Monopolies and Powerlessness

For the work I do in Hollywood, there is a certain industry directory I have to be in (“have to” meaning, “massively professionally hindered if I refuse”).  It’s a terribly run service, but the fact that everyone uses it means everyone must use it.

In particular, I recently found one of the service’s billing policies to be disingenuous bordering on fraudulent.  Which, you know, made me mad.  So I wrote a strongly worded letter to them telling them so.

I hit “send” on the email, and immediately felt a frisson of apprehension.  Because this particular directory?  I need them way more than they need me.  I may be a paying customer, but them dropping me from their service would be a far worse outcome for me than me leaving the service would be for them.  Other directories exist, but the fact that it’s an industry standard gives this one a de facto monopoly.

So I started to get a little bit nervous about having sent that letter, and that got me even angrier.  Because I shouldn’t feel like I can’t complain about terrible-bordering-on-fraudulent billing practices.  I shouldn’t feel like I can’t speak up when a service I am paying for makes me unhappy.  It’s bad enough that I have to pay money to a service I don’t like because of the other people who use it rather than because the service itself is well-run, that I have to accept an absolutely frustrating user experience and a badly put together system—but to feel powerless on top of it, to feel like there’s any reason I can’t or shouldn’t speak up, is awful.

And yeah, probably nothing will happen.  My letter wasn’t rude or profane, and I wouldn’t think a professional company would kick me off their service for expressing dissatisfaction.  But on the other hand, if I were very upset, how far would I feel comfortable going?  Would I file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau?  If they did something horribly egregious, would I feel comfortable taking legal action against them?  In this scenario, I won’t be doing either of those things; I’m not at that level of unhappiness with them and plus I’m a lazy slacker.  But if I were that angry . . . would I?  Because there’s still the troubling fact that I need them a lot more than they need me.

This experience hasn’t been all that big of a deal, but the emotions of it gave me a certain empathy for anti-monopoly and pro-union sentiments.^[1]  Because even in this very minor example, I don’t like feeling I must put up with whatever this company feels like doing, and I hate having the suspicion that it’s riskier to me to speak up about it than it is for them to stomp on their customers with sleazy policies.  I can’t imagine being in a position in which those poles were intensified, in which I had even less power, in which I suffered a greater risk if I stood up—risk of job, of livelihood, of supporting a family, of physical well-being—or in which the company in question were more evil or more aggressive about screwing over its customers or employees.  It’s a terrifying thought.