I was feeling dangerous last month, so I purchased a device from a secondary seller on Amazon.com—the equivalent of going down a dark alleyway to buy something that has “fallen off the truck.”
I hadn’t seen who the seller was until it was too late. But I had bought dozens of items off of Amazon with no problem, so my initial thought was, “What could go wrong?”
I enjoy inventing potential pratfalls, so warning bells would’ve gone off normally. But my inner alarm didn’t sound this time, seemingly broken—I must’ve bought it from an Amazon secondary seller, too.
At first, nothing seemed amiss, aside from a cursory Google search for the Amazon-affiliated company that turned up no results. Still, the seller had a 99 percent satisfaction rating on Amazon, and if the internet has taught us anything, it’s that online ratings are impregnable and not at all reliant on users with names like xoSoccerGurlxo96. (Upon further reflection, I’ve also realized there’s something wrong with an industry where consumer decisions are based solely on how few customers the business has taken. But c’est la vie.)
My “brand new” Netgear Wi-Fi network extender arrived a few days later inside a shrink-wrapped Netgear box, packed inside an official Amazon box, secured closed with packing tape branded with “Fire Phone,” the name of Amazon’s new smartphone. It looked legit. But something was off about this device from the moment I pressed its flimsy, plastic power button.
Unable to get the network extender to work after four hours, two laptops and one bruised right heel (long story), I gave the wretched box to my girlfriend’s uncle, who works in IT. His advice after two unsuccessful hours: “You want to fix the thing? Kick it out the damn window.”
It should be noted that at this point my girlfriend’s aunt (also in IT) suggested I had received a defective device, and said I should just save myself some trouble and return it. Stubbornness (or stupidity) kicked in, though, and there we were again the next night, scouring the internet for any tip that would make this inert piece of crap spring to life. We finally waved the white flag after an hour, and called Netgear technical support.
Technical support is a strange thing. I don’t envy the people tasked with providing it. They must troubleshoot for scores of already-frustrated people, all of them defensive because a 5-inch plastic box has made them appear to be idiots.
For those who haven’t had the pleasure of making one of these calls, there are three steps to the typical tech support conversation. Step one: representative asks if you have plugged in and powered on the device. Step two: representative asks if you are sure you have plugged in and powered on the device. Step three: repeat.
After 75 minutes of pressing the on/off button, I was at wit’s end, tempted to interrupt our IT tech and say, “Shekar, ask me one more time if I powered on the device. I dare you.” Shekar must have sensed the animosity coming from the other end of the line because at that moment he delivered his verdict: I had been sold a defective device.
At this news, we were all relieved we weren’t idiots who couldn’t set up a simple consumer product. Instead, we were simply people who had blown nearly 12 hours trying to make something work that was never going to work. It’s a better look.
My girlfriend’s aunt took her vindication casually—sitting cross-legged on the couch, only briefly looking up from her laptop to say, “I told you.” There’s a certain comfort in being the only intelligent person in the room, I guess.
The next morning, I called Amazon to inform them that they ripped me off. I spoke with a woman named Tabby, who was extremely pleasant and sympathetic and told me about all the working Netgear products she has at her house. Thanks a lot, Tabby!
Amazon refunded my money, emailed me a return shipping label and gently chastised me for buying the product from some sketchy seller, not from Amazon. Except, you know, I did buy the product from the sketchy seller on Amazon, using Amazon’s website, fulfillment center and shipping services, while paying Amazon for all of this. But I’ll try harder next time, Amazon. I promise.
I finally found a working product at Staples—in the process of shuttering 10 percent of its locations—which suddenly looked like it had the business model for the future. It’s genius in its simplicity: walk into store, find product, put product on counter, wait 30-45 seconds for the teenage girl at register to stop looking at her phone/nails, ignore icy glare from previously idle teenage girl, conduct wordless transaction, catch product/Staples plastic bag being thrown at you, leave store and be on your way. (This is actually what happened, and not some rote stereotype.)
Once home, I set up my new, Staples-bought device in the press of two buttons. No more than 30 seconds passed.
That taken care of, I returned my attention to the Scourge of the Week. I jammed it back into the box from whence it came, buried it in bubble wrap, closed the box and wrapped it up with an entire roll of clear packing tape. Pandora couldn’t have opened that box.
The next day, I brought the box to work for UPS pick-up. It sat, burning a hole in my desk, for an hour.
For that hour, I itched. Things seemed to fall apart around me—a frozen computer, a story in desperate need of editing. They were everyday, minor annoyances, yet my stress level soared. I felt on edge, uncharacteristically ready to snap. What could be the problem? I looked up—the box.
I couldn’t wait for UPS to ease my burden. I grabbed the box off my desk, and rushed to the nearest UPS store. I threw the package on the counter.
“Can you ship this?” I asked, nervously.
The employee smiled.
“Sure we can.”
He scanned the box, and gave me a receipt—confirmation that the Extender from Hell is their problem now.
Suckers.
