I Know A Guy

is 15% a big enough tip to stanch the bleeding?

In many parts of the developing world, there’s a familiar figure known simply as the fixer.

But before I tell you about that person, I need to tell you about Zeno’s Paradox.

My therapist brought it up once. Not to teach me the paradox — I’d heard it before — but to make a point about problem-solving. The story goes like this:

There’s a man standing at the edge of a room, trying to walk to the other side. Easy enough. But first he has to get halfway there. Before he can go halfway, he has to get a quarter of the way. Before that, an eighth. Then a sixteenth. Then a thirty-second. Each step is smaller than the last, but there’s always one more to take. Always another fraction of space to cross.

By the logic of it, he should never arrive. In fact, he should never even begin. There are an infinite number of steps between him and the other side of the room.

And if you have to complete infinity to get anywhere… how does anyone ever move at all?

Zeno’s original point — in his roundabout, Greek-philosopher way — was that motion is an illusion.

My therapist’s point was different. He was trying to show me that sometimes, solving a problem requires stepping outside the mental framework that created it.

As I recall, what I said made him roll his eyes.

“That’s not much of a paradox,” I told him. “I’d just get up, walk across the room, and write proof by counterexample on the wall.”

He (correctly) noted that my need for his approval was making me act like a smug adolescent pretending to miss the point.

Still, I maintain: I wasn’t wrong. Obtuse, but correct.

Mathematics is the only human language that gives us real certainty, and a counterexample is a perfectly legitimate way to kill a theory dead.

Now—back to the fixer.

This person isn’t officially part of the system — not a bureaucrat, not a manager — but they know how the system works, and more importantly, how to move through it. For a fee, they’ll grease the wheels: expedite your paperwork, bypass a bottleneck, make sure your form lands on the right desk with the right kind of smile.

The fixer doesn’t guarantee success. They guarantee access. And in a broken system, that’s enough.

Just like Zeno’s paradox, some systems are best solved by stepping outside them entirely.

And I think the fixer is coming to the U.S.

Not in name, and not right away. But we’re laying the groundwork — socially, economically, psychologically — for that kind of role to emerge. Quietly at first. Then openly. Maybe even proudly.

You can already feel the cultural pressure coalescing: tip fatigue meets degraded service meets desperation for one person who can actually help.

Tipping isn’t about service anymore. It’s compulsory. The little screen spins around, and you’re expected to fork over 18% just to pick up your own food. Not dine-in. Not delivery. Just pick up.

And you’ll pay it, because you know — you know — someone will spit in your food if you hit “No Tip.”

In what world does a self-service kiosk ask for gratuity?

This one.

Meanwhile, customer service has quietly gone to hell. Half the time you’re talking to a bot. The other half, you're talking to someone who clearly resents your existence. Nobody knows anything. Nobody can help.

And if you do get a competent, polite, knowledgeable human being? It’s like spotting a unicorn in a Target uniform.

Case in point (the first): I recently decided to stop offering international shipping for my art prints. If someone really wants it, they can email me and I’ll figure it out case by case. But the time cost of customs forms, code lookups, and VAT workarounds just isn’t worth it. So I asked for a Stripe support call to help update my shipping settings.

I was perfectly clear: “I have six products in my catalog. For each one, I selected five countries from Stripe’s shipping options. I’ve now decided to stop offering international shipping, and I need to know how to uncheck four of them.”

The woman I spoke with was either profoundly stupid, locked into a script, or both.

She asked how I sell my products.

“Through Stripe payment links.”

“No, how do customers find you? On your social media website?”

“That doesn’t matter. I just need to alter the shipping settings.”

“I can’t help you until you tell me the answer.”

“I have a Substack, but it’s irrelevant. I need to uncheck four of the five boxes I checked on Stripe in Stripe’s shipping settings when I added the products to the Stripe product catalog.”

“Stripe has nothing to do with shipping.”

“Yes, it does. I need help unchecking boxes in Stripe — the ones I checked in Stripe to generate my Stripe payment links.”

“If you want to make a blocklist of countries you won’t ship to, that’s not something we help with.”

“I’m not making a blocklist. I just need to edit the product catalog shipping settings.”

“Stripe has nothing to do with your shipping policies.”

I asked to speak to someone else. She said no. Flatly. “You can’t speak to someone else until you follow my instructions.”

What instructions?

To accept that Stripe has nothing to do with shipping.

(I solved it myself by creating all new payment links. If you want international shipping of prints, we’ll figure it out. Just email me.)

Compare that to the first time I got Stripe support: a young guy called me. He was sharp, fast, pleasant. Didn’t overexplain, didn’t condescend, didn’t waste time. He just fixed it.

Honestly? If he’d told me I could Venmo him $100 a month to make sure he was the one who picked up the phone every time, I’d have done it.

I’d still do it.

Case in point (the second): I started getting authorization texts from Verizon I hadn’t asked for. That’s always a bad sign, so I changed my password and called them.

No matter how I explained it, the agent — from some godforsaken call center in a shithole country¹ where pretending to do this job makes you rich — could not grasp the timeline.

He kept saying, “You’re getting the texts because you called us.”

“No, sir. I am calling because of the texts. The texts came first. The texts preceded the call in time. I got the texts, then, later, I called you.”

That is a direct quote.

It was not enough.

Verizon did nothing. My account was in fact penetrated. Multiple expensive items were ordered on my Verizon credit.

And…they still are.

Verizon now calls me every few days to ask if I placed an order. I didn’t. They know I didn’t. I know they know I didn’t. They just can’t stop it, because the problem is on their end. They let the criminals in.

It’s gotten so bad that my voicemail now says:

“You’ve reached Holly’s phone. If this is Verizon Wireless calling, NO, I did NOT order anything. The orders are ALL fraudulent. I have placed ZERO ORDERS. I have not moved from Vermont. I have not placed ANY ORDERS AT ALL to be delivered ANYWHERE. ZERO of the orders are legitimate. I have not placed ANY ORDERS AT ALL.”

This morning, I checked my voicemail.

One was from Verizon, asking — in a thick godforsaken-shithole accent — if I had ordered two iPhones to Kentucky.

We are Third Worldifying so fast that stepping outside the system may be the only way to function inside it.

So here’s my prediction: we’re headed for a world of unofficial fees and unofficial roles, just to get basic functionality from institutions that used to work.

You won’t be able to call it a bribe — not in America. Maybe it’ll be rebranded as a loyalty perk. An access tier. “Service Assurance Plus.”

Eventually, companies might offer it directly.

But it’ll start off-the-books. With the underpaid. With people working customer service jobs who need to make rent.

And what it really will be is a fixer fee.

And in a few years, no one will blink.

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1. I said what I said.