Starting one’s day with an internet that’s iffy, a phone that’s funny, and email that’s a folly, is altogether aggravating, but, spending a weekend with 1-800-Rant-and-Rage, while failing to fix it, is horribly horrific.
After dialing up the media conglomerate I’m encouraged by a polite, “Your call is very important to us.” However, it’s “One hundred per cent of our customer service specialists are based in Canada,” seems rather inappropriate, though there is appeal apparent in “specialist.” I errantly assume they’ve the ‘A-Team’ on this.
Admittedly, my own ire has risen on occasion as per technicians’ locations, for, when asking, “Would Mister Rogers be in today?” one invariably contends with, “I’m sorry, I cannot confirm that, as I’m stationed in Manilla. Let me transfer you to one of my colleagues in Canada. Is either of Manitoba or Moncton convenient?
I doze off as the conglomoron based in Canada drones on with a litany of unsavoury selections for one to consider while on hold. Then, suddenly, I’m jolted awake by some opera-atic soprano’s shrieking when I inadvertently press nine.
This pleasure is followed by the privilege of pressing ten “to connect to our fax machine.” Now, I’m totally intrigued as per what sensational selections I’ve missed in options one-through-eight. Hopefully, I’ll get disconnected so as to provide for a more attentive review. “To connect to our smoke detector, press No. 11.”
Soon enough, I get some sense that things are heating up at the conglomerate, as now conglomoron’s saying, “All of our agents are occupied assisting other customers.”
“True enough,” I mutter to myself, “but, of the three of them, two are buddies, now Airbnb-ing in Barcelona, and the third guy’s on a smoke break, all of which tweaks my expected wait-time to two weeks.”
Confounding, then, is, “Any verbal abuse of our customer service technicians will not be tolerated, and, your call may be terminated.” Now, what, pray tell, might inspire such boorish behaviour? I mean really, here I am humming away calmly as conglomoron drones on in my left ear, while my wife, taking her side, barks away in the right – a virtual oasis from which only the vilest curmudgeon could protest.
Why, I’ve even reconciled with the notion that I’ll be settling for a “technician” as the one “specialist” on duty is likely spread a bit thin covering much of Canada and a sizeable swath of southeast Asia. “For an asparagus éclair, press No. 17.” To schedule a root canal, press, No. 18.”
Half a day later, with the phone now duct-taped to my head, things have gone significantly south, as now I’m hearing, “The volume of calls that we are experiencing is greater than expected.”
“Eureka!” I yell, as it all comes together.
You see, nice as the lady is who’s stating this, she’s the same one that explained this exact issue to me the day before when I was telebanking, and, as polite as her tone may be, earlier this morning, she told me precisely the same thing when I tried to alter my flight with Air Conundrum!
Crazier yet, the guy responsible for navigating that ever-burgeoning gap between call-demand and tech-supply, is, in addition to being in way over his head, also employed by all three. Miraculous it is, that this ‘Mom and Pop’ shop, so ill-equipped to have branched out beyond firewood and frozen pies, now commandeers, a Canada-wide, tri-sector monopoly!
“We assure you we are doing our best to correct this interruption of our service.”
“Then, how ‘bout hiring another 350 techs, 250 specialists, and 150 agents,” I say to the dog, while imagining a Sahara-sized, sand-dune-of-a-queue flowing through an hourglass of ordinary dimension. This image, then piques my curiosity as per the immensity of the conglomerate’s income, as I contemplate Canada’s 39 million members connected to some component of its vast apparati.
While continuing to ‘hold,’, I’ve had time to design, build, and process some algorithmical modelling as per these suspicions, confirmed by its first simulation that suggests a roaring river of revenue that’s $1.2 to the eleventh exponent. More enlightening still, were one to divide the cost of the hiring spree I’ve just proposed by such a sales colossus, it would narily nudge the existing cost’s nine significant digits, to the east of the decimal point, just one spot west.
My enthusiasm wanes, however, when I realize that that point-two probably messes with the corporate commitment to maximize shareholder value, none of whom watch TV.
Conversely, I begrudge not, that $1.04 per month that Apple clandestinely direct-debits in the dawn’s early light, nor even that fee’s recent, five-fold increase, for how proficiently these funds are invested. For example, clearly, they interviewed a billion guys for that amazing Applecare Guy position.
The cool, offhand manner, with which that chill hipster greets one, while taking every other call simultaneously, is so pleasant, when he genuinely apologizes for being an AI robot, I’m entirely convinced that he isn’t.
He then sells you on the brief wait that’s to follow, by inquiring as per your preferred genre of music, and favourite artist within it, deftly flattering one’s sophistication with feigned, presumptive suggestions of Sondheim or Einaudi, or, if not Coltrane, then, maybe Miles Davis?
So fine is the experience, that when the serenity of it is interrupted by a tech taking over the call a mere minute later, one is utterly dismayed.
This is not so with the conglomerate, and truly harrowing is the horror of its callback option, wherein one states one’s name, number and postal code, for a return call within an hour. However, it does provide for a heavenly reprieve from the mind-numbing, repetition, “All of our technicians are busy assisting other customers. If you’d like to schedule a colonoscopy, press No. 37.”
In fairness, lo and behold, does that phone not ring 59 minutes later? I’m eerily welcomed by my own voice just recorded, followed by, “Hit No. 1 if this is you on the line,” but, still delirious from having been on hold for the better part of the weekend, I’m suddenly confused and uncertain. “Give me a minute,” I stammer, “I’ll have to check my ‘ID.’ Okay if I put you on hold?” and, I’m then disconnected.
Three more times in the next five minutes, I’m greeted again by myself on the other end of the line, yet, for the life of me, hitting one cannot confirm that, I, too, am indeed on the line, and, boy, do I finally blow a gasket.
It’s a creatively crafted, expletive-rich ballistic-ation, that’s actually quite well-delivered. As my breath expires, I finish with, “I don’t need a specialist! A tentative technician, even an average apprentice, will do! I’ll happily provide them with my entire postal code history, even those that I’m considering; just get me that F#&%n’ game!” as I hurl the converter, and all 73 of its buttons – 70 of which are decorative – against the room’s floor-to-ceiling brick wall.
And then, the profoundest thing that I’ve ever encountered occurs … I, as in my voice, just recorded, calmly, yet firmly, states, “Sir, I’m going to have to terminate this call.” It’s so astronomically outrageous, it’s pure brilliance.
The following morning, I place the same call, wait patiently while the tech explains that due to yesterday’s travail, “your matter has been escalated,” which is code for an upgrade from “Ignite,” to “Explode,” though I nod affirmatively to no one. He then assures me that its level of service is guaranteed to be far less reliable than “Ignite,” but, at least it’s far more expensive.
After agreeing to forward three years of monthly payments — “Separate cheques in advance please” — I apologize for taking up so much of his time, and thank him for his service. While he takes half-an-hour to complete the paperwork, I’m put on hold, where I press No. 45 for a swift kick to the groin.
I pour another coffee, then call Applecare Guy to find out about that game.
* * *
Seventy-two years of Ron Campeau is a treasure. Ron possessed an admirable zeal for a life well-lived and better accompanied. His uniquely soft voice belied keen insight and a sharp wit, that so encouraged any recipient blessed by it. Ron was tragically killed last week. How he’ll be missed. Heartfelt condolences to Mary, Tully, and Caitlin.
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column will appear monthly in OrilliaMatters. He can be reached at [email protected]