Morris Perlis, executive vice president of American Express, was the first of many. I received his letter in 1986 while working for a newspaper in Venezuela.
"Naturally, we do not extend this privilege lightly," Morris wrote, notifying me that an American Express credit card was mine for the asking."One reason we are so selective about whom we accept for card membership is that we set no spending limits in advance. On the contrary, your purchases are approved based on your . . . personal resources."
At the time, I was making 6,500 bolivars (the Venezuelan monetary unit) a month. That equaled about $87.50 a week.
"As you may know, the card is issued only to those who have achieved a certain degree of financial success."
Obviously.
If you've ever bought anything on credit and then made the mistake of actually paying off your bill, you've no doubt been inundated with "exclusive" offers like the ones I received from Morris and, on Monday, from Bruce Gooden, senior vice president of FCC National Bank.
"The First Card Visa Card is a credit card designed for people like you - people with busy, interesting lives and a solid record of handling credit sensibly and responsibly," Bruce wrote in his letter. No doubt he had been in contact with Morris.
They find you even when you're not home. Take Saturday, for example, at the Utah County Courthouse. The jury was out, the courthouse was quiet and I was drifting off when the pay phone across the hall rang. I jerked awake and stumbled over to answer the call.
"Hello," I said, figuring someone was calling for one of the reporters who had converged on the courthouse for Millard County's latest murder trial.
"Hello, this is Jim Elliot," a voice responded. I told Jim he had reached a courthouse pay phone. He ignored me.
"Now is your chance to establish and enhance your credit with no annual fees," Jim told me. All I had to do was say yes to a "1500 Gold Card," Jim said, and my financial woes would be over.
"Jim," I said, "It's credibility I lack, not credit."
Jim would not be reasoned with. As he droned on, I realized he was a recording.
"Low annual fees and a free gift" just for ordering a Visa or MasterCard Gold, he tempted. "Simply say yes at the sound of the tone and leave your name and address. Please spell your last name."
"S-I-M-P-S-O-N," I said. "Bart. I'm at the courthouse."
"Thank you," Jim said.
"You're welcome."
By the time I arrived home that evening, the word apparently had gotten out.
"Hello, this is Jim Alexander," the voice on the phone told me. "Now is your chance to enter into a flexible deferred-annuity savings account."
The recorded droning sounded familiar, and I wondered whether Jim had changed his last name. This time he was touting the value of a plan that would help me set aside savings for my burial and qualify me for a credit card in the interim.
"But Jim, I feel fine," I assured him. He wasn't listening. He was too busy promising that a worry-free interment was as easy as leaving my name and address at the sound of the tone.
`N-I-X-O-N," I replied. "Richard M. Send the plan and credit card to the White House."
(Michael Morris, Provo, is Utah County bureau chief for the Deseret News.)