What, me get suckered by a scam? Me????

I read (and write) about scams all the time. And, of course, I pride myself on my acuity, my brainpower, et all sorts of cetera smart-person things. So you'd think that I wouldn't fall for one.

And yet. 

The other evening, I was sitting there watching the news and answering emails from folks looking for help from Christmas in the City, a charity for kids I've volunteered with for years.

And then the phone rang.

From the Bank of America.

It said that right on my very phone. And the phone number was the one that was on the back of my ATM card. (C.f., spoofing.)

Apparently, as I was informed by "Justin," my credentials had been hacked by a gonif who'd gotten a hold of my social, etc., and was transferring money via Zelle, which is the funds transfer app used by BofA.

"Justin" coached me through a number of steps that didn't really make all that much sense. But, what the hell, the phone number was BofA's. 

Without ever asking for any personal info of the sort I'd want to keep confidential, "Justin" managed to scam me out of $1,300.

All along, I kept telling myself, none of this makes any sense. Why would I need to set up a couple of transactions to catch the fraudster? 

I kept asking questions, and the answers might have seemed absurd, but there I was, chumping right along. Even though my rational brain kept telling me this is a scam. Mostly, I was obsessing on the initial message, which was that my identity had been stolen.

"Justin" might have tried to con even more out of me, but my pushback was getting more agitated, so he transferred me to his "manager," a fellow named "Carlos."

Old "Carlos" got pretty testy when I asked a couple more questions. And when I told him I was going to call BofA, he got a bit snippy-snappy, telling me, I'd just end up back speaking with him.

Which, in fact, folks DID NOT HAPPEN. Because "Carlos" is no more working for BofA than 

After a half-hour wait to speak with someone, I got a very calm and efficient customer service rep who said that I was, indeed, a victim of fraud. But because I had reported it within the 24-hour transfer review window, the fraudulent transactions were canceled. (My understanding is that, if you fail to report it during the transfer review window, you may be out of luck - and your hard-earned money.)

Phew!

Sure, I was tired. It had been a long week. It had been a long day.

And I was (understandably) upset by hearing that my credentials had been stolen, that malefactors from the Dark Web were malefactoring in my name!

Still, I'm smart and "Justin" and "Carlos" sounded like morons from the jump - even though they used a few clever-ish techniques. (E.g., providing a phone number wrapped in letters, beginning and end, so that it didn't look like a phone number. Until it was the phone number that Zelle would send my money to.)

Nonetheless, I am embarrassed to admit, I was suckered.  (And I guess I have to rethink that "morons," as they managed to temporarily sucker me.)

Throughout this encounter, my rational self kept telling my riled up, identity stolen self, that this was a scam. But I entered into some sort of zombie apocalypse fugue state and, even though my rational self kept telling me to hang the f up, I stayed on the call.

The only even vaguely similar experience I've ever had occurred when I was 16 and a newly minted driver. At 6:30 a.m., on my first solo outing in the family car, I dropped my brother off at the Tatnuck Country Club, where he was a caddy. There was one other car in the parking lot, a yellow something or other that belonged to Ron G, the assistant pro and caddy master.

As I made my turn in the (large, empty) parking lot, my rational brain kept telling me that, at the angle I was heading, I was going to hit Ron G's yellow something or other. And yet I could not stop myself from making the turn and hitting Ron G's yellow something or other. I was going about 5 mph, so I didn't really do any harm. And Ron G was pretty nice about the incident. I don't think there was any insurance implication. (Maybe Tom remembers.) 

After all these decades, I still can fully recall my fugue state, slow-driving the family Galaxy 500 (Black Beauty - all our cars had names) into the one and only parked car in the Tatnuck C.C. parking lot. 

So it was that, in a similar suspension-of-rationality fugue state, I got scammed. 

At least I was smart enough to realize it before any damage - other than to my wounded ego - was done. 

I will admit that, on occasion, I have been suckered out of $10 on the street by someone with a good story. Whenever I gave someone a few bucks based on what is patently - or at least likely - a lie, I rationalize it as at least I heard a good (sob) story. In fact, I would often tell the person that I didn't believe him/her, but was giving them the money because of their storytelling ability. The only time I got annoyed at someone when they approached me twice in as many days - in the very same place - with the same bullshit story. I told him he needed to get a new territory, or at least learn to recognize his marks better. 

Anyway, I now feel like one of those little old ladies who, next thing you know it, will be sending money to Nigerian princes. Or something. 

At least "Justin" and "Carlos" got nothing for their troubles. And the phone number for the Zelle transfer - BOA3033042412Z - will now be flagged (and, thus, unusable) in the Bank of America and Zelle.

I'm not quite going to say "if it happened to me, it can happen to anyone." Even though that's what I'm vain enough to be thinking.

Be careful out there!