls were successfully moved. The other half continued to hammer at our old "closed" accounts, racking up piles of NSF fees ($35 per). Even after we manually made contact with the parties in question, the overwhelming majority of them still failed to follow our instructions, and continued to ignite NSF lights across the board.

Also, confused about the new mortgage arrangement they had made with us, Scotiabank tried to extract our mortgage from the old account. Three times in as many days ($105), to be precise. When we called to sort that out they said "sorry" and then attempted to extract our old mortgage amount and our new mortgage account from our current account, overdrawing it into the sixth circle of Hell ($105). When we called to straighten that out they said "sorry" and then, come next payment, took out double payments again.

I spoke with an officious clitwrench at Scotiabank who told me that the banking officer who had set up our new mortgage had made an error, and we were behind a payment. None of the other two banking officers we dealt with while trying to clean up the mess noticed this mistake. So, as soon as the balance was available, Scotiabank just took it without explanation.

"You signed the policy," said the bitch.

"You had two people sitting in on the session, explaining every step of what I was signing, and they both assured me that I understood the pay schedule correctly. And I've spoken with two other people since who've looked at the situation -- and nobody noticed this error on your part. Is there some kind of contagion of incompetence at your branch?"

"As I've indicated, you signed the papers and that's all that matters in the end."

"That's charming. And what should I feed my baby this week? Old newspapers?"

"So this has negatively impacted your cashflow?"

"Yes, having a surprise balance of minus sixteen hundred dollars has indeed negatively impacted my cashflow. You must be some kind of an accounting genius."

"Now sir --"

"You listen to me. You got our business and then proceeded to botch twice as much as you got right. If you want to keep our business, you'd better smarten up fast. First things first, when can I expect reimbursements for all these NSF fees, and how much are you increasing my overdraft so I can buy groceries today?"

"Okay, here's what I'm doing to do --"

"Allow me to interrupt. I just told you what you're going to do. All you have to do now is do it. I'm waiting."

...And so on and so forth.

Our ordered cheques did not arrive. The little security number on the back of my credit card doesn't work. Our cashback allowances on the accounts are wrong.

On and on and on.

So, today I call our old bank to command them to close off my accounts. The first representative I get on the telephone tells me I can't do that over the phone without being mailed a five digit magic code for telephone banking, so I hang up on her and call again. The next representative says I can close the accounts over the telephone, but I have to answer some security questions. For some reason that makes no sense in a world of facts and consistency I fail these questions.

"Suck donkey balls," I tell the representative, and hang up on her.

I call back and get a nice fellow who is able to help me out without any difficulties, except that he won't close my line of credit because the bank owes me money. They won't transfer the money electronically, so I'll be obliged to go into a physical branch and demand a cheque sometime during their mind-numbingly inconvenient hours of meat-based operation.

Super.

Littlestars calls a third bank who held one of our accounts to demand to know why the account has not yet been closed despite receiving clear instructions, and they tell us it "isn't their policy" to receive instructions from another financial institution, even if they are our duly authorized legal representative in the matter. "Nice fucking policy. Kiss my ass, Easy Switch."

Our insurance company can't seem to understand that we've switched accounts, no matter how they are informed. After two NSFs they demand payment in full for the entire year's worth of premiums, payable immediately. So now Easy Switch has required me to pull $1500 out of my anus at a moment's notice.

Jolly!

I'm so-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o glad we decided to switch to Scotiabank. I mean, there just wasn't enough irritation in my life. I'm so grateful they're there to fill that void for me.

Unclefuckers.


I Anti-Heart Old Oak

Now, we are not naive, are we? We know that insurance is a game of numbers, not compassion. Never the less, I was advised that the numbers should work for my current "situation" so I decided to try to go through insurance.

What is the situation? Well. Short version:

Our next door neighbours are pricks. Ever since we moved in they've been venting excess water from their sump pump directly into the schoolhouse yard, flooding large amounts of land and eroding the ground underneath our storage sheds. My solution? Work with the by-law officers. My father-in-law's solution? Re-route their water outlet when they're away on vacation and let them deal with a little flooding for a change.

He asked me what I thought of that and I told him to fucking undo it as soon as possible, lest he destroy any chance of negotiating with them on amicable terms.

He agreed, but didn't undo it.

So the neighbours came home to $35,000 of damage to their finished basement, necessitating the use of an industrial-scale pumping truck to move all of the water and muck out of their house.

They were displeased, and have subsequently sued my father-in-law (Old Oak) for the cost of damages as assessed by their insurance company. The fun! part of this is that Old Oak does not have tenants' insurance. This means he will be obliged to liquidate what few assets he has in order to pay for his defense. The price tag starts at $5000.

My step-father (Beurre d'Arachide) tells me that I might be able to handle the suit through my insurance company as the homeowner, thus sparing Littlestar's parents going bankrupt and Old Oak being in a profoundly bad mood for the next two to four years (or more). It would mean I'd be making a claim on my policy, of which only a handful can be made before the insurer decideds I am too risky to continue insuring. Never the less, I figure "this is what insurance is for" and I go ahead and make the claim.

Next I get to spend several days, hours at a time, on the telephone chatting with claims agents, lawyers and the adjuster. They say everything looks good to proceed, as soon as I sign a waiver stating that, should things go in an untoward way, I agree to be on the hook for any money they may have to pay out plus all legal expenses.

