Credit Crisis

I opened my Washington Mutual credit card statement the other day. I pay the bulk of my bills on-line so the paper copies that arrive in the mail are generally thrown, unopened, into a cardboard box. I was in the car, waiting for something, or someone, and the envelope happened to catch my eye. It was submerged under the pile on my front passenger seat. I generally don’t mention names in my stories, but this being an essay, and the name, Washington Mutual (did you get that? W A S H I N G T O N - M U T U A L), being a mega, behemoth corporation, I figured it might be appropriate just this one time.

I think I’ve been an upstanding citizen for a couple of years or so now, sort of, paying most of my bills when they’re due, trying to pay more than the minimums on credit cards when I can. I may have been a few hours late on something, maybe once or twice last year. I do my best. So I was just a little surprised, as I perused my bill, to discover my interest rate at twenty-four percent. I was certain it was somewhere in the low teens the last time I bothered to check. I admit that’s not a wonderful rate either, but after what I’d been through in my previous life, it actually seemed reasonable.

The on-line statement does not display my current interest rate; that information is buried under layers and layers of web pages and requires considerable time and effort to unearth. I searched through the fine print on the back of the paper bill and found a number to call for customer service.

After navigating the phone system, a woman answered. She was as cold and distant as a snow covered, solitary car in a twelve-acre parking lot. I asked a little too timidly why my rate had been changed and her response was that the information I sought was not available to her. I found her cavalier attitude offensive and distasteful and began speaking in a more aggressive tone. She had obviously been taught that the customer was not only always wrong, but was an insect whom should be treated with disdain and rude, lack of concern.

I could only imagine how many irate callers she must deal with daily, but I wasn’t irate when I called, I was calm and confident an amicable solution could be reached, and I hadn’t planned to become irate, but she was leaving me few options. I truly thought I would be able to simply phone them and correct the situation. Please pardon my ignorance.

I got nowhere with the inured headset on the other end of the line, so insisted on speaking to her supervisor (there is always a supervisor). She said she would transfer me but was certain he would have nothing further to offer. She was only partially correct. Apparently, he did have access to the information I was interested in, or at least he was willing to admit it. I asked him the same question regarding my interest rate. Would you mind if I put you on hold for a few minutes? The phone went dead: no Musak, no clicking or buzzing, no advertisements, but something told me he hadn’t hung up.

When he returned he explained that back in October his company had taken a look at my credit report and decided I was a bad risk, so they raised my rate. There is nothing I can do, he said glibly. I was becoming incensed. I had another question for this supervisor now. So, I began: when you discover someone is in a situation where they may have difficulty paying their bills (which I actually wasn’t at the time, as I said, but was certainly on the cusp), you actually take steps to make it even more difficult, is that correct? That’s right, he said.

He asked if he could put me on hold again, probably sensing an impending flurry of expletives. Maybe there are some offers you can take advantage of, he suggested. After a minute or two of silence, during which the tiniest flicker of hope twinkled before me, his voice returned: I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do.

Do you have any credit cards? I asked.

Sure, several.

And are the companies stealing from you the way they are from me?

Oh no, see, I know how it works, and I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for you.

I could only assume that WASHINGTON MUTUAL was attempting to steer me into default. Why collect a payment with interest each month when you can help force someone into bankruptcy? It suddenly made perfect sense… to someone, somewhere.

It was the same scenario with my mortgage. Circumstances dictated I either take equity out of my home or take a chance on the outcomes of several lawsuits that had been filed against me due to the failure of my twenty-two year old business (I’ll explain those circumstances some other time). When I refinanced (I only had two more years to pay on the house), my credit was so poor, the only loan I could get was something termed a two, twenty-eight. That meant I would take the loan at a reasonable fixed rate for two years, after which it would become a variable. The broker I used at the time convinced me I would have no problem refinancing two years later, and that this was the best way to go. He knew it would be impossible: he was lying, of course.

Two years came and went, I tried to refinance without success, but I did manage to get a few chuckles from loan officers, and within a few months my rate moved from seven, to more than ten and a half percent, despite the fact that the government was continually cutting the prime rate, which my loan was allegedly tied to. Now I was near default on my mortgage as well.

As far as credit card debt goes, my six or seven thousand isn’t the worst it could be. At one time it was in the forty-five thousand range.

I did a quick internet search, mostly to find an agency that might be able to tell me whether or not what WASHINGTON MUTUAL had done was legal. I figured it probably was, and the original terms were just buried in the microscopic text below the part that initially lures you in to those zero percent balance transfers (now twenty-six percent).

I accidentally phoned a debt consolidation agency that described itself as a not-for-profit organization. After a brief conversation with one of the debt counselors, I was informed they could help me be free of my credit cards within forty-three months. Oh, and by the way, their fee was sixty dollars per month for the duration of my payments, or roughly twenty-five hundred and eighty dollars.

I told him I’d think about it.