Not long ago, I received a voicemail message from a representative of Bank of G. who claimed to be my “relationship banker.” At first I thought he wanted me to store my past relationships in a safe deposit box at his branch. But then he wrote me a letter, and it became clear that G. wanted more from me—much more. As a result, I was forced to write the kind of letter in response that one never wants to have to write. Here is my letter, in its entirety. Maybe it will be helpful to you, in case you ever need to do the same.
Dear Bank of G.,
Thank you for your letter—a gallant gesture, and so much more personal than e-mail. You say that I’m special, and you want to know more about my needs. How can I not be flattered? But after I didn’t return your initial phone call, well … on the one hand, your persistence is admirable. But on the other hand, I worry that maybe you don’t want to take no for an answer. While I hate to hurt your feelings, I have to be honest: I’m already in a relationship. And even if it were possible for things to develop further between us, I think immediately of the barriers that exist. Because in spite of the advances we’ve made as a culture, I don’t think society is ready for a human/financial-institution romance. Not yet.
So, Bank? It’s not you; it’s me. I like you as a friend. A good friend, don’t get me wrong. After all, I trust you to take care of my money. That’s a lot of trust. I hope you see that as a compliment because I mean that sincerely. And it’s not as if you won’t ever see me; I’ll continue to stop into your branch now and then for a roll of quarters and a cup of coffee. But do I imagine us, say, catching a matinee when you’re closed on Saturday afternoon? Cuddling in the drive-thru ATM lane? Tossing coins in a fountain together? And while we’re talking, if you want me to take you seriously, stop slipping me those Panamanian coins inside the quarter rolls.
In fact, now that I think about it, you have some nerve approaching me this way, considering that “regrettable error” that occurred with my account. Maybe for you it was merely “regrettable.” I mean, when some stranger calls me on the phone and tells me they received my bank statement in an envelope with their name and address on it, I have better words for that than “regrettable.” The only reason I didn’t cut you loose back then was that you seemed so pathetic, begging me to stay. As if my measly two-bit account was all that stood between you and penury. I couldn’t kick you while you were down. But I’ve never quite gotten over that experience; it will always come between us.
Let’s face it: We’re from two different worlds. There’s an inner part of you that’s so guarded—locked up tight, alarmed, and linked directly to the police department—a part I can never have access to.
I hope that you understand my inability to take our relationship to another level. I hope we can continue to do business together, barring any further “regrettable” incidents. I hope we can still be friends. If you think about it, I know you’ll agree with me: It’s better this way, for both of us.
Sincerely,
Paula Whyman
For more from Paula Whyman, see www.paulawhyman.com and her online parody newspaper www.bethesdaworldnews.com.