Naturally, I ask for a definition of "untoward."

It comes down to this: should the plaintiffs be able to prove any malicious intent on the part of Old Oak, the damages would not be covered under my policy and I, personally, would be liable for about $45,000.

The adjuster suggests that I confer with legal counsel before signing the waiver, so I spend a day playing telephone tag with Prosciutto. Prosciutto, who is an insurance lawyering ninja, explains to me that if Old Oak (or anyone else called to testify, including my dottering mother-in-law) can be tricked into an admission of intent, we're boned. He asks me candidly, "Could there have been malicious intent?"

I take a moment to think about the man who came up with the plan to soak a neighbour's house in buckets of liquidifed dog shit as an act of revenge; a man who was positively giddy as he announced how he had re-routed the water outlet toward our neighbour's house; a man who tore down a dam keeping a lake alive at his sister's cottage after she refused to sell him a portion of the land; a man whose every action in all the time I've known him has hinged on vindictiveness and vitriol...

"Yes," I say to Prosciutto; "it is indeed conceivable that he did act out of malice."

Prosciutto wants to know if I believe Old Oak is coherent and together enough to be reliably coached in his testimony.

"Well, he's seventy-one, he's bi-polar, and he's suffered a severe head injury. So it's fair to say his behaviour can be difficult to predict."

Prosciutto emphasizes that if we told Old Oak what's at stake, could he keep his story within the lines?

I considered this. If Old Oak knew he could cause me to have to pay out $45,000 by simply saying "I did it on purpose" at any point, could he be counted on to avoid such a statement? Let's think: this is a man who believes I am in cohoots with my parents lawyers to steal his retirement savings; who considers me to be a "grifter", a "liar", a "thief" who's out to get him; who accuses me of turning his family against him; who confided to his son less than one month ago that I represented an insurmountable nuissance in his life, and he was contemplating having me killed.

(Yeah. Seriously.)

Littlestar insists that Old Oak would never actually arrange for my death, but I think she misses the point. Someone who would even contemplate my murder is decidedly not someone who could be trusted to act in my interests -- not when with three easy words he could cost me $45,000 without causing himself any harm. Certainly not when the person in question is mentally ill, despises me, and is prone to vengence.

So today I called back the adjuster. I said, "Let's call the whole thing off. Dude is on his own."

It's done. But it makes me sad.

Old Oak will indeed end up losing his retirement savings, just as he has always feared. And then, when they can't get enough money out of him, they'll probably turn around and sue me anyway to recover the rest.

I very much, very earnestly, wish Old Oak could understand the consequences of what's happened, and then do the only thing possible to spare the innocent parties: take his own life.

Gasp if you're a pussy, but there it is. I wish the old man had the balls to kill himself.

Next time I blow out the candles on a cake, that's what I'll be thinking about. Next time I see a shooting star or get the good end of a wish-bone -- I'll only have one thing on my mind: the bastard must die. Please Baby Jesus, won't you take him away?

An accident will do. Power tools, car crash -- I don't care.

Just make him stop wrecking everybody's shit. He's already done a good six decades of damage. Isn't that enough? How can the universe owe him anything further when all he does is despise life and make living it a misery for anyone he touches?

The existence of Old Oak is a damn good argument for the non-existence of God. (Well, Old Oak and the Holocaust, I guess.)

So, I did try to do the right thing. I did try to spare him and his wife a lot of grief. But, in the end, Old Oak is simply way too much of a volatile, hateful pig-fucker for me to do him this favour.

He made this bed.


I Anti-Heart Exhaustion

I go to bed and close my eyes and forget the world every night, but for some reason I am not recharging. I am so very tired of waking up tired. In the mornings my eyes are half-way swollen shut, asymmetrical and twisted by puffy blue bags top and bottom.

I put ass-cream on them before I go to work, so I can see well enough to drive. It takes down the swelling very effectively. That's a supermodel tip for you. (I always rinse the applicator, because you never know where it's been.) I am not a supermodel, but I play one on TV.

(I don't, actually.)

My appetite is more poor than usual. I am grumpy in the morning, and in the evening. In between I'm okay, though. I'm drinking more coffee, more tea, more Coca-Cola. It doesn't seem to help much. I always feel like I am made of stone.

I go to bed early. I sleep all night. I awake feeling like a stepped-on piece of burnt toast.

I have dreams in which pieces of broken pencil have become lodged under my skin, and I have to paw and jimmy at too small and too bloody a hole to try to work out the long, splintered cylinders of yellow wood.

Sometimes in my dreams I have tweezers to help me, but usually not. Usually I just use my fingers.

The wheels on my Volvo are out of alignment, so the car wobbles on the highway. This makes me feel like I'm going to lose control and die, careening across lanes on spinning rims, flipping over and bouncing down into the rocky bottom of any one of the pretty valleys I drive by on my way to and from work.

I come home and pour a glass of straight vodka, which makes Littlestar worry. Then I have another.


I Do Not Anti-Heart Work

I got my raise. I'm initiating change, and the nobles are responsive. I got a couple of new suits.

Yesterday I bummed a tobacco cigarette off a cougar with big knockers, because I was feeling tense. She said my cologne smelled nice. I said, "I have to go stand over here now."

I'm going to be directing a Hip Hop music video. I'm excited and terrified.

...Yup.