There was a thread loose on Bruce Leiden’s pants. He had first noticed it on his way into work and had proceeded to spend the better part of the morning trying to figure out how to get rid of it without making a hole. It had been a slow day at the office. He had moved some files, created some meaningless spreadsheets and lost a couple dollars at online poker but mostly he had worried about the thread on his pants. It had begun to bother him so much that he decided that at the end of the day he would just go out and buy a whole new pair.
In the meantime he sat in his office watching the other employees bustle to and from the lunchroom with looks of smug satisfaction on their faces. Linda, his secretary, would take an extra ten minutes for lunch and feel that this act of rebellion made the rest of the afternoon worth it. Gary from accounting was on his way back from doing the coffee run and, like every day, had kept most of the change; one day he would save up enough of his coworkers’ money to buy himself a new television. The IT staff all brought in their leftovers and sat at a table in the break room watching Antiques Roadshow for their hour. And Bruce sat and in his leather chair, thinking about his loose thread and how glad he was not to be one of them.
There was a knock at the door and the face of his ever-eager boss appeared. “Hullo Bruce!” said Mr. Wainwright, “Got a spare minute? I know it’s your lunch but I’ve got a lovely young woman here with a whole lot of questions!”
“Sure thing,” said Bruce. There was a shuffling noise, some quiet whispers, and an elderly woman timidly poked her head around the corner. Mr. Wainwright beamed at her and placed a meaty hand on her shoulder, guiding into a chair facing Bruce’s desk.
“What seems to be the trouble today?”
“Well, um. I seem to be unable to find my financial records,” the old woman mumbled. She looked nervously at the two men.
“Have you tried looking at your personal account on our website?” Bruce asked. This was his mantra.
“Well, um, you see no. I don’t think I have a personal account.”
“How about I show you how to set one up right now? Then you can see them at home any time you would like.” Old people exasperated Bruce. He had spent the better part of a year making their online platform completely foolproof, or so he had thought. He failed to factor in the unwillingness of their older clients to simply try to find the information they needed on their own.
He beckoned the woman over and Wainwright mouthed thank you at him before rushing out of the room. The woman pulled out a pair of pink plastic glasses from inside her purse and held them up in front of her the way Bruce’s mother often did. Patiently he loaded the company website, created her a new personal page and asked to her to create some security questions.
“I’ll just get you to check – your name is Eleanor Vanhorn?”
“It is.”
“And this is your current address, telephone number, etcetera?”
“Yes.”
“Now I’ll just create some security questions in case you lose any of the information you need to login. If you ever have any problems in the future we’re going to ask you these questions to make sure no one is trying to steal your identity. Understand? What was the name of your first pet?” he asked.
“Sugar. No, that was the first dog. I had a cat before that but I can’t remember her name. Max? No, that was the second one – “
Bruce cut her off, “You have to be able to remember the answer. We’ll try another one. Mother’s maiden name?”
“Rogers. That was also my dear late husband’s mother’s maiden name. She always insisted that we couldn’t get married because our children would have two heads. Didn’t stop her from marrying her first cousin, I noticed.”
“Alright. Rogers. Name of first born child?”
“Humphrey. After Humphrey Bogart. Jack and I watched Casablanca on our first date.”
“Charming. That’s that, I think. Now you have a personal account. I’ll just write down the username and password for you and you can access this from home any time.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. I don’t have a computer at home.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“Then why did we set up a personal account?”
“Well I thought perhaps I needed one. But I can’t do anything about it from home. Can’t you just tell me the financial information?”
“Certainly, but what happens the next time you need to know how your money is doing?”
“I’ll come back. Or you’ll mail it to me. You know there was a time when you could just walk in and they knew you by name?”
“I’m sure that’s the case Mrs. Vanhorn, however this is the digital age. We work on the expectation that most of our clients have some access to technology.” Wainwright was pacing outside the room and Bruce tried to catch his eye but his boss pretended not to notice.
“May I request that in the future you simply mail me this information?” Mrs. Vanhorn was still blinking through her glasses at the computer screen, unable to comprehend the website.
“We’re paperless now.”
“I don’t care what you are, I pay you money and I would like to occasionally see some proof of that.”
Bruce rolled his eyes and turn off the computer screen. He could tell this conversation was not going to go anywhere so he simply told her that the Questions Desk in the lobby was more equipped to deal with a mail request. They would send her to the secretaries on the third floor who would ask her to call in from home and they would mysteriously ‘lose her information’ but at least it would get her out of Bruce’s hair for the afternoon. He gave her a signature fake smile and waved as she wandered to the elevators, slammed the door shut, and went back to inspecting the loose thread on his pants. He was, he thought, the highest paid deflector in the entire business world.