-Give credit where credit is due-
It was supposed to be so simple; buy an inexpensive couch using a revolving charge agreement and establish credit.
I could have paid for it all at once. But years of friends and family and slightly goofy low-level bank executives in college multipurpose rooms have worn me down. Okay, I said yesterday, we live in a debtor society, and the odd twenty-something (that's me) who only orders things he can afford to pay immediately is indeed odd, and perhaps throwing the rest of you off.
The crisp, uncooked carrot the rest of you have been dangling before me is still distant, but I caved all the same - I hope to someday bite the legumbre and buy a house. Oddly, my new intention coincided with stories from radio economists who challenge the conventional wisdom, "'tis better to rent than to own."
Even so, my apartment needed a couch now, and the paperwork seemed painless enough. Within a few hours, a furniture store wonk entered my information and shook my hand with the promise of approved credit and a Friday delivery.
His hand was large but limp.
Late last night I checked my messages to hear his limp phone voice:
"'Wanted to let you know that the credit was not approved. If you want to have it delivered on Friday, you'll have to come in and pay at least half, or get someone to co-sign.'"
I put the above phrase in bold to indicate my displeasure upon hearing it. When I typed it, my fingers struck with extra force; the other lab users stopped working for a moment to deliver withering stares.
Friday delivery is essential. Friday is my day off.
I call, I argue, I acquiesce. I drive thirty minutes to the nearest location, and spend at least as much time waiting for the computers to acknowledge my debit card (funny, how the pejoratively named debit card is more responsible than its credit cousin) and drive thirty minutes home. It's all been straightened out, I think, but I'll believe it when I'm sitting on my couch on Friday.
Who would have thought that you need credit to get credit? Maybe everyone knew that, but I imagined that all of that information they collected about employment, and addresses, and rent, and paychecks was about something more, not merely for the purpose of setting me up for mass mailings from debtor culture parasites.
I could have paid for it all at once. But years of friends and family and slightly goofy low-level bank executives in college multipurpose rooms have worn me down. Okay, I said yesterday, we live in a debtor society, and the odd twenty-something (that's me) who only orders things he can afford to pay immediately is indeed odd, and perhaps throwing the rest of you off.
The crisp, uncooked carrot the rest of you have been dangling before me is still distant, but I caved all the same - I hope to someday bite the legumbre and buy a house. Oddly, my new intention coincided with stories from radio economists who challenge the conventional wisdom, "'tis better to rent than to own."
Even so, my apartment needed a couch now, and the paperwork seemed painless enough. Within a few hours, a furniture store wonk entered my information and shook my hand with the promise of approved credit and a Friday delivery.
His hand was large but limp.
Late last night I checked my messages to hear his limp phone voice:
"'Wanted to let you know that the credit was not approved. If you want to have it delivered on Friday, you'll have to come in and pay at least half, or get someone to co-sign.'"
I put the above phrase in bold to indicate my displeasure upon hearing it. When I typed it, my fingers struck with extra force; the other lab users stopped working for a moment to deliver withering stares.
Friday delivery is essential. Friday is my day off.
I call, I argue, I acquiesce. I drive thirty minutes to the nearest location, and spend at least as much time waiting for the computers to acknowledge my debit card (funny, how the pejoratively named debit card is more responsible than its credit cousin) and drive thirty minutes home. It's all been straightened out, I think, but I'll believe it when I'm sitting on my couch on Friday.
Who would have thought that you need credit to get credit? Maybe everyone knew that, but I imagined that all of that information they collected about employment, and addresses, and rent, and paychecks was about something more, not merely for the purpose of setting me up for mass mailings from debtor culture parasites.
posted by Benedict | 7:07 PM
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