In Which I Finally Lose It

Today, I finally lost it. Having maintained my cool through several weeks of dealing with an unresponsive - and apparently uninterested - television repair shop and dealing with the petty inconveniences of the stolen checks, today the beast escaped its closet.

I had last called Gil two weeks ago to find out when I might expect my t.v. set back, and was told (once again) that "the technician is working on it right now and should be finished soon. I'll call you tomorrow when we're done." Two weeks passed with no call from Gil. At some point this morning, I realized that I was avoiding calling him because I didn't want to upset myself, but then I thought that was part of the reason the process has been dragging alone - because I hadn't been the "squeaky wheel."

Well, I squeaked. I called the shop and told the receptionist that I wanted to speak to the Manager. When she asked who was calling, I said a "disgruntled customer." I got some flak on the line who asked me what the natue of my business was, and could the manager call me back shortly as he's quite busy right now, and I said "no," waiting for call backs was part of the problem, but if he's too busy now, I'll have my lawyer call in an hour (an obvious bluff, but I was angry). Soon, Gil himself came on the line and, when I asked, insisted that he was the Manager.

"You're the Manager of the company?"

"Yes."

"Your company sends its Managers out to make house calls?," I asked sarcastically. I told Gil that I was now of the opinion that he was either unwilling or unable to repair my t.v., that I had no more patience with his trying, that I wanted the television returned to me in the condition that he picked it up before the close of business Friday, and that I did not expect to be charged. Gil tried to protest, but I would hear none of it. I did finally agree, however, to let him return the set Sunday instead of Friday, since that actually worked out better for me as well.

I felt like an asshole afterwards. But at least the stalemate was broken.

When I got home tonight, there were two rather official looking letters in with the rest of my mail. I turns out they were from collection agencies trying to collect from me the money for the checks that the thieves had cashed at Walmart, who had turned the matter over for collection.

I had thought the whole incident was now over and done with. I finally picked up the new box of checks at the bank on Wednesday, my new debit card was working and the old account had been shut down. but just when I thought that it was over . . .


I called the agency and explained over the phone that I had been the victim of a crime, and in any event the fault was with Walmart, for accepting fraudulent checks (on which stop payments had been issued) apparently without checking identification or authorization. The collection agent said he understood. However, to settle this matter, he said that I would have to send him a copy of the police report (which I do not have); a notarized affidavit attesting to my statement; the name of my bank, the numbers on the stolen checks and the routing and account numbers; a copy of my driver's license; and so on and so forth.

I tried to explain that I had no intention of complying with his request - I was not at fault here and did not need to prove my innocence. The "guilty party," in addition to the crooks, were Walmart for accepting stolen checks and apparently my bank for apparently unskillfully refusing to accept the checks without explaining the nature or reason of their refusal.

The agent replied that if I did not take care of this, my name would be placed on a list of credit risks, and before too long we were both talking at each other simultaneously, and not too much longer after that I found myself yelling over the telephone.

"Sir, I don't need to be shouted at," he sniffed.

"What? You're a collection agent and you don't expect to get shouted at?," I asked incredulously. "Let me speak to your manager," I demanded, trying to go the Gil route. He placed me on hold, but after a long while, the line went dead before anyone picked up.

Obviously, I had lost my temper, but now I know where the limit of my patience is. I will talk to the bank in the morning and see if they can't clear this up from their end, but most likely I will have to take more time off from work, drive to the Atlanta Police Department, fill out forms and paperwork to get a copy of my police report, obtain an affidavit and get it notarized, and deal with the small-minded bureaucrats at Walmart's collection agency.

This on top of withdrawal from the opiate of just mindlessly unwinding in front of the television at night. After nearly two months, it's back to "Go" on finding a repairman to fix my set, or else to buy a replacement.

Actually, though, it's now time to work on the practice of letting go.