To the person who stole my debit cart information:
Hi. Yea, I know we really don’t know each other, but I thought I would write you anyway.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. You, after all, know a bit about me, like the numbers on the debit card that, up until about 9:00 AM this morning, was attached to my checking account. I know that you came about this information illegally. But, beyond that, we are strangers.
I can infer some things about you, though. Say, for instance, that after you managed to discover my account information, you tried to buy groceries. That would suggest that you needed the food for yourself, or quite possibly your family. I guess I could have understood that. I’ve never been in that situation, where stealing would be the difference between the people I love eating or not, so I wouldn’t have been too quick to judge. Don’t get me wrong, it still wouldn’t have made it right, but I guess I would have got it.
But you didn’t try to buy groceries, did you. Nope. Movie tickets. From various sellers across the nation. Perhaps your family was starved for entertainment?
Well, it didn’t work out, did it? My bank’s processor blocked each attempt. Given that I live in none of California, New York, Maryland, or Florida, you didn’t make it all that hard for them. They were able to block all the attempts at the pre-authorized state and prevent you from dancing the Fandango with my money.
So, what did it cost me really? $10 for a new card. In all fairness, the old one had started to not be swipe-able on occasion, and I was planning on getting a replacement one soon anyway. Half a day of productivity while I got it sorted out; I’ll just work a few hours longer the rest of the week. The inconvenience of not being able to use my money until the pre-authorizations drop back off of the account; that should happen tomorrow, maybe the next. It really didn’t cost me anything. That’s probably why I’m not even angry about it.
Honestly, I feel sorry for you.
One of the characteristics my parents installed in me, and in my brothers, was hard work. It wasn’t a lecture lesson; there were no ‘you will work hard’ speeches. Mom and Dad worked hard, and I guess it just never occurred to us to be anything but hard workers. It’s just how it was. The pride in a job well done was reward enough for the hard work.
I worry that you will never feel that.
I doubt that I’ll ever know who you are, or if you will ever have to answer for the attempted theft of my money. I don’t even care. I just hope that, someday down the road, you’ll do something really awesome, and really work hard and earn it legally. Then you’ll turn around and see the thing you’ve done, and know that feeling of pride in a job well done.
If you do, you’ll never want to steal anything again.