Dear Mr. J. Raybun,

Hi there.  No, you don’t know me, but we share something in common; you could call it a financial history (or a potential bank mail legacy.)  I know it’s not much to go on, but some great friendships have often started on less and I have high hopes.  You must understand when I woke up this morning in central China, I had no way of knowing our paths would cross like this–with so many miles between us. 

How is the weather in Seattle, by the way?  Overcast I bet, but at least when you live near Capitol Hill (like you do) there is always a hot grande vanilla latte only a few yards in any direction.  You lucky devil!  Drink one for me, OK?

You’re asking yourself who is this guy with seemingly omniscient powers.  Some kind of trans-Pacific stalker or something?  No, sir.  No need for alarm.  Although when the Bank was suggesting to me that you were an "identity thief" yourself, Mr. Raybun, I was more than a little concerned.  After all, my online banking register showed that I had mysteriously opened a Platinum Visa Card with a $10,000 credit limit.  At first, I thought nothing of it, "They’re probably just trying to bait me into using their credit card or something," I said to myself.  But then yesterday morning, thanks to Platinum Visa, our destinies collided, Mr. Raybun!

Imagine my surprise when I discovered there was a $100 "overdraft protection" charge on the Platinum Visa card I knew I had never opened! Perplexing, to say the least.

Then I found out about you.  Well, it wasn’t quite that easy was it?  First, I had to call Customer Service (using Skype) and explain the situation, then I had to answer a lot of questions about myself and my numbers, and my mother’s maiden name, and then I had to listen to a lot of brainwash loops about financing while I was holding, then there were more questions, then I was put on hold and transferred to Department Not-yet-in-existence, then, of course the "lost call" got me cussing, then I started all over again.  It took quite a while for us to be introduced and (I’m sorry to say) when I first heard your name there was some distrust, some mild hate, some thoughts of vengeance, but that was when I saw you as an Identity Thief (who stole my name, my valuable info, my financial sense of security…)  That was before…

You see I already have a history.  Someone swiped my digits, my
mother’s maiden name and my dad’s birth date in the past.  They
secretly lifted these bits of trivia and opened some strange bank
account at a financial institution named after a bird measurement
(wingspan?) and then these tricksters put a lot of money into the
account.  Then the birdwing bank sent me a real check for the money in
"my" account.  Yeah, that’s a check I rushed out to cash.  I could just
picture the outcome on CSI as the pathologist is piecing together the crime as he is overlooking my bullet-ridden body: 

"Yeah,
looks like a mafia mob hit.  Not exactly sure why a family-man like him
would be mixed up in something like this.  Jack, c’mon, the guy was
studying Mandarin?"

But thanks to the witness re-location program and some fine prosecutors I got past all that.  That’s ancient history as far as I’m concerned.

But
if I seemed immediately jaded towards you, Mr. Raybun, I hope you will
realize the extenuating circumstances.  I was immediately thinking of
you in one of those Visa commercials about "identity theft" talking
with your deep-throated biker voice while possessing the body of a
senior-citizen named Gertrude.  I was writing the dialog of your
braggadocio in my mind.  "That suburb sap who worked in his fancy
office job never knew what HIT him.  Just bought my plane tickets to
Maui.  Surf and turf, dude.  Surf and turf."

But it wasn’t
really like that, was it?  (Was it…?)  Those kind folks from the bank
(who love to remind you when they are helping you correct their
mistakes.  "Help us, help you, Mr. Johnson") finally admitted that our
bank account was somehow "crossed" with yours, probably due to a
"keying error".

A keying error?

A fat finger.

A one-digit-off social security number.

A sleepy or inattentive monkey behind the machine.

Our
account history and day were upended because of the power of a
keystroke.  I am convinced this is how the world will end–not in a
roar or in a hum, but in an inadvertent click of the keyboard.  A type-e, I mean, type-o will destroy them…

When
we finally got the verdict, probably not fraud but data entry, I was
able to see you, Mr. Raybun, in a new light.  I saw that you were a
victim, too.  (Like in the movie Brazil where Mr. Tuttle, or was it Buttle,
was exterminated because the totalitarian government’s "edict-machine"
got a fly trapped in the printer.  Just some screwed up paperwork
brought one innocent man the death penalty…)  In light of the facts,
I felt empathy for you and I wondered when you would make this
discovery yourself.

You open a Visa card account in order to
protect yourself for that infrequent overdraft.  You do so in good
faith with trust in your financial institution, and all of a sudden
some stranger in China knows firsthand about your financial plight or
oversight.  You are like a conjoined twin (at the waist) a bit too
embarrassed to tell your other half its time to use the can.  Well,
that’s what I’m here for.

It’s time to use the can, man.  We’ve
got get this sorted out.  The Bank says they’ll ‘handle’ it, they’ll
‘investigate’ and send us some ‘information’ in the mail, but can we
really put our trust in those primates?  I think not!  We’ve got to
take back our financial destiny.  We’ve got to close our mis-keyed
accounts and verify our SSN’s. 

Raise your debit card in the air, my friend! 

Vive la revolutione!

Mr.
Raybun, this communication is but a brief gasp in the eternal scheme of
things, but it is a moment and that is all we can have or ask for.  I
hope some day down the road, as you balance your checkbook register
(hopefully a bit more carefully,) you will remember this slightly sunny
day in October.  The day when victims became victors.  The day when
customer service phone lines sounded.  The day that changed
everything…and nothing. 

The Day of the Keystroke.

And
if you but pause on that day, when the moment is right, that will be
enough for me, my friend; enough sentimentality from a fellow victim and
conspirator…enough to be reminded of what happens when worlds and
financial entities collide.

(Unless, of course, you are an identity thief, in which case I hope on that day you get some nasty food poisoning from a Burger King Whopper.)

Remember the Day of the Keystroke!
Sincerely,
T. Johnson
a.k.a. Yeti