Error Code: Human
The day a machine decided I might not be real.
It started with an email. Just one line: Action Required.
I know better than to open those. We all do. But this one had my name in the subject line, and it was from my bank, and the logo looked right. So I clicked.
It took me to a page that looked like my bank, but the URL was slightly off. I noticed it too late. I typed in my password.
The screen refreshed.
Invalid Credentials.
I tried again.
Invalid.
Then the lockout.
For your security, this account has been temporarily suspended. Please call the number below.
That was Tuesday at 9:00 AM.
I’m still trying to fix it on Thursday.
This isn’t a story about the scam. I know how that part ends. I called the real bank. I verified my identity. I answered the security questions about my first car and my mother’s maiden name. I did everything right.
But now I’m in the system.
When you get flagged by a security algorithm, you stop being a customer. You become a risk variable. You become a ticket number.
And the system doesn’t care that I need to pay my rent on Friday.
It doesn’t care that I’m sitting at my kitchen table with a cold cup of coffee, staring at the phone like it’s something fragile I might break just by touching it.
It only cares that something about me no longer matches its expectations.
I spent four hours on hold over two days.
Four hours.
There is a specific psychology to hold music. It is designed to keep you calm, but it does the opposite. It makes you aware of every second passing. It makes you aware that your time no longer belongs to you.
A cheerful saxophone loop plays in my ear.
Every thirty seconds, the voice returns.
“All of our agents are busy. Please continue to hold.”
I started counting.
Forty-seven times in one hour.
Forty-seven promises that someone was coming.
Forty-seven reminders that no one was.
I finally reached someone on Wednesday.
Her name was Maria.
She sounded exhausted. Behind her, I could hear the low murmur of hundreds of other conversations, hundreds of other people trying to explain themselves.
She asked me to confirm my name.
My address.
My date of birth.
She paused while she typed.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I don’t have permission to resolve this. This is handled by the security department.”
“Can you transfer me?”
“I can’t transfer you. You’ll need to call the number on the back of your card.”
“I am calling the number on the back of my card.”
There was a silence.
Not an empty silence. A human silence. I could hear her breathing. She knew what I meant. She knew I was trapped in the loop.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
That was the worst part.
Anything else.
No.
There is nothing else.
This is the thing.
You have frozen my life, and you are asking if I would like assistance with something smaller.
I hung up.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue.
I didn’t have the energy.
The system promises security.
And technically, it delivered.
My money is safe.
No one stole it.
Instead, it locked me out of it.
It protected the asset by removing access from the owner.
From the bank’s perspective, this is success.
A threat was detected. A risk was contained. Protocol was followed.
From my perspective, it is failure.
Because a system that protects the money but abandons the person is not working.
It is only completing its checklist.
We talk about artificial intelligence as if it is something waiting in the future.
But it is already here.
It decides who gets flagged.
Who gets approved.
Who gets delayed.
Who gets ignored.
And when it gets it wrong, there is no apology.
There is only the process.
Press 1 for English.
Press 2 for Spanish.
Press 3 to hear these options again.
There is no option for I am scared.
There is no option for I need help now.
There is no option for I am real.
I finally reached someone again on Thursday morning.
8:03 AM.
The first call of the day.
His voice was flat, neutral.
“I can reset your access,” he said. “But you’ll need to verify your identity at a physical branch.”
“I live two hours from the nearest branch.”
“That’s the available option.”
“Can I upload identification?”
“Not for this level of security.”
Not for this level of security.
The system did not trust my voice.
It did not trust my answers.
It did not trust the information it already had.
It required my body.
Four hours of driving.
Gas.
Time off work.
All to confirm something I already knew.
That I am myself.
The system is working.
It followed the rules.
It identified risk.
It enforced verification.
Nothing is broken.
And that is the problem.
Because I lost days of my life.
I lost sleep.
I lost certainty.
I lost trust in something I am required to trust.
I will drive to the branch tomorrow.
I will bring my license.
I will stand in line.
I will wait again.
Someone will look at my face.
Someone will type something into a keyboard.
And somewhere, deep inside a server I will never see, the flag beside my name will disappear.
The error will clear.
My access will return.
Everything will look normal again.
But something will have changed.
I will know how easily I can disappear.
How quickly a system can decide that I am no longer valid.
How hard it is to prove something as simple as existence.
The system was not designed to trust me.
It was designed to trust itself.
I was never the authority on who I am.
I was only the input.
Only the variable.
Only the possibility of an error.
Error Code: Human.
About the Creator
Edward Smith
Health,Relationship & make money coach.Subscibe to my Health Channel https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCkwTqTnKB1Zd2_M55Rxt_bw?sub_confirmation=1 and my Relationship https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCogePtFEB9_2zbhxktRg8JQ?sub_confirmation=1
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