By Blaine Harden
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, August 16, 1997
NEW YORK, Aug. 15, 1997 – I was slightly paranoid. What did the nameless, faceless and probably heartless bean counters of America have on me? What were they saying about my credit worthiness, and did they have it right?
A story in Friday's Washington Post said one of the country's largest credit companies was breaking new ground by selling people access to their own credit histories via the Internet.
Executives at Experian Inc. promised "secure access" protected by electronic encryption. They said they'd been testing it for several months and were comfortable that all privacy concerns had been addressed. The company's vice-president for consumer education enthused: "We can't stay in the Dark Ages."
With such fail-safe technology at my fingertips, who was I to sit in the dark?
I jumped on the World Wide Web this morning, paid my fee of $8.66 and punched in my distinguishing numbers (Social Security, American Express, date of birth, Visa, driver's license and home phone). The numbers would, the company said, protect me from the ravages of "unauthorized access."
As it turned out, Experian exposed my credit secrets to rather more light than I had bargained for.
One guy who saw my entire credit report—including my shameful Visa bill from October 1992 that was "delinquent 30 days"—was Kevin Lee Neal, a Post reader in Columbia.
He said he was curious this morning about his credit rating at about the same time I was. After getting on the Web, punching in all his distinguishing numbers and clicking his mouse on "Purchase," Neal was asked by Experian's Web site whether he would like to review his credit report again. Puzzled, he clicked onward. His computer screen displayed 14 pages of "Your credit history" that belonged to me.
How many other curious people perused my credit failings this morning, I do not know. In any case, Neal was troubled by what his computer showed him. He called a Post reporter to complain that the fail-safe system isn't, and said he would be willing to print out and fax along a credit report for some unknown person named Blaine Harden.
That fax found its way to me. Alarmed, I made another leap onto the Web. After again paying $8.66 and punching in all my distinguishing numbers, Experian soothed my anxiety with 18 pages of "Your credit history" that belonged to a guy in Plymouth, Mass. Now I know his date of birth, his wife's name and some intimate details of his financial condition.
And now I am more than slightly paranoid.
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