They’re bastards, but they’re my bastards. They have been for over two decades, via First Union and then the all too aptly named Wachovia. After all, the entire modern economy of Charlotte is devoted to whacking off. The fuckers basically brag about not producing anything of tangible value, even though their metroplex is home to a minor hub airport, commercial passenger aviation being a tangible service, even on US Airways.
Charlotte is run by a type that doesn’t recognize, and in fact may be constitutionally unable to recognize, that its prosperity depends on economic transfers from the yeomen and peasants on the periphery to the mandarins at the power center, if you will. I’ve heard that this is the hip Southern term for a non-backwards part of the South that is traditionally infested with supercilious bitches in business suits. To be clear, the business suits are dead sexy; it’s just that, as a rule of thumb, the women wearing them are so obnoxious that I’ll gladly leave their hate-fucking to Jian Ghomeshi. I don’t need that shit. North Carolina is basically structured to transfer wealth from Stan Eury’s Mexican peasants and their squalid encampments to Anna Beavon-Gravely. Ignore the racial thing for the time being: it’s a real problem in matters like voting, where it serves as a convenient proxy for class, but the high hats are much more pleasant with well-bred black people, especially if they’re equally supercilious, than with anyone who is not of a certain class. That includes me, as it happens, so it sure as hell includes the generationally po’ cracka. The power center power suit set doesn’t care to think about who’s growing its food (you’re welcome), so it doesn’t do this bit of critical thinking. Okay, I’m too far west to have picked berries for Anna and her crew this year, but still: y’all are most welcome. I guess my attitude makes me subcilious. I’d certainly like to be every bit as obnoxious to these dipshits as they are to my kind. Maybe sideeye directed precisely to the east does the trick, kind of like knowing the direction of Mecca at prayer time. Here’s looking at y’all, m’schmucks.
Wells Fargo’s latest fuckup on my account happens to involve my paycheck from the blueberry farm, the one I drove back up from Reno in order to collect in person for derp abatement purposes. But instead of derp by mail, I got derp by automatic clearinghouse. It’s Wells Fargo policy to tarry with check clearance not just over the weekend, on the anachronistic and totally bogus notion that the weekend is a time for rest in the banking industry, not business, but also over an entire business day following the weekend. Monday is officially a business day, unless it isn’t, and this week it is, so you might expect Wells Fargo to use it to, you know, conduct business, like clearing the preceding weekend’s backlog of check deposits. Instead, for reasons that are inscrutable and deliberately left unexplained, automatic clearance waits until after hours, allowing amounts to magically be credited at 8:00 am Tuesday. It’s just another example of communion on the night shift (on the night shift), the smooth but very delayed sound of money coming down. Smooth but late: that sounds like the Coast Starlight, except that the Starlate has to be totally fubar for so much as a three-hour delay, and Wells Fargo deals in delays of more than three full calendar days as a matter of standard operating procedure.
And of course Friday is the traditional payday in the United States, because hey, here’s a bunch of money, haha jk you won’t see any of it until next week, fuck you son. It figures that our bosses at the berry farm gave us our paychecks hours after the weekend cutoff time for check credits at most banks. This whole thing feels like a test of Job’s faith in Occam’s Razor, a daisy-chain of screwups by different parties that could be nefarious but might really just be herple derpledy derp. By the time I called Wells Fargo, I was starting to wonder whether my paycheck had bounced. It seemed outlandish, but there was that faint feeling nonetheless that they could be dysfunctional or cash-strapped enough to write bad checks. Their finances as they pertain to payroll often look just a bit sketchy. After calling Wells Fargo and confirming that tonight’s automatic clearance magic is still on the schedule, I recalled two previous incidents when my checks got held up over the weekend, one with a Hersheypark paycheck that I deposited at Wachovia and one with a check that I had written on my brokerage account and deposited at Wells Fargo. The whole thing is just a too-big-to-fail bank not being too big to fail to clear checks of under $500 over the weekend.
Don’t worry, Wells Fargo will still post your debits over the weekend. That’s one honor it will do you forthwith.
Taking a cash draw on my paycheck looks like a good idea that I shouldn’t have declined. Another good idea would be a pay grade somewhere in the range of minimum wage. I averaged 42.6 cents per pound this year. I didn’t choose the baller lifestyle; the baller lifestyle chose me. I did, however, earn another forty cents at the Medford Bottle Drop this afternoon from deposit bottles that I scavenged from rest areas, and that, friends, really is baller as shit. I’m getting paid for trash that the rest of you threw out, dawg. Another thirty or forty cents of CRV money awaits me in Yreka, where I’m headed to give the DMV another $93 tomorrow morning. Maybe I can even get a ticket to the proverbial Fifty Cent concert featuring Nickelback, if the internet is correct about the locations of the dives that will cut the jibba-jabba and give cash for cans. Apparently there’s nothing at all in Dorris.
This is another test of Job’s faith in Occam’s Razor. Is California’s CRV program non-navigable by design, or just by incompetence? This is the same bureaucratic superstructure that harbors the DMV and its incredible schedule of fees and penalties, for what little that’s worth. All I know is that tomorrow I, an underemployed farmworker, will have the civic honor of remitting money to the California Highway Patrol, an overstaffed agency whose officers tend to own motorboats. I can’t even tell you what portion of my registration fee will be going where; I looked over the fee schedule and forgot the details within seconds, although I do remember a number of one-dollar line items for a bunch of random shit. By the way, this is an agency that is commissioned to suspend driver’s licenses for nonpayment of child support. I vote against this garbage when I can. No, that isn’t quite right. I would vote against this garbage if I could figure out who the hell is responsible for it.
Franz Kafka, pray for us.