Fido, my cell phone carrier, is a minefield. They are hostage-takers and robber-barons. Some of this is exaggeration, but it’s rooted in truth. Everyone with a cellphone has a horror story. At the very least it’s whenever they check their monthly bill.

(Pexels / Max Fischer)

Black Friday is a period of mania that comes over the population (George A. Romero is a prophet of our time) in November, thanks to U.S. Thanksgiving. For as much willpower as we think we have, sometimes the deals are too enticing. I didn’t want to be yet another shopper stuck in a snaking line at the phone store for hours. The last time I did that was five years ago at the Fido store in Metrotown in Burnaby. There were queues in and out of the parkade then.

This time, I already had the new phone in my pocket while I stood in line. Unfortunately—and thanks to Fido—it was as good as a beautiful, fancy brick. All because of a kill-switch—a big, red button that said “do not press me.” More or less.

Some of the fault was my own, I grant you, but heed my warning: it could happen to you!

Fido was offering me last year’s (but still pretty snazzy) Google Pixel 7 for what amounted to very little change to my current contract. My phone, a Nokia 6.1, was still functional but it chugged in computing, stubborn in its old age—it worked on its own time, not yours. To the point it wasn’t worth how long it took to simply fact-check something online, over an inane conversation in a bar. I’d rather just go off my own memory and stay possibly misinformed.

Ordering the new phone online was free, whereas going into the Fido store came with a $60 setup fee. Basic math really determined the choice for me, except for the fact Fido never really wanted people to order online in the first place. After having an order cancelled, another placed, and that one cancelled yet again, I turned to speaking with a real person albeit over the phone. She placed the order for me (to nobody’s surprise, the order went through) but I was charged that $60 fee. It became apparent what kind of game we were playing here. The fact that it’s so transparent, so shameless, but there’s nothing you can do about it, is not a nice feeling.

With my new phone came an eSIM voucher, with a QR code and numbers on the back and everything, and instructions on how to change your physical SIM card to a virtual one. I followed the step-by-step instructions laid out on their website, and got to the part where it would deactivate my physical SIM. Like putting in and turning the keys to launch an ICBM from a nuclear submarine in one of those Cold War movies, it asked me to verify my identity and warned that once I pressed the button, there was no going back. That shouldn’t have been ominous. I had, what I thought, was my brand new eSIM in hand. I was embracing the future.

But it was troubling when my new Pixel 7 gave me an error message when trying to activate the Fido network by scanning the provided QR code. Can’t go backwards, and can’t go forward. I’d never broken a phone before. Never spiderwebbed a screen, or gotten a new phone out of necessity due to accident of negligence. But with a single click, I had finally done it.

I went from one perfectly adequate, working phone and its cool new replacement, to no working phone. I would need to receive verification texts from WhatsApp and Signal before I could tell all of my friends what had happened. Feeling like I was stuck in the ‘90s again was scary.

The next day, after over an hour on hold with customer support, my only recourse was to head down to the mall, brave traffic, and brave the queues—all the while knowing I would likely need to fork out the cash for a brand new SIM card. When it was my turn to go up, the person who helped me in the store sort of shrugged. It didn’t matter that the voucher for the eSIM didn’t work—effectively leading me to a dead end—and shouldn’t have even been included in the box.

It was a learning experience: if a cellphone company wants you in their store, they’ll get you in their store. I keep checking my account to see if they’re going to tack on an additional $60 for just coming near a Fido employee.