Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
If you’ve approached any customer service people lately, you’ve probably noticed that they don’t always like you. It’s nothing personal, just a condition of employment.
Even so, I’m grateful for any opportunity to spar with a live local human who can berate me in
English. Fighting with a recording, the Internet, or a Mongolian sheepherder who takes calls on the side isn’t nearly as satisfying. Take my dad’s TV reception problem, for instance.
My father is a patient, mild-mannered sweetie pie, until his sports channels stop working. Then he sprouts fangs and his knuckles need Nair. When he calls for help, he wants the problem handled like it’s Armageddon or Brad leaving Angelina for Jen. But the days of calling Bob, the TV guy down the block, who understood matters of life-or-death, are long gone. Today, we call India.
Now in his 80s, my dad’s hearing doesn’t lend itself to scratchy international phone connections and New Delhi accents. He’ll only repeat “I can’t understand what you’re saying” about 30 times before the steam escaping from his ears trips the smoke alarm.
That’s when I take over, just in time to find out that a visit from a service technician will cost $90 and a new remote will run $20. I politely protest that my sweet, lovable dad didn’t break their service or remote, so he really shouldn’t be charged anything to fix them.
But the rep won’t budge. He knows we’re powerless. Except for my wishful fantasy about a plague of locusts invading this guy’s underwear, nothing enjoyable has come of all this wasted civility. After several “please holds” and getting nowhere, the calm and polite approach clearly isn’t cutting it. So, I try painting a clearer picture using different words in another octave.
“Only a satanic sadist would extort that kind of money from a weary World War II veteran and law-abiding feeder of stray cats, who pays his bills on time AND MIGHT SWITCH TO CABLE!” I scream—as calmly as possible.
The rep takes a deep breath and tells me to “please hold.” About 20 minutes later, we realized he hung up and forgot to say goodbye.
Come to think of it, my encounters with local service reps haven’t been going much better lately. A couple of weeks ago, an exterminator showed up while I was feeding my vacationing
neighbor’s dog. My neighbor hadn’t told me to expect someone wearing green rubber gloves and toting a shiny metal canister of bug killer, but he marched right in and started misting everything in sight like he owned the place.
He didn’t say hello, unless that juicy snort was a greeting. So I followed him around making conversation, like any potential customer would. You know, expecting a little charm.
Me: “That stuff smells kind of odd.”
Him: “You can’t smell it. It’s odorless and nontoxic.”
Me: “Funny, the dog just passed out. What’s in it?”
Him: “It don’t matter unless you lick the baseboards, lady. Yankees like to do that.”
Me: “Thanks. I’ll try to remember.”
Moments later, he was gone. He didn’t even ask if I needed my house sprayed. I don’t, but there’s this place in India where I’d love to send him.
Jan A. Igoe considers herself fortunate to work on a computer powered by her friendly electric cooperative, where the member service reps are always gracious. Thanks to these refreshingly helpful folks, her knuckles almost never need shaving.