It's Strictly Business

 

The title of this piece is probably known to most Americans, since it comes from that classic of all classic films, The Godfather. And actually, there are several iterations of the line in the film, whose characters repeatedly insist that “It’s not personal, it’s strictly business.” The “It” of course, refers to murder—which is always said to be done not for personal reasons, but only for business reasons. This theme may be one of the reasons The Godfather was and is so popular: it encapsulates, in vivid form, the dominant American paradigm—the primacy of business over all. “The business of America is business,” said Calvin Coolidge in 1925. And that paradigm has never varied. In the United States, equality—of opportunity, of access, of legal rights—may be trumpeted more loudly and get the most press, but the real ethic that defines everything is business. Business in its rawest, and often most deadly form. 

My thoughts have  turned in this direction because of an incident that occurred a couple of weeks ago, and was then brought home forcefully two days ago. The initial event took place when my remote to operate my Insignia TV suddenly stopped working. I immediately figured that it was a problem with the batteries (though I’ve had the TV for less than a year, so I was a little dubious that they could wear out so soon). The problem was that I couldn’t see where the batteries were hidden: there was no obvious cover to lift off, though there was a kind of latch. But when I tried to manipulate that latch, nothing happened, and, moreover, I could not see an opening or edge to lift. So, next day I went to Google, and keyed in ‘problem with remote for Insignia TV.’ I figured that the manufacturer’s website would come up and afford me some help, or at least a look at the manual (which I’d lost). But the very first entry Google presented was this: https://www.justanswer.com/insignia-tv/troubleshooting. Not looking closely, I figured this was connected to Insignia, so I clicked on it, and got justanswer’s website, which led me to fill in some personal information (I should have stopped there, but was eager for a solution), and then offered me instant help via a chat with one of their “experts”—for one dollar. That seemed reasonable enough, and I agreed to have $1 taken from my PayPal account. They also offered me continuing help for $46. a month, but I declined that. Then the guy they gave me on chat simply wrote, ‘remove the batteries and replace them.’ But of course, that didn’t solve my problem at all; I couldn’t find the removable cover to access the damn batteries. I kept trying to convey this  to the “expert” but he was impervious to my pleas, finally offering me the phone number for Insignia’s tech help. That was more like it, so I signed off justanswer and called Insignia. Within minutes, a very helpful woman talked me through the removal of the cover (it’s the whole back of the remote, the openings being very smoothly hidden) and I found the batteries, with a now-simple solution. 

So my problem was solved. But two days ago, a week or so after my actual problem, I got an email from PayPal, saying that my account had paid the $1, which was fine, and that $46.00 was being deducted monthly from my bank account!! WTF?? I had expressly indicated that I did NOT want the monthly service. But this scam operation, Justanswer, had somehow slipped the monthly service into active mode, and got me on their monthly service plan. Bastards. I realized that there was no use trying to argue with these swine, and that I needed to get in touch with my bank to stop payment (this after making sure no charges had been paid yet). So I called the bank, and after objecting when they said it would now cost me $31. just for a stop-payment order (I explained loudly that if they charged me, a long-time customer, for that service, I would cancel all my accounts. They quickly found a way to do it free of charge), I got them to issue the stop order to prevent Justanswer or PayPal from billing me through my bank. Then I called PayPal (can’t reach these guys either, so I started a chat), and after much manipulating, found a page to cancel the justanswer order. PayPal subsequently sent me emails to say that they had found in my favor and would reimburse me for any charges (there weren’t any.) I then rested; but after a little reflection, I decided to go back to PayPal and transfer the small amount I had out of there and to my bank, figuring there was no sense leaving anything for the bandits at justanswer to try to steal. I have since received numerous emails from both PayPal and justanswer apologizing profusely for any inconvenience, and wanting me to rate their service! My response has been a repeated request for them to go fornicate themselves.

Now, what I am still left with is my discontent, no, my outrage, at the casual way Google routinely enables this larceny. Because it was Google, in the first place, that made most prominent the Justanswer solution to my problem. Placing this option first led me to believe that I was being sent to the manufacturer, or its agent, to solve my remote problem (and by the way, I have since used the Duckduckgo search engine to ask my remote question, and the first response they offer is a link to Insignia; so it’s by no means necessary to place ads first). This means that Google, because these Justanswer fools pay them for advertising, gives their scam prominence and pride of place such that the unwitting like me tend to go there and get bilked. 

I have posted angrily about this on Facebook, and they, too, are complicit. Because what Facebook did was turn my angry rant into an opportunity to dominate my post with a huge visual of a Justanswer mechanic working on a car. So my complaint is turned into favorable publicity for the very scam I was complaining about! Both these giants—Google and Facebook—are thus in the business of serving not you and me, but their ruthless advertisers (and using you and me as fresh meat for these vultures). What’s more, several friends who saw my post have patiently explained to me that, usually, the first option that Google posts in response to a request for information is—you guessed it—an advertisement or two from one of their paying customers. 

        Now rather than this explanation mollifying me, it got me even more pissed. What is happening is that those who “know” how the internet works are cautioning me to be careful, to ignore the first answers from Google, because they’re usually ads. But this is not just an explanation; this is rationalizing what Google does—It’s just business, after all. I say, bullshit! This is larceny. It’s a way of taking advantage of those who don’t look too carefully. It is saying, “this is how America works.” It is implying that since the system works this way, the burden is on the consumer to be ready, to be wary. Caveat emptor—buyer beware: there are always sharks in the waters, and you have to assume that this American-business axiom means that the buyer is solely and exclusively responsible for the condition or quality of what he buys, and that the company is not.

But what I want to know is: where is the outrage? Where is the demand for regulation? Have Americans been so brainwashed that they readily accept that fact that they will always be fleeced if they don’t have their antennae raised to protect against crooks? That business is essentially a form of larceny? That one must always assume that every business is always looking for the opportunity to make a killing? And that, in fact, the ethic that pervades The Godfather, and organized crime, is not some foreign outlier, but really and truly the dominant ethic of America, the natural way, the homegrown and time-tested way of doing business? And that the guns and the enforcers we see in The Godfather are only metaphors for normal business practices? That Coppola’s masterpiece is really not about organized crime as perfected by Italian immigrants at all, but about the real America—the America of ruthless, anything goes, cutthroat capitalism. 

It’s actually what my father, himself an Italian immigrant, used to say regularly: “The only thing that counts in this country is the almighty dollar.” No one cares about quality (he was especially concerned about this because, as an expert hairdresser, he saw rivals, who turned out inferior work, thriving due to their lower standards and prices), but only about how much they can put over on a gullible public to make the most money. The cheapest, shoddiest products are the ones that sell, and make the most profit. 

And I am beginning to believe that he was pretty much right. That Google, and the internet itself, both of which started with high ideals to extend communication and information more widely than ever before, for free, have become mere money-making machines, perfectly adapted to that still-reigning American ethic that absolves every crime: It’s strictly business. 

 

Lawrence DiStasi