What happened when I gave in to the gas card
Every so often I do something that reminds me that I am getting old. Now by this I don’t mean falling down a ski slope or breaking my wrist on an ice rink or engaging in some other supremely stupid or risky activity, but something much more innocuous, like getting a gas card.
As if I didn’t already have enough pieces of plastic in my overstuffed wallet, I decided one day to apply for a gasoline card so I could enjoy the few cents off per gallon that was the same price as the cash discount. I realized that this was just one more step to becoming a cheap old man, but hey, at $2.75 a gallon, I figured it couldn’t hurt.
The main reason I’ve put off getting a gas card until now is because of the memories of what my dad went through to get “cheap” gas. Off on a family trip to the mountains or the shore we would nervously watch the gas gauge as it approached the quarter tank mark.
“Don’t you think we should stop for gas, dad? We’re getting a little low aren’t we?”
Pops would reply, “Nah, whadaya talkin’ about? I could go another hundred miles on what’s left, and besides there’s an Esso station just around the bend.”
My Dad had an Esso card and he would stop at no other fill-up. From the back seat we’d watch the gas needle point closer and closer to the floor mat as we pondered the evils that would befall us should we run out of gas on the highway in the middle of the woods, miles from civilization. Escaped convicts, wild animals, starvation and freezing to death were high on the list. But we had to stop at an Esso station, even if that meant passing 20 other stations and going 60 miles out of the way to save three cents per gallon and get trading stamps.
I went on line and filled out the application. I paid close attention to the ZIP code part, and made sure that I put in 11965, not 11964. I don’t like getting mail that has gone to the Shelter Island post office instead of the Shelter Island Heights post office. The envelope always has a red hand on it pointing to the ZIP code that is wrong, threatening to return future wrongly addressed mail to the sender.
Maybe that’s okay for the annual appeal from the brotherhood of deceased civil war banjo players, but not so for a company that, if paid late, will automatically add $39 to the balance due, double your interest rate and report you to all of the big three credit reporting agencies as a deadbeat motorist.
The problem is that computers in far off lands, like one of the rectangle states, don’t understand that there are two post offices here, and a lot of mail winds up in the Center that should go to the Heights. And with my first gasoline bill, that is precisely what happened.
I got the forwarded bill with the bad, bad, bad hand on it. After recovering from the shock of just how much gas I’d purchased in one month, I wrote out a check and sent it in with the bill. I was also careful to check the “if your billing address is different check here” box, before filling out the correct address on the reverse of the billing stub.
Two weeks later I received a letter from Rectangle State Bank, noting that my address had changed, and that they would be sure to send all future bills to the correct address. Ready? They sent the letter to the wrong address!
That’s right! They sent me a letter stating that they now knew my correct address to the incorrect address! Wait. It’s not over. At approximately 7 p.m. on January 25 I go to the Heights post office and among all the other mail is my latest gas bill, now, finally, addressed correctly.
“Glad that’s finally over with,” I think. Wrong. Upon arriving home and opening the bill I find that the amount due is payable today, January 25. And in little microscopic print is the disclaimer “all payments made after 5 p.m. will be credited the next business day,” which means that as of now I am subject to all the aforementioned penalties.
Right to the customer service number I go, and after 15 minutes of terrible music and mindless promotions a nice young man with a Bangladesh accent tells me that the reason I got my bill so late was because of an issue with, you guessed it, the mailing address!
In my quest to make companies aware of how they can improve customer service, I should probably compose a gently sarcastic letter detailing my experiences with the bill that wouldn’t die, and send it off to Rectangle State Bank. But they’d probably return it … to the wrong address!
