I stared in utter disbelief at my credit card bill. Surely there had been some mistake. A computer generated error or something of that sort, no doubt. The amount in itself was relatively insignificant, but I knew that such a sum would have been impossible for me to incur. When on earth had I taken out an entire army for coffee? Never. I checked the date again and the alarm bells began to sound.
I remembered the day very clearly. My mother and sister were in the car and I had had a craving for caffeine. In lieu of my own fetish, I projected my longing onto my unsuspecting mother and insisted that she needed a hot drink. She refused. I then tried tempting my sister to try a cold one as we pulled up alongside the cafe, but she too rejected my vicarious desire. “Oh well,” I began magnanimously, “as we’re right in front of the place anyway, I’ll buy one and we can all share.”
I ordered and then fumbled around in my bag for change. Realizing that I had no cash, the young assistant pointed out that they accepted credit cards. He swiped my card and entered the amount with feigned musical genius accompanied by that glazed over Richard Clayderman expression. In the midst of dazzling me with his nimble finger-work, the request was rejected. He played again. This happened three times with regular synchronization, trebling my impatience until finally the transaction was “approved” and a star had been born.
I hurriedly signed the slip and left.
SR315 for that fateful ice-blended concoction? I felt nauseous. I returned to the venue armed with my statement and prepared for war.
“Excuse me,” I said to the young prodigy who stood beaming behind the counter upon having recognized me, “but I had bought one mochaccino here and evidently there has been a mistake. You charged me SR315.”
“What size was it? Small, regular or large?” he inquired in all earnestness.
“I said you charged me SR315 for one coffee!” I yelled in despair.
“Yes, Mam. What size?”
“Do you have a size for SR315?” I asked sarcastically. “Like super army grande?”
“Okay. I will just check,” he replied looking gravely serious and proceeded to study the take-out menu for the aforesaid item. I stood transfixed as he scanned the contents with his eyes. I just could not believe what was happening and curtly asked to see the supervisor. After I had explained the situation to his superior and reprimanded him for having hired Beethoven, he apologized profusely, but determined that as I had signed without checking the amount it was my mistake. I was suitably horrified and verified his edict with the bank, which also ruled in favor of incompetence.
Subsequent to my unique experience of having been burned with cold coffee, I stopped signing any credit card slip without checking, re-checking and further scrutinizing the amount stated.
A few months later, I was at a clothes shop buying a garment for SR75 when I noticed a huge disparity prior to signing the receipt.
“Excuse me, but you only entered 75 halalas into my account,” I informed the rookie manning the counter by underlining the approved amount on the slip with my finger to reinforce my point.
“What do you want?” he asked rudely.
“Look,” I said tracing the amount once again, “the thing I bought was for SR75, but you entered 75 halalas into my credit card. So you need to do it again.”
By this time, people in line behind me were getting agitated and he tossed a pen in my direction and coolly said, “Sign” while he examined the contents of his fingernails.
“How can I sign? You need to press 75 and then two zeroes and then enter and then I will sign,” I declared thoroughly irritated by his incompetence. He exchanged some exasperated glances with the novice at the other till, rolled his eyes and said, “Yallah sign!” once again. I refused and demanded to see his manager.
At this point I was being heckled by the crowd of shoppers and derided by the cashier and his crony who openly mocked me with disdain. I stood my ground. His boss arrived and asked me what the problem was. I explained to him what had happened in sufficient detail only to be greeted with a vacant stare. I then did a bit of mental maths, apprised him of how I had been undercharged by 74 riyals and 25 halalas producing the unsigned slip as evidence and rested my case. He mildly chided the assistant, who continued to observe me through peering eyes, with his arms defiantly folded. I told him that had it not been for my honesty, he would have had the amount deducted from his wages. He responded with a lethargic “So what?”
There have been innumerable cases in the press of those less fortunate than myself having to fork out inordinate sums of money because of such episodes. It is a dire shame that I have yet to have had the more rewarding experience of having a few extra zeroes inserted at the end of my bank statement. Now that I would definitely not be complaining about!
