This started as a quick errand to buy a book. It ended with jazz-fueled madness and one of the worst customer service loops I’ve ever endured…
Lunch had been good. Hopeful, even. The kind of lunch where you wipe your hands, lean back, and feel like tackling a small, manageable task, like buying a book written by a colleague. I clicked over to Amazon to do just that.
And that’s when it hit me.
The number.
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Months ago, my phone number had been hacked and then retired by my carrier. That’s apparently what they do when your digits have been hijacked and used for shady things. They don’t fix it. They retire it — like it’s a washed-up Vegas lounge singer.
Since then, I’ve been stuck in a long, grinding saga of updating that number across every single platform I’ve ever touched. Some sites? Easy. Quick. Done. Others? Painful. But none—none—have come close to the nightmare that is Amazon.
Because Amazon won’t let me log in without sending a One-Time Passcode (OTP) to the retired number. The one I don’t have. And that’s it. That’s the only option. You either magically summon your dead number or get locked out.
It rerouted me like a GPS in a cornfield.
So I turned to the one true remaining tool: public rage.
“@AmazonHelp How the hell does a trillion-dollar company make it impossible to change a phone number? I’m locked out, your chatbot is useless, and there’s ZERO human help. This isn’t customer service — it’s customer torture. FIX. YOUR. SYSTEM.”
#AmazonFail #CustomerServiceHell #UXnightmare
While clicking around in the chat history, I found a forgotten callback link from a chat I’d had with a real person months ago. I clicked it.
A miracle: I got a human on the line.
Twelve minutes later, though? Nothing. We were still circling the OTP drain. To make things worse, I was serenaded with a 2-minute Charlie Parker jazz loop blasted on repeat like I was trapped in a jazz-themed escape room.
Eventually, the agent gave up and transferred me.
Five more minutes of hold music.
Then a new agent, followed by ten more minutes of scripted troubleshooting.
Finally:
“We’re going to have a different department email you. In the next 24 hours. Maybe. Then you’ll upload a photo of your driver’s license. If that checks out, we might be able to remove the two-factor lock so your new number works.”
Cool.
Then this little gem popped up from @AmazonHelp:
“Hi there! We’re sorry for the issue you’re experiencing with your account. For Two-Step Verification Issues, the following help page can be used for account recovery: https://amzn.to/44Da2P2. We hope this helps! – Sarah”
Thanks, Sarah.
I already went down that dead-end hallway.
So here I stand (at my standing desk).
Still locked out.
Still bookless.
Still involuntarily humming Charlie Parker.
And still living the slow-motion nightmare of changing a phone number everywhere it ever mattered.
