You call this progress? Technology is supposed to make life easier.

I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a scammer.

When I was in middle school, two friendly folks from the local bank paid my class a visit.  Students were offered the opportunity to open a savings account in an attempt to teach personal finance management.

The bankers said that each student would receive an ATM card.  Our collective excitement was quickly tempered when they explained that the card could be used for deposits only.  After all, what good is an ATM card if you can’t withdraw cash?

I instantly thought of ways to circumvent the restriction.  I came up with an idea – it was a long shot, but I would have to give it a try. 

Two weeks later, I received my brand new ATM card in the mail.  The instructions indicated that I would have to visit the bank to set my PIN number.  I rushed to the bank to test my theory. 

Once again, the bank teller explained the restriction: due to the fact that I was a minor, I would be unable to withdraw money.  I thanked the teller and quickly hurried out of the bank to the drive-up ATM. 

I had hoped that the restriction would take time to go into effect.  I figured that the bank’s computer system would take time to reflect my status as a minor, and that I might be able to use the card without the limitation – if I hurried.  I frantically pushed my card into the machine in an imaginary race with an unknown computer. 

I quickly punched in my PIN number and elected to withdraw $20.  My theory was correct – the machine responded by spitting out two crisp $10 bills. 

Delighted with my success, I looked up from the machine and saw the bank teller who had helped me in the drive-up window.  As we briefly made eye contact, I victoriously held the bills in the air, grinning from ear to ear.

Fortunately, the dull-witted bank teller did not understand what had just happened.  I realized that it was not wise to flaunt my discovery, for fear of having my new privilege revoked.  I quickly grabbed my card and ran away.

::

It was important to keep my scam a secret – I didn’t even tell my close friends.  I reasoned that if I were to share my tactic with others, they would do the same.  If a friend were to be careless, the scam would be uncovered, potentially compromising everyone’s ATM privileges.

Over the following few weeks, each of my classmates received an ATM card.  Some set their PIN number and were hampered with the restriction on withdraws.  Others quickly discarded their card, realizing there was little value in deposit-only ATM access at the tender age of 13. 

I later revealed my unfettered ATM access to my friends, who were insanely jealous.

::

Two years later, I received a letter from the bank.  It explained that customers with a checking account would receive a debit card to replace their ATM card.

Today, I seldom carry cash.  The only things I touch more than my debit card are my BlackBerry and my scrotum.  Yet the concept was novel at the time.  I was delighted by the prospect of carrying what was effectively a credit card at the age of 15. 

I rushed to sign up for a checking account.  While a checking account might not seem necessary for a 15 year old, I was working at a fast food joint at the time, making $5.25 an hour.  In other words, I was banking.  I would be sure to use my new checkbook to pay my bills, which amounted to $7.95 a month for pager service. 

Within weeks, I received my debit card in the mail.  I did not anticipate that such a small piece of plastic would open so many doors.  For example, I found that convenience stores would not check my ID when I was buying cigarettes with a credit card.  After all, underage kids never have credit cards.

“Pack of Marlboro Reds,” I’d confidently say, holding the colorful piece of thin plastic between my fingers.

“Need matches?” the cashier would ask as I wondered if the card would also get me in to titty bars. 

::

As a deprived child, I did not begin driving until I was 18.  However, several of my friends were blessed with driving privileges soon after I was blessed with my debit card. 

When a friend would request gas money for his troubles, I was always eager to contribute.  By the time I had my debit card, virtually all gas pumps were equipped with a “pay at the pump” credit card reader.

My peers were inevitably impressed when I would simply swipe my card into the reader and pay for gas without walking into the station.  While the gas was pumping, I would scoff at other customers as they trotted into the gas station with cash in hand.

“Loser,” I’d mutter.  “Get with the program. This is the 90s.”

At the time, I appreciated the convenience of paying for gas at the pump.  I did not realize that within the next decade, the process would become far more complex.

::

As I swipe my card in the reader on the gas pump, I am prompted for my ZIP code.

I realize that this is a security measure designed to prevent identity theft.  This is a woefully inadequate security measure.  If a malcontent was able to secure access to my debit card, I would assume that he or she was also able to discover my ZIP code.  Finding one’s ZIP code on the Interwebs is rather simple, even if the card holder is not listed in the phone book.  Likewise, if one has access to my credit card, he or she presumably has access to my wallet where my credit card is typically stored.  My ZIP code is prominently displayed on my driver’s license, rendering this security measure completely ineffective.

A better method for preventing identity theft would be to prompt customers for their PIN number.  However, this type of transaction would evoke a fee from the customer’s bank.  The $2.50 convenience fee makes paying at the pump a frivolous extravagance.

Punching in my ZIP code would be a minor inconvenience if I didn’t fuck it up 73.2% of the time.  In the past decade, I have live in 14 different ZIP codes, so remembering the latest five digit combination is quite challenging.  In addition, my fingers are clearly incompatible with the plastic keypads at gas stations, as typos are quite common.

After pecking away at the germs-filled keys, I am delighted to be prompted for a car wash.

“Yes,” I think to myself.  “I should probably wash my car right now, while it I raining.”

Next, I am prompted as to whether I want a receipt.  While I can appreciate the effort to conserve paper, I have grown frustrated.  At this point, I am prepared for the machine to inquire about my zodiac sign. 

Finally, I am prompted for the type of gas that I want.  Of course, I select the cheapest flavor of petrol.  If I am lucky, the LCD screen will read “begin pumping.”  About 10% of the time, the computer fails, instructing me to go into the gas station to continue my transaction.

“Please see attendant.”  This is progress?

::

Technology is supposed to make our lives easier, yet pumping gas has become more difficult and time consuming.  I long for the days when I could swipe my card and instantly begin pumping gas.  Today, the process of filling my tank feels more like filling out a lengthy questionnaire to sign up for Match.com.

The additional half a minute that I spent at a gas pump is valuable time that I cannot reclaim.  I could be smoking a cigarette or texting while driving instead of playing the dating game with a machine. 

Technology should not regress is such a fashion.  Such blatant defiance of Moore’s Law is inexplicable. 

Paying for gas at the pump is hardly a convenience, so I just steal gas instead.