Wachovia and I dated exclusively all four years of college. When I moved to New York, she came along, too. Then things got rough in the fall of 2008. She told me she'd become someone else. “Who is Wells Fargo!?” I roared. She sent me letters asking for money.
Barnegat Light, NJ
She caught my eye during freshman orientation. I was clueless, shuffling around the student center by myself, reciting my Social Security number to anyone who asked.
“Watch-Ova-Yah?” I said.
She gave me a warm, Carolina smile: “Wachovia.” Then she handed me a free t-shirt. And against the advice of my dorm mates, I wore it around campus the next day.
In the blink of an eye it was Thanksgiving. I went back to New Jersey and sauntered about with my new “Visa check card,” fearing the conversation I was about to have with my hometown bank. But my old gal understood. It was the ‘90’s. She was happy I’d found someone who could give me everything she couldn’t.
Wachovia and I dated exclusively all four years of college. At graduation, I briefly contemplated breaking it off. I was leaving for an internship in Washington. But hey, she had plans to be in Virginia.
After DC I lived in four different cities. I traveled to five continents. Once, I contacted her from a sweltering ATM vestibule in Papua New Guinea. I needed 600 kina. She made it happen.
A few years later, when I took a job in New York, she was still dutifully sending me letters from North Carolina. And she was a big deal now, often in the news: “Securities,” “Investment Banking,” “Capital Markets” – things I’d heard about on CNBC, but didn’t fully understand. I was smitten.
One summer evening, I climbed out of a taxi in Midtown Manhattan. And there she was on the corner, every bit as radiant as the day we met. She had arrived. Finally I knew with certainty: She was The One.
“What if I want to live in California someday?” I said.