Customer Service?

Customer service:  Oxymoron?  Two words that sound as if they belong together, but, all too often, they clash.  Or you clash – with them.

We’ve all been there.  You call for an appointment and get a surly receptionist whose quest in life is to make your life miserable.  You call a company with a question and go away without an answer and feeling considerably more stupid than before you made the call.

Or you call with a legitimate complaint or gripe and the person whose job it is to deal with you absolutely infuriates you.

It HAS happened to you, right?

And it isn’t just people on the phone – whether you have called them or they have called you – that drive you crazy.  I was at the orthopedist’s office once with a broken leg.  The nurse, without bothering to look up, said, “Which leg is it?”  “The one in the cast,” I replied.

Recently I went to the Social Security Office where one of my friends got into a screaming match with the staff a few months back to clear up a problem (my problem, since SS declared I owed them $3500).  You shuffle in, state the reason you are there so you can get a number and sit in the waiting room for an indeterminate amount of time, until some poor civil servant decides to be less than civil with you.  Meanwhile, you wait, watching more people shuffle in, forms in hand, not knowing what they should be doing, and listen as they call out every number – except yours.  I had a number that started with the letter A (I know, A is not a number, but this is our government at work), so, naturally, they only called numbers starting with the letter B for the longest time.  Finally, the As came up, and a succession of people were called into an office to speak with a representative.  At last it was my turn.  “You need to change your name?” the rep inquired.  Well, I don’t think so, wondering if he knew something about me that I didn’t know.  He looked genuinely perturbed when I explained I was there to appeal a decision I didn’t find so appealing.  But I was smart.  I used a tactic that is rarely employed by either side but which I have found works nearly every time.  I was nice.

“When I came down to apply for Social Security, a very nice woman here who helped me told me this situation might come up, so I have contacted my former employer and have a special form and have filled out the appeal,” I explained.  Mr. Dour lightened up considerably, especially after hearing that one of his colleagues was nice to me.  Would he want to look like the bad guy?  (Of course, this could be risky, since this may be the person he hates most in the office and will do anything to undermine her, but I took the risk!)  Twenty minutes later, the rep had filled out my on-line file in four different ways to try to resolve the case.  It’s still pending, but I remain hopeful and undeterred from my nice-guy strategy.

There isn’t always a happy ending, of course.  You get those annoying calls from people who swear they aren’t trying to sell you something – even though you are on the Do Not Call list.  I ask them if they work for a non-profit or if their company is in business to make money.  If that is the case, I explain that calling me violates the DNC law and I can turn them in.  If they are dumb enough, they either can’t answer the question, hang up because they are afraid of breaking the law, or just don’t want to deal with a lunatic: Me.

Once I stayed on the line to speak with a representative to remove my name from the list and I and tried that tact.  He began swearing at me and suggested that I perform certain physical acts that I am pretty sure are impossible to do.  Instead of hanging up, I just goaded him.  “You have quite an impressive vocabulary,” I said.  “Did you get special training to speak to customers like that or is that a skill that comes naturally?”  “Do your parents know what you do for a living?  They must be so proud,” I continued.

I just started an on-line bank account and needed to transfer money from an account elsewhere to get the new account funded.  I try to do as much of this stuff as I can on-line and without having to call someone, but the old bank wouldn’t recognize the new bank’s routing number.  When I called the old bank – another hint here: Call late in the evening, when the waiting times are short and the reps have time to actually speak with you – they said I had to e-mail the question.  So why are they answering the phone, I wondered?  Anyway, I did that, waited for days for a reply, and finally called the new bank to figure out how to resolve the issue.  The new bank guy – Carlton (not Carlton the doorman from “Rhoda,” I assume) – had the problem solved while we spoke.  “Any time you have a problem, call us,” he said, sounding like he meant it.  “That’s what we are here for.”  Yeah, I know, but when does this work out, I didn’t say, biting my tongue.

When my old dryer was cleaned out but smelled like something was burning, I called the company that did the cleaning and they insisted it was fine.  The dryer nearly caught fire and ultimately I had to replace it.  Thanks for THAT helpful customer service.  When it was time to replace my washing machine, I did plenty of research and at least knew what features I wanted on the new model.  I tried a couple of big box stores, but I found the staff disinterested or not all that knowledgeable.  So I followed the advice of one of my BFFs, who always gets her appliances at a little place in Bridgewater called Barry’s.  Sure enough, the sales guy there could not have been more helpful.  We looked at virtually every model in the place, while he explained the features and found one that met my requirements.  He threw in new hoses and scheduled the delivery, which went off without a hitch.  In turn, I recommended Barry’s to another friend who had a similarly great experience, and now she and her parents will not buy appliances anywhere else. 

So the other day I had a headlight burn out on my old 1997 Mercedes (Gracie, for those of you who remember my essay on her several years ago).  Normally, I take the car to the Lube Connection, which, by the way, does a great job with oil changes and minor service; I drive in, and by the time I reach the office, they have already have my account on the computer and are ready to serve me.  But the last time this happened, I had to get the bulb from Mercedes, so I figured I’d go to the Parts department before heading over to Lube Connection.  I just assumed I would need an appointment for service at Mercedes and that would take weeks, so my plan was to get the bulb and be on my way.  I walked into Mercedes’  cool and comfy service area and was immediately greeted by Courtney, a smiling young woman who asked how she could help.  I explained the situation, prepared to get my bulb, but she said, “Have a seat and we’ll take a look at it for you.”  Really? I thought, admiring the coffee bar and pastries in the waiting area. 

Sure enough, they took a look, fixed the light, didn’t try to sell me any other parts or service and, most amazing, THEY DIDN’T CHARGE ME!   She even sent me on my way with a bottle of water because, she insisted, “it is really hot out today.” I report this with incredulity because this is the same place where, a number of years ago, I was told by phone that they could schedule Gracie for an oil change in 12 weeks.  “Twelve weeks for an oil change?” I replied.  “I can get an appointment with my oncologist in less than 12 weeks.”  But here’s the catch, according to the always grumpy woman who worked the service desk at that time – I wasn’t a customer, because I had bought the car elsewhere. 

This incident prompted a letter to everyone in the Mercedes food chain asking for the definition of a customer.  After all, I explained, all of the service for that car had been done for years at that dealership.  Did that not make me a customer?  Wouldn’t I be more inclined to buy my car from the local dealer next time if I had experienced great customer service?  According to their line of reasoning, a Mercedes owner had better not relocate from California to New Jersey and expect to have his or her car serviced, I noted.

I stopped taking the car to the dealer and didn’t return for years, until there was some major work needed.  By then, the service had improved considerably.  They gave me a Mercedes loaner (previously, they took you to a rental place for a car while yours was in the shop, and once I got stuck with a Ford Windstar Minivan that I could hardly hoist myself into to drive).  Today the grumpy lady is gone, replaced by a cheerful, helpful and genuinely nice young woman who, as it turns out, just happens to be a graduate of Douglass College.  (We like to say “Douglass Women are everywhere” and isn’t that proof?  Watch, I’ll have her in the Young Alumnae Network before she can say Mercedes Benz).  And, if today is an indication of what they have in store, I may just buy the Mercedes I am thinking of purchasing at Open Road Mercedes on Route 22 in Bridgewater.  All for providing an inexpensive part and some labor. 

Now that’s customer service!