Burger me, some Texan hacker ate my credit card

A few Sunday mornings ago I woke to some disturbing news; the previous evening, while drinking with friends at The Palace Hotel in Broken Hill, I had purchased $1263.73 worth of fast food.

This wasn’t by itself alarming – I’m generous, and ravenous, when I’ve had a skinful – but for the fact I’d purchased the mammoth meal at Charley’s Cheesesteaks in the town of Spring, Texas, USA.

How far had my drunken wanderings taken me? Was I even in my own country, my own hemisphere, my own bed?

It took a moment to realise I’d done nothing outrageous, but had been scammed. Some hacker with greater appetite than ambition had pulled off the fast food heist of the century.

A cursory glance at Charley’s menu revealed what sort of a haul had to have been procured; their signature cheesesteak sandwiches – similar to Subway, but heavy with American meat and cheese – sell for just under $US15, and their fries, wings, dough cakes and drinks are reasonably priced for late-night traffic.

Rudimentary calculations tell me some 40 people could have loaded up on so much Charley’s as to never want to see the signage again.

Following my bank’s online instructions regarding how to deal with a dispute, I contacted the vendor, a modest little joint surrounded by Chase Bank, the Christian Life Center, the Bank of America and what used to be the Greater Church of Lucifer, which is now, thanks to local outcry, a Mexican pizza place. Poignant social commentary if nothing else.

The phone call that followed is best read in the voices of Paul Hogan and a teenage Matthew McConaughey. The manager, who appears at the end of the call, is Tommy Lee Jones.

“Charley’s Cheesesteaks and Wings, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, look, this is going to sound bonkers, but I’m calling from outback Australia, and last night someone spent over a thousand bucks in my country’s money at your store, using my credit card.”

“Way, way, back up! Do you ­realise who you’re talking to?”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t know your name, but you’re somebody who works at Charley’s Cheesesteaks.”

“And do you realise where we are and what we do?”

“Yes, I do. You’re in Spring, Texas, USA, and you make burgers.”

“And you’re from outback Australia?”

“Yes, sir. And it’s very hot here. I’ve got two fans blowing hard up my kazoo. So if we can sort this dispute out quickly I’d appreciate it.”

“Now, listen, brother, I can tell you something that ain’t in dispute: Nobody, but nobody, has ever spent that kind of money in this establishment, no way no how.”

“Well, my bank account says somebody did. And, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to at least check the accounts from last night and see.”

“OK. Um … hold on a minute, will ya’ sir? (Shouting) Tony? Tony! There’s some dude from outback Australia says someone blew a large here last night on his card and he wants it back.”

“My ass! Where’s he say he’s from?”

“Somewhere in Australia.”

“It’s a scam, son. Hang up on his dumb ass!”

And that was that.

Having fulfilled my duty of contacting the vendor, I then launched an official dispute with a virtual representative of the bank with which I’ve done business my whole life. I was told my card had to be destroyed (despite the fact it was my account, not my card, that had been abused), and that I’d have to wait until the dispute was resolved. This could take, it said, up to 21 days. Moreover, the bank would not launch an investigation until the transaction was “processed” – at present, it is floating in a status called “pending”, which means the vendor has not taken receipt of the money, and possibly never will. Twenty-one days plus infinity is a long time to wait for my money.

Today, I called the bank to demand the payment be reversed. An actual human told me that was not possible, as – wait for it – I had not, as I admitted in my dispute, authorised the transaction, and only the author of the transaction can reverse the payment. She said that after 10 days in pending limbo, the transaction could possibly be scrutinised.

When I told her 10 days had long passed, she explained that four of those days had been weekends, and thus didn’t count. Apparently, the world financial system goes to sleep on Saturdays and Sundays.

No wonder those gluttons at Charley’s Cheesesteaks had chosen a Saturday to stuff their guts with my money.

So here we sit, my money in a cloud, winking at me from my online statement, trapped in a notional dungeon called “pending”, the only possible beneficiary being the bank.

Which bank? Let’s just say my first deposit was in an elephant money box when I was in junior primary school, my first withdrawal occurring sometime the following day. Thus, it has continued. But I’m loyal. I’ve been with them for 55 years. I don’t even want to think about the total I’ve given them over the years in bank fees, overdraft penalties, interest on loans, cheque clearance payments, charges for over-the-counter transactions (which I never could have envisaged at age six), ATM tariffs (same), service taxes, stamp duty, the CEO vodka jelly-bath fund, etc.

I remember being six or seven, and had placed one of the new dodecagonal 50 cent pieces into my elephant. It wouldn’t come out of the hole in the bottom, which distressed and frustrated me greatly. My father, God bless him, took out a hacksaw and cut that elephant clean in half, releasing my precious funds into my trembling hand.

Life was so simple back then.

Jack Marx is a writer based in Broken Hill.