Several days ago, I called up my cable and internet provider. I had previously received a cryptic warning about changes that would take place on a certain date and the equipment I would receive to allow for these marvelous changes to occur. When the day of reckoning had almost arrived and no equipment arrived, I felt I had no choice but to do the unthinkable. I would call my service provider up on the telephone.
This may sound like a normal activity. I simply dial a number and I talk to a human being for a few minutes and communication occurs. I remember when I still believed in such things. Ah, those were the days. Back when the cable guy would be sent to your house and install stuff and adjust things and telephone calls were answered by human beings or at least what sounded like human beings. Wasn’t that an amazing time?
But now is not that time. After dialing the number, I was greeted by the robo-voice giving me options in Spanish and English and so began my odyssey. First in line was the repair/technical journey. And this was the most straightforward part of the adventure. They had contacted me. They had told me what they were going to do. They were upgrading the speed of my connection and so they had to send me higher speed equipment to take advantage of this upgrade. And since my present equipment wouldn’t function after the change date, they had promised to send me the magical new equipment. But where was this new equipment? What had intervened to prevent my reaching the promised land of higher speed data transfer?
So, I selected Technical. And then the dreaded canned music began. It was as stultifyingly boring as anything I have ever heard. After a mere ten minutes my skin was crawling and I could feel my resolve slipping away. I was tempted to hang up and call back later. But I knew the foolishness of such a cowardly act. After all this was just the first round in what I knew must be an epic struggle to retain consciousness. I persevered and after a reasonable twenty-minute wait I was speaking to a real live person. And it was someone who sounded normal. A woman who spoke English and was polite and understood what I was asking her. It was too good to be true. She understood exactly what was supposed to have happened and she only put me on hold for ten minutes while she reviewed the facts of my case. I was ecstatic. But what a fool I was. When she got back, she was noticeably saddened. She informed me that because my contract was very old the changes proposed could not be performed without transferring me to Billing.
My heart sank. I had never been transferred to billing without suffering exasperation or even rage. I have mocked and shouted at billing operators on numerous occasions. I think it’s part of their training. Here I was thirty-five minutes into the journey and I was being thrown off the parapet and into the dungeon. I could hear in her voice just how guilty Technical felt. It was as if she had given me a death sentence. I said resignedly, “Okay transfer me.” And the music began again.
I waited about five minutes. It’s much easier to get through to Billing than Technical. Then again nobody really wants to speak to Billing. The people there are petulant, easily flustered, impolite and not very helpful. Several times while I attempted to explain what I needed I was cut off by the rep. And each time it was clear she misunderstood the situation. Finally, after several system queries, she believed my side of what needed to be done. She must update my contract to allow the normal equipment shipping order to go through. The only thing that needed to be done to accomplish the update was to add five cable channels to my selections. I told her to select them at random. I didn’t care because I wouldn’t be watching them anyway. But in an almost gleeful announcement, she told me that only a Specialist could approve the additional channels. I would have to be transferred yet again.
I don’t think I cried out. I think I staggered back a step or two. I choked out the words, “Then transfer me.” And the elevator music started up again. I was a solid hour into the call and I knew that the wait for a specialist would be something between twenty-five and thirty-five minutes. I put the phone down on a table and set it to speaker. I stared out the window on a sunny fall morning turning quickly to afternoon. Camera Girl walked by and heard the music and understood what was going on. I could see she felt for me as a true and loyal wife should.
After the requisite half hour, the Specialist made her presence felt. And she really was special. She needed no information from me. She methodically laid out the actions that she would take and the results that would follow. She apologized for the problem and assured me that the upgrade would improve my service by a speed increase of 50%. I was off the call in about two minutes.
An hour and a half. This is the nature of our relationship to the companies that supposedly connect us to the world. They erect barriers that punish their customers to avoid communication at all costs. Remarkable.
And now I am faced with another equally maddening customer service nightmare. My oil company also provides service on my heating system. Or in theory they do. A few days ago, we noticed that there wasn’t any hot water. Because it’s been so warm for the last few days, we hadn’t noticed that the heating system wasn’t working. I went into the basement and watched what was going on with the furnace. When it called for heat the system went through its cycle but when it reached the point where the oil pump turned on it made an awful grinding noise and failed. I called up the service number and told them what was happening. They said they’d send a technician within from four to nine hours. None hours later one showed up and after a couple of hours he had the system running again. Apparently, a set screw had come loose in the coupling between the motor and the pump.
Hurrah, the system works. Slowly, maybe, but it worked. Then this morning, no hot water. Wonderful. Well, no shower but the promised four to nine hours later (well let’s just call it ten hours) the same tech is back. But the news is bad. Now it’s a part that they don’t stock. And it’s the weekend. And now I’m annoyed. An hour ago, I hear the circulation loop running in the living room. I run to the basement and see that somehow the heating system is running. I run upstairs and manage a hot shower. I’ve beaten the system, at least for tonight. The weekend is sure to bring more tales of woe from the oil company. Like the cable company they are there to make my life awful. But this is the nature of the dysfunctional world we live in. Customer service is a euphemism for customer abuse. For them customers are supposed to be kept at arm’s length and prevented from costing anything more than the absolute minimum. The idea that customer satisfaction is something that these corporations should strive for is laughable.
In both cases my providers are literally the only game in town. Monopoly compels me to make the best of a bad situation. Tomorrow I’ll install the new internet and cable devices. I’m sure there will be numerous snafus. And tomorrow I’ll begin negotiations with the oil company’s tech manager. One way or another we’ll get something going. And that’s the reality of life in Joe Biden’s America. Satisfied customers are a thing of the past. Now it’s stand in line and stop complaining if you know what’s good for you. Welcome comrades. Enjoy the hold music. Next!
