tuesday (you can go to any branch)

Last week I got an email from my bank. Update your information by July 12, the email said. Or we will close your account. It listed the things I had to bring to the bank and informed me that I could go to any branch. Then it smiled and winked.

On Sunday while we were watching the game I kept thinking that the ref reminded me of Robert Deniro’s character in Brazil. I can’t tell you why, there is no resemblance at all. But I’d already been thinking about Brazil, about Robert Deniro winking at me and telling me he would have to shut down my bank account. There’s nothing we can do, he tells me with a gleam in his eye. See you in the morning.

I thought, ok. I will print these things out and go to the bank. Recently I officially changed my address with the federal tax bureau here and this has caused a series of unexpected complications. I figured, ok. This is probably another in this unexpected series of complications. Lemony Snicket could never, I chortled softly to no one.

Last week I was busy, I don’t remember with what. I’ve already told you it’s hard for me to remember what I’ve done, even and especially if I’ve done a lot. In any case I figured this would be a routine visit to the bank and that I could do it this week, when I am also busy.

I went to the bank yesterday with all the things I needed printed out, assuming this would all take an hour and be irritating for everybody, lots of typing, phone calls, sighs, signatures, and then it would be over. The bank was filled with elderly people. They were all complaining about how long they had been waiting, as if going to the bank did not always take an hour regardless of what you intended to do there. The international inability of the boomer generation to recognize patterns is fascinating, the exact same thing can happen every single day and every single day they will say, wasn’t that a surprise?

The bank executive took me to her office. She seemed exasperated. She put my passport number into the system and showed me a Teams conversation, which I thought was an interesting move.

“You have to go to your branch,” she told me.

“Where is my branch?” I asked her.

“Narvarte,” she said.

“Aren’t we in Narvarte?”

“This is Vertiz.”

“Why would I go to Narvarte?”

“That’s where you opened your account.”

“I opened my account in Viaducto Piedad.”

“What?”

Everybody always says “what?” when I say “Viaducto Piedad.” She typed for a while, I watched her Teams conversations — a detail of this office I haven’t shared is that a monitor was pointed towards both her and I, a sort of architectural performance of transparency that happens in banks, supermarkets, etc — and then she told me, you have to go Álamos.

“To Álamos,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, and listed the address in Viaducto Piedad.

“Why do I have to go there? This email says I can go to any branch.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said.

In the morning I went to the Álamos branch in Viaducto Piedad. When I arrived the concierge told me the system was down and I should come back in an hour or two or maybe tomorrow. Look, I said, I’m worried my account will closed. He called someone over, a handsome and tired-looking young man with a hot neck tattoo. The tired and handsome-looking young man made a face, took my passport, and went back to his cubicle. A few minutes later he was back to tell my that there was nothing wrong with my account but if I wanted to be absolutely sure I should go to Torre, in front of the Ángel.

“Torre? That’s the one in Reforma 222?”

“Yes,” he smiled. His teeth were big and white, if we were somewhere else I would have pushed him into a wall and ripped his shirt off.

On my way back to the metro I looked up “HSBC Torre” which is not in Reforma 222 but in front of the Ángel. It would take me 36 minutes to get there. I thought about just going home and then decided to go to Torre. I like taking the metrobus down Reforma anyway. The double-decker, you know? It’s cute.

At HSBC Torre a femme twink police officer asked me to stop using my phone. I said ok and spent the next thirty-odd minutes reading an article about totoaba in Food & Wine and considering different lines I could have used on the police officer. I settled on: “not even if I’m asking for your number?”

Would you fuck a cop? Sound off in the comments.

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Anyway the executive at HSBC Torre rolled her eyes at my story and told me that anyone anywhere could do this information update. She took my information and noticed something and called someone. After ringing for ten minutes someone picked up. They had a Teams conversation that I couldn’t see — I heard the executive say “I’m going to send you this on Teams” but her monitor thankfully wasn’t pointed towards me, the last thing I need to see is Teams — and eventually the executive said, ok great we’ve updated your address.

“I updated my address three weeks ago,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “But they spelled your street wrong.”

She told me the process would take twenty-four hours to update and that I should come back in the morning with the rest of my information. I was annoyed, I said it isn’t my fault that they spelled my street name wrong and I have a flight, I took a US flag out of my pocket and started waving it and asking to speak to her manager, I HAVE A FLIGHT I HAVE A FLIGHT I AM IMPORTANT I HAVE A FLIIGIGGGGHGHHTHTHTHTHTHHTHTHTHTHTHHTHTHTHTH

No I didn’t do any of that, I told her it wasn’t my fault, I have a flight, she said it wasn’t her fault either, she was right. I said, have a nice day, she said, see you in the morning and I left.