My grandfather used to say that credit, not money, was the root of all evil. He would declare that if you could not afford something then you shouldn’t buy it. He had bought his house outright. No mortgage. But he also used to tell me, frequently, that I should take care of my limbs every day. That I would need them. So, it surprises no one that I listened to my grandfather selectively.

On Friday I got a bill from my Visa Card. This surprised me for a number of reasons. About five years ago the bank told me I could no longer use my credit card because I had missed my monthly payment too many times. But, of course, I still had to pay it monthly. Which I did. It took me about four years to pay it off but, exactly 12 months ago, I did. I made my last payment at the bank and had a little celebration. I actually had had two credit cards, and this one was the second one I had paid off. The celebration was jubilant. It was a tiresome burden paying off a credit card I couldn’t use. And a great relief to be free of it.

Now when I paid the final balance, I was quite assertive with the teller. “This is it, right? Will there be any outstanding charges or interest?” She checked and said no. I offered, “I’ll give you a little more money just to be sure.” I swear I did and she laughed without being amused and said, “No. Really. That’s unnecessary.” And, when she had finished all her stamping and tapping into her computer, I was disheartened that there were no sirens, no streamers, no fanfare.

I called the bank later that day after cycling through a number of departments and people that cared not a whit about my account balance, to tell them that I had paid off the balance and that I would like my account closed. There was no jubilation then either, no fanfare, and no gratitude. She explained impatiently that once the transaction had been processed that my account would be closed automatically. I thanked her and hung up the phone, still elated.

A month later, eleven months ago, when I received my Visa bill statement I was looking forward to seeing the zeroes. I was also rather hoping for a little smiley face or a Post-It that said thank you. There was no Post-It. I was not terribly surprised. There was no smiley face. Again, not surprised. I used to work for this bank. But I was surprised, and disastrously vexed to find that the statement was not filled with zeroes either, as I had been assured.

By my Previous balance it said $0.18 and under Total minimum payment due it said $0.18.

Are you kidding me? I did my very best to make sure the whole thing was over. Now, after jumping up and down and throwing a few things and cursing the gods of banking, my first instinct was to take 18 pennies to the bank and pay a teller. But I hate waiting in bank lines. Or better yet, I’d deposit 18 pennies at the ATM. Yes, of course, I know that you can’t deposit coins at ATMs. That’s the point. Do the machines really need to tell us not to deposit coins? Who is this? Who is still depositing coins at ATMs? The same people that still read the instructions on shampoo products? But, what’s more, I was concerned that paying the 18 cents wouldn’t fix my problem either. So I spent the better part of a day calling the bank and talking to people and waiting on hold and listening to Phil Collins muzak and imagining killing people — I think if I should ever kill anybody, and my preferred victim would be a bank-worker, I should like, when they make a movie of my muddled life, for that scene to be filmed to the tune of Su-Su-Sussudio — and finally talking to people who had been trained carefully in sounding like they cared who assured me, once it was all over, that they were sorry for the problem and that it was probably a computer error and that it shouldn’t affect my credit rating in any significant way and that they would endeavor to rectify the problem as efficiently as they could. And that was that.

A month later, for the first month in more than 8 years, I didn’t get a Visa statement. Not a month after that, either. Not until two days ago, precisely one year after paying off my outstanding balance (less, perhaps, 18 cents), did I receive another statement.

Previous balance: $0.18. Interest: $0.05. Minimum payment due: $0.23. “Your account is in arrears. Please arrange a payment as soon as possible or your account may be suspended.”

Jeezum Crow. What the hell is wrong with people? Will I never be emancipated from the specter of bad credit? Christ, it must cost more than $0.23 to keep my account open. It must cost more than $0.23 to print my account statement. It must cost more than $0.23 to mail my account statement.

There will never be satisfaction big enough. Not a statement that says my account has been closed. Not an apology from the president of the bank. I want blood. I want a public burning. I want shrunken heads. I want tar and feathering. I want someone drawn and quartered.

I want to ignore it and forget about it. I wonder what ignoring it will do? At the time of my death, I might owe say $6 or $7. It will be fun, say, in five or six years when I try to apply for a new credit card or a mortgage or a credit plan at Future Shop, that I am denied because I’ve had an outstanding balance to a credit card for 14 years. Or if I am somehow transported to the distant future, rather than earning a couple of million on a savings account with a balance of $1.83, I should owe Visa a few million dollars, and I should be pursued for the rest of my future life by collectors looking for their pound of flesh. Yes, besides corporate advertisers, credit collectors should do well to ruin the future.

Never mind that it was 18 cents. It’s no accident I hate banks. Neither money nor credit is the root of all evil. Banks are the root of evil. Hell will be a bank line.

SS