Home > Off Blog > Brian and Ilsa to Wells Fargo: “Show me the note, motherfucker”

Brian and Ilsa to Wells Fargo: “Show me the note, motherfucker”

Another installment of Gonzalo Lira’s fascinating look at the mortgage woes of Brian and Ilsa, in which our heretofore meek and obedient retirees show the bank what that hole is for.

Last Monday, October 4, after I had finished interviewing them and was busy writing my original post on the pair, Brian mulled over what I had told him about chain-of-title and the Mortgage Mess—I can just see him, head lowered, looking up: The epitome of the Kubrick Stare.

Brian dashed off an e-mail to his bank that night—a quick post, where he explicitly said, “I want to see the loan note where it says I owe you money, or else I’m contacting my lawyer and halting payment on my mortgage.”

The very next day, someone from Wells Fargo called them.

Not a machine, not a customer service rep in India—an actual, honest-to-God, alive-and-kicking bank executive.

She apologized profusely about the HAMP screw up—said that Brian and Ilsa qualified, they qualified, they qualified!, and that she would be the one to “straighten out their situation”.

Brian and Ilsa couldn’t talk that Tuesday, when the bank executive called. And for various reasons, they couldn’t talk Wednesday either—they finally talked to the bank executive on Thursday . . .

. . . and during those three days, it was the executive who chased them: Two e-mails to their AOL account, two phone calls on their answering machine.

On Thursday, when they spoke, the bank executive was sweetness and light—she told them that Ilsa and Brian qualified for HAMP, that they would get refinanced, that they would not have to pay the difference in mortgage of the last three months—“Your lower mortgage rate is locked in!”

And as to the $84 penalty fee, which had driven Brian in particular up the wall: It was waived.

Ilsa told me, “It was the nicest conversation we’ve ever had with a bank executive.”

The executive promised to have the papers drawn up, ready to be signed before November 1.

That’s right: November first. After dicking them around for months on end, Wells Fargo all of a sudden went from turtle-speed to light-speed—to warp-speed—boom!—just like that. They didn’t even engage thrusters, Captain—it was warp drive the instant Brian e-mailed that threat.

Threat?, you say. What threat was that?

The threat Brian laid down, in the e-mail he sent Monday night:

Show me the note, motherfucker!

You will probably want to crank Pink Floyd’s Sheep, while partaking of this delicious epic of sheeple outrage and vengeance.

Just a taste

Vodpod videos no longer available.

“Sheep”

Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away
Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air
You better watch out
There may be dogs about
I’ve looked over Jordan and I have seen
Things are not what they seem.

What do you get for pretending the danger’s not real
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes
Now things are really what they seem
No, this is no bad dream.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
He makes me down to lie
Through pastures green he leadeth me the silent waters by
With bright knives he releaseth my soul
He maketh me to hang on hooks in high places
He converteth me to lamb cutlets
For lo,m he hath great power and great hunger
When cometh the day we lowly ones
Through quiet reflection and great dedication
Master the art of karate
Lo, we shall rise up
And then we’ll make the bugger’s eyes water.

Bleating and babbling we fell on his neck with a scream
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream.

Have you heard the news?
The dogs are dead!
You better stay home
And do as you’re told
Get out of the road if you want to grow old.

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