I Tried American Express for a Year. Here's What Happened.

In the midst of the COVID-19 lockdown, I was presented with an appealing offer from American Express. Desperate to break the monotony of sheltering in place, I signed up. It was a shiny, new thing. I gave in.

Sadly, that was the peak of my Amex experience.

I should admit I don't lead what would be called an American Express lifestyle. I don't stay in thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suites. I don't wear tailored suits as I jet off to London or Dubai on business. I don't drive a German luxury sedan or an Italian sports car.

An internationally-known chef has never prepared my dinner. 

Am I painting a picture here?

Yes, the card featured free balance transfers and a zero-percent APR for the first year, but as someone who rarely carries a balance this was only a minor perk. The cashback bonuses were nice, but since I didn't use the card that much, they were also negligible.

Following a post-holiday review of my finances, I realized I didn't need another credit card and called American Express to cancel. This was as painless as you'd expect it to be and was confirmed by American Express in a follow-up e-mail:

“Dear La Piazza Gancio,

This message is to confirm that American Express has processed your recent request to cancel the following Card (sic) account(s):

Blue Cash Preferred ending in XXXXXX.

If you have other Card accounts registered for Manage Your Card Account online they will still be available online at americanexpress.com.

Sincerely,

American Express Customer Service”

 

It paralleled the language of the agent who had handled my request over the phone. But as I was soon to learn, American Express and I have very different definitions of 'cancelled'.

Even after cancelling the card I continued to get bills for the $95.00 annual membership fee, which I found quite strange being that I was no longer a cardholder. $95.00 for a card I no longer have? Wow. Seriously?

Assuming it was another error by a short-handed and over-worked staff, I ignored them. I mean, this was as cut-and-dried as consumer stuff gets, right? I had the card and now I don't. Why would I pay a membership fee?

Things were peachy until I was hospitalized in July. During my hospitalization a relative graciously stepped-in to take care of my bills, and when the American Express notice arrived she processed it as if it were a bill for purchases.

Only it wasn't.

I cringed. I immediately called American Express to request a refund.

The agent told me a fanciful story. One that said since the card wasn't cancelled within twenty-eight days of my last purchase, they were within their rights to apply the membership fee. Neither the agent with whom I made the initial request or the follow-up e-mail made any mention of a fee.

Nor did the small print on their monthly statements.

Even more interestingly, the following notation appears on their bills: “We have billed your annual membership fee. However if we do not receive your payment we will need to close your account due to inactivity.”

So. Let's see. I cancelled the card in January and did not pay the membership fee that month. Or in February, March, April, May and June. That's six months. It begs the question when, exactly, is an American Express account rendered inactive?

It's a cash grab—nothing more, nothing less.

I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau September 7^th. Having heard nothing from either party regarding a resolution, I e-mailed the BBB. I was told American Express had contacted me by mail.

If by that they mean there was written correspondence on American Express' corporate letterhead within an American Express envelope sitting in my mailbox, then no. Nothing.

(I filed a second complaint via the BBB. I'll let you know what happens.)

If you enjoy doing business with corporations who issue shady and nebulous fees without explanation, then please. Apply for an American Express card today. But as gambling sites caution their customers, never bet more than you can afford to lose.

Charging a membership fee for a card that no longer exists is beyond the pale. Furthermore, I don't understand how they are able to. Why isn't this illegal?

Until I find out, do business with American Express with extreme caution. (If you're a football fan, imagine being the quarterback for the Miami Dolphins.) Who knows how many more unspoken fees lurk behind their shiny corporate exterior? 

I'm hoping the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau will be able to tell me.

Mail Box Adventure

I'm a guy who routinely returns his shopping cart to the corral in the grocery store parking lot. I take pains to avoid exposing volatile household cleaners to direct sunlight or extreme temperatures. I unfailingly refrigerate after opening.

And if it even needs to be said, I consistently acknowledge those gracious-enough to allow me into traffic—especially during rush hour.

So how is it a mindful and conscientious soul like myself received the following in his mailbox?

Outwardly, they didn't appear particularly threatening. One envelope contained an invitation to one of those we'll-buy-you-dinner-if-you-listen-to-our-sales-pitch, while the other was a notice from my car manufacturer.

No biggie, right?

And taken separately, I'd agree with you. But together they served to impart nagging doubts about my life and the karma I am putting out there.

The invitation was just that, only there wasn't a free dinner included. But it did extend to me the opportunity to explore questions one should ask before one “needs” to ask them. And by that I mean our (ahem) 'final expenses'.

Having just recovered from a bout with head trauma for which I sacrificed two-thirds of the summer, I wasn't particularly eager to ponder—much less plan—my funeral.

I set it down and opened the envelope from the car-maker.

It was yet-another notice informing me of a recall on my seat belt pretensioners. It (again) explained that if deployed incorrectly, the unit's micro gas generator could explode, exposing all within the passenger compartment to jagged pieces of metal hurtling through the car at skin-piercing velocities.

More importantly, four months after the recall was initially announced, there are still no non-explosive pretensioners available. Just paper reminders of the death trap I must ride in daily. If nothing else, the notice lent an eerie sense of portent to the 'final expenses' invitation.

If my body is to be shredded to the point of cessation by what is reportedly a safety device, does the car manufacture's customer care package at least guarantee a ride to the nearest medical facility, where my death can be properly confirmed and recorded?

And if not, is it the comprehensive customer care package the manufacturer states it is? Can my estate sue for misrepresentation?

And looking to the cause-and-effect side of things, is it possible to draw a line between the organization offering the 'final expenses' presentation and any and all explosions caused by the faulty micro gas generators?

Sigh. Life is complicated.

I sidestep the Q&A and visit an attorney. There, I declare my preferences as to how memorial events following my death should unfold. From there, it's off to a firm specializing in body armor. The head-to-toe protection isn't cheap but, this firm excepted, can you really put a price on human life?

It renders driving very difficult and places an undue burden on my car's air conditioning unit. Owing to the proportions of the head protection, I'm thankful for the sunroof. Ignoring heartless comments about resembling a certain seventies cartoon character, I relish my newfound sense of protection.

And to think some people refer to this as junk mail.