Dear Readers, we’ve spoken before in this space about the slippery slope we are finding ourselves in with extra fees. We’ve talked about clerks who literally just rung up your order for underwear asking if you’d like to leave a tip. We’ve talked about how concert tickets have some sort of extra 200% charge on them just to see a Monster Truck rally. But I didn’t truly know the depths of this problem until my apartment move earlier this month.
Let me preface this by saying I am well beyond the years of just finding someone with a pickup truck, buying a case of beer and some pizza and having everyone help me move. I am confident enough to know when I am too old for that BS. So this move, I decided to hire actual movers and an actual company that has things like moving blankets and, yanno, things with wheels instead of just mildly strong backs. The idea was to take all the boxes myself and leave the “big” stuff for the big boys. I booked them for 2 hours. All you can take.
There I stood, sweaty and disheveled in my new living room, staring at an invoice that had more add-ons than an all you can eat Las Vegas buffet. The movers’ “policy” demanded payment for a full half-hour block because their two-hour job took two hours and seven minutes. Seven. Minutes. That’s barely enough time to microwave a Hot Pocket, let alone justify a fee that could feed a family of Hot Pockets for a week. (Note to self: I am out of Hot Pockets.) When I protested, they shrugged like philosophizing monks: “It’s policy.” Ah, yes—the sacred text of modern capitalism, the fine print.
That’s where they get ya. The check boxes at the bottom of the website that won’t let you go forward until you check the boxes. The EULA for software that says the company will sell your kidney if they can get ahold of it. “Sorry, you agreed to the terms.” And, worst of all, the agreements where they include references to all of these extra charges. Just check the box. There have been a total of four people in the universe who have ever read that fine print. And they’re all super big nerds.
We’re living in the Golden Age of the GOTCHA CHARGE, where every service fee is a tiny vampire that sucks your wallet dry one $5 nibble at a time. Take ATMs. Remember when “convenience fees” were a novelty, like QR codes or existential dread? Now, I paid $3.50 last week to withdraw my own money from a machine that literally exists to give me my money. It’s like renting a spoon to eat soup you already bought. Wait, I should probably not suggest any ideas for new fees.
I parked downtown the other day in a lot that has been free for 30 years and realized that it is now not free. The envelope I got two weeks later with a $127 “fee” explained that for me. Good luck getting that out of me, by the way. Cities have turned meter fines into a contact sport.
Ticket fees. Airline fees. Rental fees. Food delivery fees. Utility fees. Hotel fees. It’s all a way to make a 1% charge into a 3% or 6% charge and that’s not stopping there. As long as we continue to pay it, the charges will get higher.
We’ve reached peak “policy.” These fees aren’t about service—they’re about loopholes in the social contract, a way to monetize our very existence. Soon, they’ll charge us for complaining about charges (“Customer Feedback Administrative Surcharge”). The only solution? Start billing them. Next time a mover shrugs about “policy,” hand him an invoice for “Time Waste Recovery: $75.” Let’s speak their language: ka-ching.
Thankfully, my move is over. The next move, I told my son, will be to the old-folks home. Avoid the fees, I said. Burn everything. Until then, I’ll be here, microwaving that Hot Pocket… and charging it rent. It’s policy.
(Find Kamler enjoying his new digs or find him on Twitter, where he is @chriskamler)
