I received my weekly "Dear Rolf (Yes, my first name is Rolf. My mother was heavily sedated when she named me. I still think the doctor misheard her, but I digress), Your Balance is -$20.50. You can send money to ..." blitz from the Green Card. It went on to politely (yet sternly) inform me that since I have a negative balance, I should refrain from making any more charges.
What a bunch of brain surgeons.
OK, so I seem a tad bitter. Let me fill you in on my long association with what approaches a Mafia in Hanover.
My sophomore summer, I succumbed to the seductive talk of "liberation from the lunch tray," weekly discounts, and the fact that I didn't need cash to spend money. Several hundred dollars later, I realized that I was not a fiscally responsible enough individual to handle the awesome responsibilities of this service, so at the end of my junior spring, I canceled my account (or so I thought).
Bad idea.
I left for North Carolina on June 15th, having "settled" my account the week before. A few weeks later I received my first of many "Dear Rolf ... -$20.50." e-mails. I had to endure this weekly blitz all summer, so when I pulled into Hanover in September one of my first priorities was getting to the bottom of this mystery. I marched into their office and asked when that charge went through and who it was from. I found out: June 21st, at Ms. Ou's.
There are two obvious mistakes in this charge: 1) I have never eaten at Ms. Ou's in my life, and 2) On June 21st, 1996, I WAS 1,000 MILES AWAY.
Boy would my boss have been surprised to find out that I was eating at Ms. Ou's on my 15 minute lunch break! After I told them this (politely, mind you), they said that they would "look right into it." That was five months ago.
So I began to ponder just how "liberating" this company was. You don't see the Hop Woman (you know the one I mean: the friendly, if only slightly drugged, one who always says in nasal tone, "Is that a bagel? Thank you") chasing you down the street to tell you that your DBA is low, do you? I've tried several times to talk to these people, but the weekly blitzes keep coming, worthless coupon books clutter my HB, and still I get a monthly statement. C'mon folks, I haven't used your card in EIGHT MONTHS.
I repeat, brain surgeons.
Or is it all part of an elaborate scheme? This is written with a small bit of trepidation, however, for I have recently realized the parallels between the Green Card and the Mafia. The commonality that sparked this revelation was the simple fact that once you join, YOU CAN'T LEAVE. One must realize the "relationship" they have with the businesses in town. Who's to say that the money these shops pay into the Green Card isn't just protection money? Look at the Green Card slip. It would be so easy to launder all that money legitimately put down as "Tips." The third parallel is the complete animosity the Green Card has for those few shops in town that hold out against them. I remember one time lamenting (while in their office making one of my many "payments") that a certain shop wasn't on the Green Card. The owner, hearing this, walked over to me and said, "We're working on them, don't worry they will be with us by next term." Shivers shooting up my spine, I left. The final and most frightening parallel between the Green Card and the Godfather (oh yeah, and they both begin with "G") is that it has expanded its "enterprise" to several other campuses across the country. What's next, Havana? Las Vegas?
Liberate yourself while you still can. Use DA$H.
Otherwise you will end up like me. I walk the streets in fear of ending up face down in EBA's salad bar, or "sleeping with the fishes" at Panda House's sushi bar. I keep expecting a horse head to be "delivered" to my room in Russell Sage next time I order EBA's. And most recently I have had nightmares about a big man named Vinny clasping me by the shoulder saying, "Rolf, never go against the Green Card." Then I wake up in a cold sweat and realize the worst: they still have my Visa card number.
