I fell for an online scam. Good to get that out of the way early. Because I’m embarrassed by it. Thought I was better than it. Still, here I am, £20 down and shirtless.
The algorithm of Instagram stories knows you can only take so many infographics at once: appeals for aid, pictures of injured children and friends’ brilliant lives before it can recommend a jumper it knows you’ll like. Maybe it knows you held your thumb on the story, or that you clicked through to see how unaffordable it is, because that’s when it has you, when it knows you’ve given away too much.
Sneaking it between posts of Paul’s stag (which you weren’t invited to) and a headline from a war-torn country that leads with “BREAKING”—over and over again until you finally relent.
I’m a father of two of a certain age, and I’m a brown guy who grew up in a household of colour and wonder. And, when I look down, yes, I have a belly. The algorithm knows I’m going to love a colourful work shirt. Is it a jacket? Is it a heavy-duty shirt? Is it wearable casually and smartly? Does it need ironing? I don’t know, but you must work in the arts!
The algorithm also seems to know that I grew up with no clothes of my own. I was the recipient of hand-me-downs from my twin cousins, Bahul and Mayur, which meant that I had two sets of everything, in different sizes because they were non-identical. Stained T-shirts, Lakers bomber jackets with ripped lining, chub-rubbed jeans. Now, whenever I have disposable income, I have an irrational compulsion to spend it like it’s hot on brand-new clothes of which I am the virgin wearer.
The algorithm must know all these things, all my arbitrary preferences—like how I love pink—and my residual hang-ups, because it kept recommending The Shirt to me. It was from American workwear company Carhartt, and it looked both structured and accommodating. Also, it was pink. I kept clicking on it, looking at it, unjustifying it, griping with the cost—£150, which was not exorbitant, but more than I needed to spend on yet another structured and accommodating work shirt—before closing the browser.
A bargain?! Oh my goodness, a bargain. Was the algorithm finally rewarding my pious forebearance? My monk-like self-denial? I bought The Shirt with autofilled card details, quicker than one eats the second doughnut bought for later, and I didn’t check that the shop that was offering me this unfathomably tiny price tag was… a real shop.
It dispatched quickly. Well, I reasoned, it was a clearance sale. They probably wanted rid of the thing. I was given a tracking number and I followed the pink Carhartt work shirt’s progress from an address in China to the UK. I was perhaps a little annoyed at myself for the air miles that fast fashion was costing me: I’m trying to be a more thoughtful consumer. But also an ethical consumer who looks good in sick shirts that detract from his lockdown-dad belly.
A few weeks later, at the point when I was about to message the shop and ask where the shirt was, I got an alert to say it had been delivered. I thought that was strange; I hadn’t heard the door. But often, those packets travelling large distances are vacuum-sealed for maximum space efficiency. Ooof, fast fashion. I ran downstairs to find a small plastic envelope, A6. I picked it up. It was the only thing at the door. I tore it open.
No other note. I opened the packing slip that came with the thank-you tag, and it confirmed this was indeed my pink Carhartt overshirt, transmogrified into a small piece of card. (Or was it a work shirt? A jacket?)
My heart exploded in a musk of cringing. They had fucked me. The internet had finally fucked me. I had clicked on a link that was too good to be true. For a product that had been repeatedly advertised to me through the official Carhartt Instagram account, one that I had hovered over buying enough times that my fate, without me even realising it, had been sealed.
How was my phone so clever that it knew my every click-through, my every thumb-hover, my every salivating obsessive thought? Was it that complex? Or was I that basic? How did this information find its way to the scammers? At least they were polite when they relieved me of my £20, I reasoned. They did say thank you.
I messaged the email address written on the packing slip and explained to whichever mystery party might receive it what had happened. Because I wanted to believe. I wanted to believe I hadn’t been so gullible. Even if it was £20, £20 is £20. And the principle is the principle.
Someone replied to me that same day—again, that was a reassuring courtesy—and asked me to confirm what had been inside the package. A thank-you card, I told them. They assured me then that another pink overshirt would dispatch immediately.
I asked for a tracking number. I reported the transaction as a fraud to an understanding bank that repaid me the money (like I said, £20 is £20). The scammers—nerds with, I imagined, way too much data on our internet usage at their disposal—even had the gall to try to refute the refund. They assured me two or three times that the pink overshirt was on its way.
The bastard never came. One day, when I went online to check it, the site had been taken down. But the thank-you card remained. I keep it on my desk now, to remind myself that I bought something online just to feel something. That I let the endorphins and the promise of a quick-fix, life-enhancing purchase get the better of me.
Perhaps this cautionary tale will reinforce for you what my parents, and perhaps yours, too, have tried to instil in me my entire life: if it looks too good to be true, then it probably is. Also, I suppose it’s nice they said thank you. Gratitude is important.
I haven’t seen that pink work shirt since on my feed. I am also starting to get suspicious of the stream of ads recommending me the new Arsenal strip. But the price is unbelievable.
