Kids

In my last post, I mentioned that I used to work as a customer service rep at a bank in Austin Texas back in the 80’s.

It was an interesting job and I learned a lot about how to deal with irate customers. I wouldn’t want to do it again in a million years.

One of the more interesting tales involved a customer who discovered a series of $20 withdrawals on his checking that he didn’t make. They had all been ATM withdrawals during the past month or so and he swore he didn’t make them.

I asked if any other member of his family had an ATM card to this account.

“Only my fourteen year-old son, but he knows it’s for emergency purposes only. There’s no way he would have done this,” he replied.

I explained to the customer that we could obtain photographs of the perpetrator, but if it turned out to be an authorized user such as his son, he’d be responsible for the hefty processing fees.

He went home and asked the kid if he knew anything about the withdrawals. Nope. The kid swore up and down that he didn’t make them.

The customer called me back the next day, insisting that his kid didn’t make the withdrawals and told me to go ahead and request the photographs.

A few days later, the photos arrived on my desk. My co-workers and I crowded around as we took a look.

Of course, there was an angel-faced moppet of about fourteen in every photo. In one photo, he was even looking directly into the camera with a quizzical look on his face. He looked like a nice kid.

I wish you could have seen the look of disappointment and disgust on the customer’s face when I gave him the photos. . . .

See? This is one reason (among many) why I don’t have kids. I don’t know what I would have done to him in that case.

I would have toyed with him, letting him did himself in deeper. Then I would have enlisted the help of a police officer to show up with the photos and scare the bejeezus out of him.

Then I would have grounded him until he was 28, maybe 29 years old.

And then hung the framed photos in the dining room so that they’d be there during every meal.

Yep. That’s how I would have handled it . . .

. . . That is, after I had finished crying in front of him.

I don’t know how parents do it, raising kids. I just don’t.