For the past quarter of a century, I have been with the same bank. It is a fine, loyal institution that has seen me through good times and bad. They were there for me with a low interest car loan when no one else would even look at the credit of a waitress struggling to make ends meet for her three kids.
More than once, they removed overdraft charges when I inadvertently made a mistake in my checkbook.
When I needed a mortgage on a house that was in such poor condition that it didn’t qualify for any other loan, they caught my vision for what it could become, and I got my first mortgage.
And now that I’m a small business owner, they have guided me on everything from retirement investments to the best way to utilize Quick Books with my checking account.
Over the years, they have accumulated hundreds of documents with my signature. Each time I sign, they pull a cheap pen from a cup and say, “Sign here. You can keep the pen.”Every time I reply, “These are the crappiest pens ever, but because we’ve been together so long, I’m going to take it.”I have a thing about ink pens. As a writer, when I find one with a solid barrel and smoothly dispelling ink, I feel a twinge of joy that washes over my entire being like hot fudge poured slowly over a scoop of ice cream. It’s deeply satisfying and oh so delicious.I bring the bank pens home and add them to the collection of chintzy pens I keep on hand for my children. Or I store it in my purse as a back up to use when the kids have gotten fed up with the cheap pens and resort to snatching my good ones.