Your call is important to me, maybe
I’m ringing the bank because the bank’s been ringing me and neither of us has been answering. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding the bank’s calls, it’s because they come up as NO CALLER ID, which may as well be WARNING because nothing good ever comes from a withheld number.
One of the myriad reasons I don’t answer any secret number is in case I’m going to have to listen to a reader rant about my use of the A word again. I’m not actually afraid of people afraid of Aotearoa, by the way, just bored.
Anyway, the bank and I have been stuck in this ridiculous cycle for ages.
I ring it, languish on hold until the interminable wait and awful music force me to book a callback, then don’t answer because it’s never at the allotted time, so I don’t know who it’s from.
This means the bank leaves a message to call it and around we go.
Today I’m ringing again and things are looking good. While none of the options exactly meets the one I need, everyone knows if you press the digit corresponding with new customer sales it gets you through faster.
I’ve also dutifully poked in my birthdate, passcode, as well as the security number sent to my registered mobile device.
I am who I say I am, in short. By some miracle my estimated wait time is a paltry 12 minutes as I begin mopping the floor.
‘‘Hi,’’ says a voice at about the 15-minute mark, so I start explaining why I’m calling, only to be cut off by ‘‘. . . this is JK and something, something mental health.’’
You and me both, John Kirwan, you and me both.
Ten minutes later, Tim Finn pauses for a break and another automated voice butts in, offering the chance to hold my place in line by booking a callback. This, however, is my deadline day so I have all the time in the world.
I choose to hold, dammit.
Ten more minutes in and a recording of Judy Bailey appears, though, unlike Kirwan, she leads with her name, so I’m not fooled into talking. While I’d gleefully dial in daily to hear Kim Hill read stereo instructions, everyone loves Judy Bailey and this isn’t so bad. But then the music’s back. By now the floor is slippery, the washing’s hung out, and I want to FaceTime The Baby.
I’ve also missed calls from honest numbers I’d very much like to take.
‘‘It’s the bank,’’ I mouth to the neighbour popping over for something or rather; he nods sagely and retreats.
The paltry 12 minutes is now a significant 50 minutes and both John and Judy have been on twice apiece.
‘‘Your call is important to us,’’ says someone sounding suspiciously like Judy again, ‘‘if you want to keep your place in the queue by booking a callback, press 1’’.
I will not. I have come too far and suffered too long, even as outside the seasons change and somewhere a young boy grows into a man.
Then, at last, a human asking how he can help me today. By now I’ve been waiting an hour, and I tell him I’m calling the bank because the bank’s been calling me.
He wants to know what it’s about; which, admittedly, so do I which, of course, is the reason I’m ringing.
Nonetheless, he’ll have to make some inquiries as to why the bank was calling in the first place; it might take some time.
‘‘Would you like to book a callback?’’ he asks.
‘‘Oh, go on,’’ I say.