Artificial Interruption
by Alexander Urbelis (alex@urbel.is)
Corporate Greed and the Pandemic
As regular Off The Hook listeners will recall, I've been living outside of New York City at my lake house in the Poconos Mountains of Pennsylvania. There are far worse places to be and we are incredibly fortunate. Unfortunately, however, while hunched over a kayak on a hot and humid day attempting to fix a seat clamp, my iPhone 8 Plus slipped out of my pocket, through an opening on the wooden deck, and fell face-down directly into a pointed edge of a large boulder.
I had faith. I've had this phone for several years and it's never quit. But this time was different. Flickering and rolling like a VHS tape with the tracking off, the screen was shattered beyond usability. And the phone likely took in some water, as there was a translucent, glowing ooze of significant viscosity slowly making its way around the screen.
I was pissed. But I could not at that moment have predicted the anger I would have for T-Mobile in less than 24 hours.
In the middle of HOPE and with a busy week of client calls on the calendar, I needed a new phone. I was stuck with a T-Mobile business plan and the nearest T-Mobile store was a 40 minute drive with the store closing in less than two hours. I could make it.
The store, however, was in a mall and I had barely ventured into indoor spaces for the past five months. Candidly, I was a bit freaked out at having to go to a mall, but had to brave it if I wanted to resolve the phone issue.
Everything felt strange. The whole idea of this mall space felt out of place. A tuxedo shop with a faded sign seemed like a relic from a bygone era when humans gathered at the slightest provocation to recklessly and irresponsibly celebrate things like weddings, graduations, or being granted some award or honor. The small kiosks in the corridors that sold mobile phone cases, earrings, sunglasses, that sort of thing, had no customers. The kiosks were mostly open but the people manning them looked like they were there because they had no other option. The whole place was sad and depressing.
I got to the middle of the mall, apparently shaped like an addition sign. From this spot there were four pathways. Having come from one of the directions, the T-Mobile store could have been in any of the three other directions. I took a left. These guesses usually never work out for me. In fact, in situations like this when I feel like something is in one direction, I usually go the opposite way on the assumption that my gut sense of direction is most probably wrong. Shockingly, the T-Mobile store appeared.
There were only two employees, both of whom were engaged with other customers. After smelling my own breath for what felt like 90 minutes but was probably more like ten, it was my turn. I explained the predicament. I said I was sick of the phone rat race and wouldn't mind another iPhone 8 Plus because it did the job and took great pictures. That was met with a short tut and a long explanation that the iPhone 8 had been discontinued years ago, and that I could search used electronics stores if I wanted that model. The iPhone 11 was my only choice. "Fine," I said, "I'll take it in the flashy Ferrari-like red and I need the 265 gig model since I'll be restoring from a backup of about 180 gigs." I was then informed that they only carried models up to 64 gigs in-store, and anything over that capacity would have to be mailed to me, arriving usually within three days or so.
This was an annoying revelation because it meant:
- That I would be without a phone for another three days.
- That this whole fiasco of going to the mall and the T-Mobile shop itself was entirely unnecessary.
If I'd wanted to wait several days for a phone, I could have easily ordered a replacement online. "Fine," I said and forked over my credit card that T-Mobile charged for over $900.
I left the mall feeling pissed-off and ripped-off. But again, I could not at that moment have predicted the anger I would have for T-Mobile in less than 24 hours.
After another 40 minute drive back home during which I cultivated the feeling of being pissed-off and ripped-off, I was determined to see if there were any places nearby where I could repair an iPhone screen. Lo and behold, I found one. Upon examining the address, it appeared to be located within the very same mall from which I just came.
I called them. They answered. They informed me that, yes, they were in the same mall and that in fact they were a mere fifteen feet away from the T-Mobile store. In stark contrast to the T-Mobile service I received, these guys were friendly, knowledgeable, and helpful. And to boot, they showed up at my house that evening, fixed my iPhone 8 screen in the driveway in less than 20 minutes, and charged me less than one tenth of what T-Mobile did for a new phone.
Sorting this all out in the course of an evening, I felt a sense of accomplishment. Things had gotten done. All I had to do was call T-Mobile the next day and cancel my order. Things, however, are never that simple.
I called T-Mobile the next morning. The wait was over 30 minutes, so I elected for a call back. T-Mobile called me at the most inopportune time - getting the kids the in the car - and put me through a Gestapo-style verification of personal details. Then I had to relay the details of the order, what it was, where it was placed, when, why I was canceling... After this mini-deposition, I was placed on what was promised to be a "brief" hold. Many minutes later, the customer service representative surfaced and nonchalantly and politely relayed to me T-Mobile's decision. Our repartee went something like this:
"I'm sorry, but we are not going to be able to cancel your order over the phone."
Mouth agape and brain misfiring, all I could get out was, "Excuse me?"
"We cannot cancel your order over the phone. If you want to cancel your order, you will have to go to the T-Mobile store where you made your order to cancel it."
This was the zenith of my anger with T-Mobile.
"Are you kidding me? The order is less than 24 hours old. The store is 40 minutes away and within an indoor mall. And, by the way, did you forget that there is a global health crisis right now?"
I explained the obvious: forcing me to travel to a T-Mobile store, which is an indoor space within a mall, thus an indoor space within an indoor space, was dangerous, reckless, and against all health and governmental guidance to combat the pandemic.
The representative expressed a bored apology.
I expressed outrage which, of course, made no difference whatsoever. Like a customer service martial artist, the representative was ready for my next move without flinching.
"I'd like to speak to a supervisor."
"None is available," he replied.
It was the outset of HOPE. I took to Twitter to complain and detail this absurdity, tagging it with "#hopeconf". People expressed outrage and the T-Mobile-social-media-disaster-prevention and brand-protection-special-operations-A-team sprang into action. I received several public messages saying T-Mobile wanted to help and, to help them do so, I should direct message them. This ended fruitlessly after I messaged their customer service rep and found out that I would need to connect my T-Mobile account, a business account, to my personal Twitter account. Given how my law firm is engaged in sensitive matters and combats Advanced Persistent Threats (APTs), connecting my Twitter account to our firm-wide mobile account seemed like a great way to get SIM-jacked.
I had no choice but to wait for a supervisor to call me back. One day later, I received a notification that the new phone I ordered (and was desperately trying to cancel) had shipped. About 30 minutes later, T-Mobile called. We went back-and-forth a bit and they agreed to cancel the order without requiring me to return to the physical store.
I explained to the supervisor that an outside observer looking at this transaction could reasonably conclude that, perhaps, T-Mobile's policies were deliberately designed to exploit the fear of traveling and contracting the coronavirus so that the company could hold onto a few more dollars than it otherwise would. I was then informed that I would need to return the phone they had already shipped or be billed for it.
Using the DNS intelligence platform I created, this experience provided me the impetus to see how many domains with the strings "tmobile" or "t-mobile" together with the string "sucks" existed. Not surprisingly, there were quite a few. NS records indicated that out of the 20 domains in existence, T-Mobile itself owned five. But, to my chagrin, none of the 20 domains resolved to anything other than pay-per-click advertising.
Like video killing the radio star, my theory is that social media has killed the art of the gripe site. However, just as MTV elevated untold numbers of musicians to cult status, so too can the gripe site leverage social media as a springboard. I will be reporting back on this phenomenon - and any others within and without the DNS - in the months ahead.
Until then, keep wearing your mask, if for no other reason than (as we learned at HOPE) masks present significant difficulties for facial recognition systems.