Is there any crummier come-on than the “free trial?”
They are everywhere. The History Channel suggests I enjoy the dusty reels in its “History Vault” gratis. And then, having utterly forgotten about the History Vault, the History Channel will start charging me $4.99 a month every month until some years from now when I finally notice the line item on my credit card bill.
Hulu gives you the first month free, and then the meter starts quietly running. Microsoft 365 is free for a month and then $99.99 (not $100, mind you) for the year. Ancestry.com assures us, “There’s no risk. You’ll only be billed if you decide to keep your membership after your free trial.” But look at the words in the small font, and it is clear the company isn’t counting on you deciding to stay on. It’s counting on you to forget to end the autorenewals that await. “You will be charged the full amount of your chosen membership price on expiry of the free trial,” the fine print states, “unless you cancel at least 2 days before the end of your free trial.” Those insufficiently vigilant could find themselves paying $49.99 (not $50, mind you) every month.
I’m reminded of the scene in the gonzo Blues Brothers movie from 1980 when Jake and Elwood are told they owe a $300 bar bill at the end of their gig at Bob’s Country Bunker. “Uh, well, like when we first came in,” Elwood says, “uh, the bar lady never charged us for the first round, so, like, we figured, you know, beer was, like, complimentary for the band, you know.” “Ha, ha, no, no, uh-uh, uh-uh,” says Bob, the bar owner.
The whole “free trial” business long ago came to have a bad odor. The respectable-sounding Edison Phonograph brand had to protest (and protest too much) that it wasn’t scamming people. In the aughts, full-page magazine ads for the record players shouted, “FREE TRIAL! under the kindly countenance of F.K. Babson, chief shill for Edison Phonograph Distributors.” This was Babson’s pitch: “Read every word of my offer, see if you can imagine an offer more generous, more liberal, without my actually giving away the Phonograph.” Below that was an endorsement: “The Editor knows this offer is genuine.” It was signed, “THE EDITOR.”
In the blizzard of come-on copy that followed, we are urged a dozen times to avail ourselves of the phonograph for two weeks gratis. The ad never said how much the record player cost if one decided to keep it.
By the way, should you want to learn more about Thomas Edison, Edmund Morris’s biography of the inventor is available on Amazon as an audiobook — “Free with your Audible trial.”
Come the 1970s, the free trial had evolved into something that more closely resembles the free-at-first gimmicks so common today. The preeminent example was the ubiquitous Columbia House record club. Upfront, one was sent a set of records for next to nothing in exchange for being billed every couple of weeks for some obscure vinyl the person had no interest in. The key to the scheme was to send bills for products that hadn’t yet been sent. If the bill wasn’t rejected, and lightning-fast at that, the product would be shipped, and the bill would become binding.
That nasty little arrangement was called “negative option billing,” and the free trials of today are not generally so mercenary. They don’t have to be. Teenagers in the 1970s didn’t have credit cards to register with Columbia House. But now, our every expense goes on plastic, which makes recurring charges smooth, frictionless, and nearly invisible.
SiriusXM, Shutterstock, Tableau, Amazon Prime, BroadwayHD, Dropbox Business, WordStream, Wrike, VideoScribe, Final Fantasy XIV: There is a seemingly endless list of programs and services that would love to give you free product and content. Just be sure to cancel well ahead of the deadline because pleading for mercy after the charges have kicked in is likely to be met with the immortal words of the Country Bunker’s Bob himself: “Ha, ha, no, no, uh-uh, uh-uh.”
Eric Felten is the James Beard Award-winning author of How’s Your Drink?
