The Waiting Game

By

I hate waiting on the phone. It was bad enough being put on hold and being forced to listen to dreadful techno music and the occasional insincere recorded “voice reassurance message” all about how they value me and my business. Which no doubt is a form of electronic hell sarcasm. But now I am deluged with ads while I wait. Really and truly? I am calling customer service unhappy with your service and you want me to buy more? This is like the restaurant that offers a free dinner coupon to the customer who had food poisoning.

Is customer service getting worse than before? I know it is shipped offshore and that English is a second language for the operators. By the by, I personally admire anyone who can master a second language enough to deal with complaining whiners all day. Imagine listening to a day-full of Americans kvetching that their precious little electronics don’t work. And that they don’t like waiting in line to deal with it. Then they look out the window at the poverty in the city streets and wonder if any of us have a clue what waiting is really like. Waiting when there will never be food or clothes or shelter enough.

Yes, I get it. Waiting for customer service is a “first world” problem. But with all that in mind, I feel entitled to excellent customer service. Maybe entitled is the wrong word. Entitled is when you think the world owes you a living just because you are so darn cute, rich, and smart. I don’t feel entitled in that way. I feel that if the product label has a customer service phone number on the box, ad or on the commercial then it might behoove the producer of said service or item to provide great customer service. In fact, if I had money to take it to court I bet I would win a judgment that companies offering customer service are implying that the service experience is excellent and helpful.

Otherwise, how about a disclaimer? This product has a customer service number that is at best hit or miss. Or how about: We do shoddy and disrespectful to a tee. Or how about: We hire people with thick accents to annoy you, we make you wait to aggravate you, and basically we hope you hang up and just go out and buy another one of what is broken. Why? Because we work off numbers. We know if we sell one gizmo per person we don’t need repeat business. We think people are stupid. They buy what is on the shelf and they think we will support our product. Hardy-har-har.

Meanwhile when the first robot operator asks me which selection I want, I must answer verbatim. Otherwise the robot repeats itsself like an agitated fourth grade teacher. “Let’s try it again” or “I am not sure what you are saying”. I hope you all know now to scream into the phone “Agent” or “Operator” or “Representative”. Do that four or five times and Robo-Operater will turn you lose into the telephone queue for a real voice, albeit not in a language you can understand.

Okay, I can’t fight the system, but . . . how about using technology to lessen my agitation? I suggest that the music be customized. Just once I would like the digitized voice to ask me what kind of music I want. “Say the artist’s name and song you want, now.” Stevie Miller, Abracadabra; Nora Jones, Come Away with Me; Sting, Fields of Gold; or Crosby, Stills and Nash, Our House. I know the technology is there. And yes they might have to pay royalties, but I would be so very happy and not yell at your operators when they ask me in broken English, “What are the four digits of the password you are requesting to retrieve.” That’s right, I know the four digits of my password. I just wanted to wait twenty minutes to talk to someone from another country today. Grrrrrr.

Sally Franz is a former stand-up comedian, motivational speaker, and radio host. She is a twice-divorced mother of two and a grandmother of three. Sally has a degree in gerontology and several awards for humor writing. She is the author of Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey
and The Baby Boomers Guide to Menopause.