A simple way to get a free chair? Don’t bank on it
The other day, I was in the bank cashing a check when I noticed the young teller wore a badge that said: “Ask me about our free gift.”
At first, I wanted to just ignore it. The last thing I needed was another toaster that changes Pop-Tarts into hardened shoe soles. But you know me: Turning down something free is like putting dollar bills through a shredder. So I had to ask:
“OK, what’s my free gift?”
“Well, sir,” the nice lady replied. “All you have to do is get someone to open an account with us and you get this free chair.”
As she spoke, she handed me a brochure and pointed to a picture of the supposedly gratis item. It was a wireframed product with a cloth center that looked like a black mosquito net.
My first thought was: “What am I going to do with this thing? It’s too crude for indoors, and I don’t need more furniture for outdoors. My $9.98 plastic chairs from Home Depot work just fine. Blue jay calling cards wash right off.”
Secondly, my definition of “free” is something that’s given voluntarily without obligation — in other words, a gift. This deal sounds more like a contract for service. I “sell” someone a bank account in exchange for a chair, which is in lieu of money.
Yet selling bank accounts is not an easy task. Have you ever tried this? What am I supposed to do? Call up a friend and say,
“Hey,
Bill:
Wanna open an account at my favorite bank?”
The whole conversation would probably go something like this:
“What?” Bill says. “Why would I want to do that? Is your bank paying more than the .000008% that I’m getting at mine?”
(Now how do I answer that one? I guess something like this:)
“Well, I don’t know about that, Bill. I haven’t been trained in comparative interest rates, but we do have really nice tellers, and they don’t give you dirty looks, as if you have COVID-19 like some of the other places around here.”
Next, Bill gets curious: “Well why are you trying to sell me a bank account anyway? Did you quit your job at the paper? Are you making more money doing this?”
(Now I’m in trouble. He’s got control of the sale. I’ve got to turn this around quickly. Here’s where law school training comes into play. Don’t answer questions. ASK questions for which you already know the answer).
“Wait a minute, Bill: Are you telling me you don’t you want to have an account at the bank that was voted the most magnificent in all of Northern California?”
Bill replies: “Look, Hansen. I bank online, and my accounts are from an outfit back in Baltimore. Now why don’t you state the real reason you want me to change banks?”
(I could easily handle this objection, but this is getting to be too much work for just getting paid with a stupid chair.)
“OK, Bill. I’m going to come clean. If I can close you and get an account for my bank, they are going to give me a ‘free’ chair.”
“What?” Bill replies. “Are you kidding me? You’re working me over just for a chair? What is it? a 260-year-old Louis XIV?”
“Yeah, I know. Sounds sort of crazy, doesn’t it? And the funny part is, I don’t even care about that crummy thing. It’s just a fold-up piece of junk nobody wants.”
“You’ve hit a new low, Hansen.” Bill observes. “You’d better go back to writing columns. At least you don’t have to twist your friends’ arms to read them — well, at least most of them anyway.”
So that’s how it would go if I tried to sell bank accounts to friends in exchange for a piece of yard furniture. I’m just not cut out for that kind of work.
I politely handed the brochure back to the teller with thanks for her courteous service. It really is a great bank and the people here are wonderful to deal with. (For you grammar buffs, they teach in law school that you CAN end a sentence with a preposition.)
But if I’m going to sell bank accounts, I’ll need a lot more training in this subject than what I have now. And it’s certainly going to take a lot more compensation than an ugly chair that nobody wants.