When my late wife and I moved across town, I cancelled our AT&T internet and DirectTV accounts. A month and a half later, a letter from AT&T arrived telling me we were entitled to a refund, and a debit card was included. The amount of the refund was not indicated.
The process of sending a debit card instead of a check is now common. Personally, I’d rather have a check, but in that way I’m hopelessly old fashioned. Nonetheless, I dutifully examined the letter, its instructions and the information on the card.
The letter explained that before I could use the card, I had to get it authorized, and that there were three methods of doing so: (1) I could call a phone number, (2) I could scan a barcode, and (3) I could go online to a web address. Any of these, so I was told, would allow me to find out the balance amount on the card. So it goes.
First, I called the phone number. An automated voice asked me to enter the card number and security code; easy enough. I did so. “That number cannot be verified,” the voice said, and my call was disconnected. “OK,” I said to myself, “maybe my phone keyboard is not working properly.” I moved on to option #2.
I used my phone camera to capture the scannable code on the card, but that led me to a dead end, too. “On to option #3,” I decided.
I turned to my desktop computer, entered the URL indicated on the letter, and was instructed to enter the card number and security code. That information was rejected, and the same screen popped up. I carefully entered it again, figuring that perhaps I had mistyped a number. Once again it was rejected. I was out of options.
My next step will be to call AT&T and find out if I can actually speak to a human being about my refund debit card. Having called AT&T before, I will confess that I am not looking forward to it. I expect to end up in an automated loop or on hold forever.
AT&T provides service to over 100 million people in the United States. Of those, nearly 1% cancel their service each year, which equals one million accounts. Assuming refunds average $50, that means $50 million in refunds each year, not exactly pocket change. This brings me to the subject of the invalid debit card.
I may pursue the refund owed to me, or I may not. For all I know, the refund may be 37 cents, and hours of my time is more valuable than that. I’m tech savvy, but many people are not, and that raises the subject of how many other refund debit cards don’t work. Whether by intention or not, AT&T is sitting on a lot of people’s money.
My paranoid self believes it’s intentional, an expression of kleptocracy, a form of outright corporate theft. I expect that when I call AT&T, they will tell me how to contact the credit card company that has been engaged to issue the debit card. I, like millions of others owed a refund, may or may not prevail. What is certain is that I will spend valuable time chasing my own money.
Welcome to America in the 21st Century.
