I journey into darkest customer service

I find it paradoxical that customer service has become a science and one hears more complaints about its poor practice than ever before. There are other forces at work. Cutbacks of staff create work overloads. There’s more stress on standardizing responses than thinking, etc. Or, maybe the idiots are just breeding faster than others.

Nonetheless, I set my expectations low and am seldom disappointed. Likewise, I ratchet down my irritation threshold, because that can cause you to lose sight of the ultimate goal. It helps to go in knowing that you will be tested. There may be some other lessons in this of value to you.

And, I’ve been tested several times in recent history. The most challenging was in regard to returning a camera for warranty service.

The first step was finding the maker’s website and drilling down through all the screening steps. I understand the reasoning, but I know what’s wrong and don’t need to run the gauntlet of their FAQs. But, I fight through the maze and am rewarded at the end with the pellet of instructions for making the shipment.

It’s not easy or cheap, and it’s on my dime. I’m not wild about that, but go along to get along. I have experience in these matters, so I strip off anything that isn’t necessary to function and load it with the cheapest battery and smallest memory card I possess. Repair facilities are notorious for stocking their parts bins with your stuff. By accident, of course.

The website says that upon receipt, they will send a postcard with my work order number and password, so I can check on the progress. Postcard. That’s high tech. While I’m on the site, I access their predictions of typical repair times and add 20%. Keep expectations low and you’re less likely to get irritated. Life’s too short to allow yourself to become irked by the shortcomings of others.

I had the Post Office notify me of delivery and awaited the postcard. And awaited. And awaited. Nothing.

I run the customer service gauntlet again through their website and finally get an email address. Noting I have received no postcard, I request the numbers that I can use to check up on the repair progress.

After a few days, I receive an email with the work order number. No password, just the number. I try it without the password and it doesn’t work. The email informs me that if there are any further problems, just reply to it. I reply and get a bad address error message. The same is true for the next three attempts.

Once again, I plunge into the customer service maze to unearth the hidden phone number. I assume that will yield an automated phone answering ziggurat to negotiate, which does turn out to be the case. I hang in and am finally rewarded with a living being. Well, Tobey.

Tobey listens to my tale of woe with something approaching mild interest. When I wind down to a halt, he sweeps away my narrative with an impatient request for my address. Obviously, he’s using it to call up my record.

“You have water damage. That’s not covered by warranty. You’ll have to give me a credit card number.”

“It’s a waterproof camera.”

“It is?”

You must understand that the majority of responses are coming from prompts on the customer service rep’s screen. You have to attempt an override by inducing a cognitive process.

“Tobey.” Put it on a personal basis. We’re human beings, not avatars in some computer game. “You advertise this as a waterproof camera. So, wouldn’t water damage come under the warranty?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, we agree on that. So, give me the password.” He does. “Thank you.”

“Won’t do you any good if you’re thinking of using it on our site.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I was thinking. I know I’m going to regret asking this, but why won’t it do any good?”

“Because we started subbing out the repairs two months ago.”

“But, it’s still on your site.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work.” I got that. My point was more directed at why it’s still on there, but walking Tobey down that road is going to lead to a deadend.

“So, how can I track it?”

“You could go to the site of the company we sub it to.”

Pause. Pause some more. It’s not coming. Oh well, I gave him the chance. “And what might that be?”

I check the status. There’s a standard blurb advising what the normal time of repair is. It’s two weeks longer than what the company’s website says. My camera is on hold, awaiting parts shipment from the factory. They note this isn’t predictable. I recall the factory customer service site that promoted itself as the best solution since that have technicians and parts under roof.

I check the site every day for progress. Okay, maybe every hour. Finally, it’s classified repaired and shipped. Expect delivery within five to seven days. When it’s at my expense, I have to ship the premium route. Not so on their end.

Six days later, I receive an automated call from the carrier, informing me a package is scheduled for delivery the next day and the shipper requires signature. When I bought the camera new, that wasn’t even required. I call the shipper and advise I will not be home and want to arrange an alternative. I’m told that can be done, but not until after the first attempt.

If I know I won’t be there, why can’t we do it now instead of waiting? Because that’s the procedure. Oh, and here I thought they didn’t have a good reason.

I arrive home from work the next day and there’s the notification stuck on my front door. It lists my options. One is not that I can sign it and leave it for the next attempt, taking my chances. Per the notification, I go to their website and elect to pick it up at their terminal the next day. It confirms this, and responds with their address, office hours and notification that I must bring a government-issued photo ID and the delivery notice number. Whatever.

The next day, I zip down to the terminal on my lunch hour. The package is out on the truck for delivery. How can that be? I took the option of picking it up there.

They overtly express doubt. Then, how I could I know where, when and how to pick it up? They have no idea, but there’s nothing in their computer so I must be mistaken. They pronounce “mistaken” as in “making it up.”

Arguing that isn’t going to go anywhere. I suggest I sign something now and they can just deliver it the next day. They can’t do that. They can’t deliver it unless I’m home (for some nebulous time frame) and sign for it. They can’t do this. They can’t do that.

One might think that they would be equipped with more than what they can’t do. One would be wrong. I shift the focus by asking what they can do. They don’t know but will have someone call me.

I’m driving back to work when the phone rings. It’s a supervisor with an extended list of what they can’t do. I redirect her to what they can do and help her venture into the realm of creative problem solving. We arrive on the solution that I might be able to intercept the driver enroute. She’ll call me back.

She does and asks if I know where a particular street is. If I can get there, call the driver and arrange the meet. I u-turn and punch it. As I’m approaching the street, I call the number. I get the “call cannot be completed message.” Sure, why not?

He’s got to be here somewhere. I burn down the street, see a truck with the right logo up ahead, blow the horn and cut him off with a squeal of rubber. I jump out and the driver’s eyes are about the size of dinner plates. I adjust the expression on my face. “I believe you have a package for me.”

As he’s rooting through his cargo, I dig out my driver’s license and the delivery notice. He waves it away. “Not necessary.”

Say again? All this crap about procedures and now you’re giving it away? I need an ID and shipping number to pick up at your terminal but you just cough it up to anyone on the street? Good grief.

Well, that about completes my day. Wait, no. I open the carton to check function of the camera. The memory card is missing. Now, it’s complete.